Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family
As they drove on with the battered old horse that drew the fly, surmounting slowly the successive hills that had to be passed before they reached the bleak table-land overlooking the far-reaching sea where the prison was placed, Luke Ross could not help thinking how strange it was that, with all around so bright and fair in the morning sun, they alone should be moody and sorrowful of heart. He glanced at the Churchwarden, who returned the gaze, but did not speak, only sank back farther in his corner of the shabby vehicle. He turned his eyes almost involuntarily upon Sage, but there was no penetrating the thick crape veil she wore, and had he met her gaze, the chances are that he would have felt it better not to speak.
Sage was bearing up bravely, but Luke could see that from time to time some throb of emotion shook her frame, and on one of these occasions he softly opened the door of the fly, and, without stopping the driver, leaped out to walk beside the horse up the steep moorland hill they were ascending.
“Hard work for a horse, zir,” said the man; “and these roads are so awful bad. Gove’ment pretends to make ’em wi’ convict labour, but the work is never half done.”
“They might break the stones a little smaller,” said Luke, absently.
“Smaller, zir!” said the driver, as the fly jolted on, “why they arn’t broke at all. Fine view here, zir,” he said as he stopped to let the panting horse get its wind.
“Splendid,” said Luke, as he gazed at the wide prospect of moorland and sea. There was scarcely a tree to be seen, but the great expanse was dotted with huge blocks of grey granite, weather-stained, lichened, and worn by centuries of battling with the storm. The prevailing tint was grey, but here and there were gorgeous patches of purple heather, golden broom, and ruddy orange-yellow gorse, with creamy streaks of bog moss, heath pools, and green clumps of water plants glistening in the sun.
On his left was the deep blue sea, dotted with white-sailed yachts and trawlers, with luggers spreading each a couple of cinnamon-red sails, and seeming to lie motionless upon the glassy surface, for the ripple and heave were invisible from the great height at which they were.
“Ay, it’s a fine view from up here, zir, and though I don’t know much about other counties, I don’t s’pose there’s many as can beat this.”
“It is fine,” said Luke, whose thoughts were changed by the brightness of the scene, and the brisk, bracing air sent a thrill of pleasure through his frame.
“They do say, zir, as you can zee a matter of forty mile from a bit higher up yonder on a clear time,” continued the man, who appeared glad of a chance to talk; “but we shan’t zee that, nor half on it, to-day, zir, for there’s a zea-fog coming on, a reg’lar thick one. Look, zir, you can zee it come sweeping along over the zea like zmoke.”
“It is curious,” said Luke, watching the strange phenomenon, as by degrees it blotted out boat after boat, ship after ship, till it reached the land, and seemed to begin ascending the slopes.
“Much as we shall do to reach the prison, zir, before it’s on us,” said the man. “You zee it’s all up-hill, zir, or we could get on faster.”
“But it will not matter, will it?” said Luke, “You know the road?”
“Oh, I know the way well enough, zir, but it comes on zo thick sometimes that all you can do is to get down and lead the horse, feeling like, to keep on the road.”
“But they don’t last long, I suppose?”
“Half-an-hour zome of ’em, zir, zome an hour, zome for a whole day. There’s no telling when a fog comes on how long it’s going to be. All depends on the wind, zir.”
“They are only inconvenient, these fogs, I suppose?” said Luke, as they went on; “there is nothing else to mind.”
“Lor’, no, zir, nothing at all if zo be as you’ve brought a bit o’ lunch with you. When I get into a thick one I generally dra’ up to the zide of the road and put on the horse’s nose-bag, to let him amuse himself while I have a pipe.”
“And where does the prison lie now?” said Luke, after a pause.
“That’s it, zir,” said the man, pointing with his whip, “just where you zee the fog crossing. They’ll be in it before us, and p’raps we shall be in it when they’re clear. Perhaps you’ll get inside, zir, now; I’m going to trot the horse a bit.”
“I’ll get up beside you,” said Luke, quietly; and he took his place by the driver.
“Fine games there is up here zometimes, zir,” said the man, who was glad to find a good listener. “The convicts are out in gangs all over the moor, zir, working under the charge of warders. Zome’s chipping stone, and zome’s making roads; and now and then, zir, when there’s a real thick fog, zome of ’em makes a run for it, and no wonder. I should if I had a chance, for they have a hard time of it up there.”
“And do they get away?”
“Not often, zir,” said the driver, as, with a half-repressed shudder, Luke listened to the man’s words, for like a flash they had suggested to him the possibility of Cyril Mallow trying to effect his escape. “You zee the warders look pretty zharp after them, and their orders are strict enough. Once they catch sight of a man running and he won’t surrender, they zhoot him down.”
“So I have heard.”
“Yes, zir, they zhoot un down like as if they were dogs. They’re bad uns enough, I dessay, and deserves it, but zomehow it zeems to go again the grain, zir, that it do, to zhoot ’em.”
“Then you would not shoot one if you were a warder?” said Luke, hardly knowing what he spoke.
“I wouldn’t if I was a zojer, sir. Poor beggars’ liberty’s sweet, and may be if they got away they’d turn over a new leaf. No, zir, I wouldn’t zhoot ’em, and I wouldn’t let out to the warders which way a runaway had gone. I’d scorn it,” said the man, giving his horse a tremendous lash in his excitement.
“It does seem a cowardly thing to do.”
“Cowardly, zir? It’s worse,” said the man, indignantly. “I call it the trick of a zneak; but the people about here do it fast enough for the zake of the reward.”
“There, zir, I told you so,” continued the man, after a quarter of an hour’s progress, during which he had been pointing out pieces of scenery to inattentive ears. “The fog’ll be on uz in vive minutes more.”
They were descending a sharp hill as the man spoke, and in half the time he had named they were in the midst of a dense vapour, so thick that Luke fully realised the necessity for stopping if they wished to avoid an accident.
“I think we can get down here, zir, and across the next bit of valley, and then it will perhaps be clearer as we get higher up. Anyhow we’ll try.”
Keeping the horse at a walk, he drove cautiously on, finished the descent, went along a level for a short distance, and then they began once more to ascend.
“I’ll try it for two or three hundred yards, zir,” said the man, “and then if it don’t get better we must stop and chance it.”
What he meant by chancing it the driver did not explain, but as with every hundred yards they went the fog seemed thicker, he suddenly drew the rein and pulled his horse’s nose-bag from beneath the seat.
“If you’ll excuse me, zir, I’d get inside if I was you, and wait patiently till the wind springs up. These fogs are very raw and cold, and rheumaticky to strangers, and you arn’t got your great-coat on.”
“Hush! man, what’s that?” said Luke, excitedly, as just then came the dull distant report of some piece.
“Zhooting,” said the man, coolly, as he took out the horse’s bit and strapped on his nose-bag.
“Do you mean that shot was fired at a convict?” said Luke, hoarsely.
“Safe enough,” said the man.
Luke leaped down.
“I think I’d draw up the windows, Mr Portlock,” he said. “The fog is very dank and chilly now.”
“Won’t you come in?”
“Thanks, no. Draw up the windows. I’ll stop and chat with the man. I dare say the mist will soon pass away.”
As the windows were drawn up, Luke uttered a sigh of relief, for it was horrible to him that Sage should hear what was going on, and just then there was another report, evidently nearer.
“I thought they’d be at it,” said the man. “Mind me smoking, zir?”
“No: go on; but don’t speak so loudly. I don’t want the lady inside to hear.”
“All right, zir. Beg pardon,” said the man, lighting his pipe. “They’re sure to make a bolt for it on a day like this. Hear that, zir? I hope they won’t zhoot this way, for a rifle ball goes a long way zometimes.”
“Yes, I heard,” said Luke, feeling an unwonted thrill of excitement in his veins. “That shot could not have been far off.”
“Half a mile, or maybe a mile, zir,” replied the man. “It’s very hard to tell in a fog. Zounds is deceiving. There goes another. It’s hot to-day, and no mistake.”
Just then they heard a distant shout or two answered in another direction, and once more all was still.
“Let’s see, zir,” said the driver, who stood leaning against his horse, and puffing unconcernedly away, perfectly cool, while Luke’s blood seemed rising to fever heat; “it’s just about zigs months since that I was driving along here after a fog, and I come along a gang carrying one of their mates on a roughly-made stretcher thing, with half-a-dozen warders with loaded rifles marching un along. The poor chap they was carrying had made a bolt of it, zir, but they had zeen and fired at him; but he kept on, and they didn’t find him for three hours after, and then they run right upon him lying by one of the little ztreams. Poor chap, he was bleeding to death, and that makes ’em thirsty, they zay. Anyhow, they found him scooping up the water with his hand, and drinking of it, and as he come up alongside of me he zmiled up at me like, and then he zhut his eyes.”
“Did he die?” asked Luke, hoarsely.
“There was an inquest on him two days after, zir. Lor! they think nothing of shooting down a man.”
The fog was now denser than ever – so thick, that from the horses head where Luke stood the front of the fly was hardly visible. He was thinking with a chill of horror of the possibility of any such incident occurring that day, when once more there was a shout and a shot, followed by another; and, to Luke’s horror, the window of the fly was let down.
“Why, what do they find to shoot here?” said the Churchwarden, sharply; “hares or wild deer?”
“Men, zir,” said the driver, quickly; and as he spoke there was a loud panting noise, and a dimly-seen figure darted out of the mist at right angles to the road and dashed heavily against the horse, to fall back with a heavy groan.
Part 3, Chapter XIV.
The Convict’s Escape
The quiet, half-asleep horse, dreamily hunting for grains of corn amidst a great deal of chaff, threw up its head and made a violent plunge forward, but was checked on the instant by the driver.
“What is it?” cried Portlock, leaping from the fly, as Sage uttered a cry.
By this time Luke was trying to lift the man, who had fallen almost at his feet, and drawing him away from the horse’s hoofs, where he lay in imminent danger of being kicked.
As far as Luke could see, he was a tall, gaunt, broad-shouldered fellow, and it needed not the flyman’s information for him to know that it was a convict – his closely-cropped hair and hideous grey dress told that more plainly than words could tell.
“What does it mean?” said the Churchwarden again. “Some one hurt?”
As he spoke, Luke Ross, who had laid the man down, uttered an exclamation of horror. His hands were wet with blood.
“He is wounded!” said Luke, in a whisper, as he drew out his handkerchief, and sank upon one knee. “Don’t let Mrs Mallow come near.”
His words of warning were too late, for just then the figure of Sage Mallow seemed to loom out of the fog, coming timidly forward with outspread hands like a person in the dark.
“He’s hit hard,” said the driver. “Poor chap! there’s no escape for him.”
“Let his head rest upon your arm,” said Luke, hastily. “Mr Portlock, tear my handkerchief into three strips, and give me yours. The poor fellow is bleeding horribly.”
“Who’s that? Where am I? Stand back, cowards! Fire, then, and be damned.”
A low, wailing cry of horror checked him, and Sage Mallow flung herself upon her knees beside the injured man.
“Cyril! Husband!” she cried, wildly. The convict started violently, and drew himself back.
“Sage!” he panted. “You – here?”
“Yes – yes!” she cried. “What is it? Are you hurt?”
“Hurt? Ha – ha – ha!” He laughed a strange, ghastly laugh. “I made a bolt for it. The brutes fired at me – shot me like a dog.”
“Don’t speak,” said Luke, quickly. “Lie still, and let me try to stop this bleeding.”
“Yes; stop it quick!” gasped the injured man. “Yes, that’s it – in the chest – it felt red hot; but it did not stop me running, doctor. Lucky you were here.”
Luke raised his face involuntarily, and the men were face to face.
“Luke Ross!” gasped Cyril; and for a few moments, as Sage and Luke knelt on either side of the wounded man, he gazed from one to the other.
“Got a divorce?” he said, with a harsh laugh. “Are you married?”
“No,” cried Portlock, in a loud, emphatic voice. “Sage was coming to see you with me.”
“Then – then,” panted the wounded man, fiercely, “what does he do here?”
“I came at your father’s wish, Cyril Mallow,” said Luke, softly, for somehow his own father’s words seemed to be repeating themselves in his ear. “I obtained the order.”
“For my release?” cried Cyril, wildly. “For a visit,” replied Luke. “Now, take my advice. Be silent; exertion makes your wound bleed more.”
“Curse them! no wonder,” groaned the unhappy man; and he drew his breath with a low hiss. “God! it’s awful pain.”
“Help me to lift him into the fly,” whispered Luke to Portlock and the driver.
“Cyril – speak to me,” whispered Sage, piteously. “You are not badly hurt?”
“Murdered,” he groaned. “Oh, if I had but a rifle and strength.”
“Hush!” said Luke, sternly, “you are wasting what you have left. Are you ready, driver?”
“There’ll be no end of a row about it when the warders come, but I’ll chance it, zir. Stop a moment, and I’ll open the farther door. It will be easier to get him in.”
“Who said warders?” panted Cyril, in excited tones. “Are they here?”
“No, no. Pray be silent,” whispered Luke. “Mrs Mallow, you must rise.”
“No, no, I will not leave him,” cried Sage.
“We are going to try and get him down into the town, Sage dear,” said her uncle, gently; “to a doctor, girl.”
She suffered her uncle to raise her up, and then the three men bent down over Cyril to bear him to the carriage.
“Stop!” he said, faintly. “I am not ready. Something – under – my head – the blood – ”
Luke raised his head, and he breathed more freely, but lay with his eyes closed, the lids quivering slightly, as Sage knelt beside him once again, and wiped the clammy dew from his brow.
“It don’t matter at present, gentlemen,” said the driver. “I couldn’t drive through this fog. We should be upset.”
Just then shouts were heard close at hand, and the injured man opened his eyes and fixed them in the direction of the sound.
“Demons!” he muttered, just as there was another shot, and a loud shriek as of some one in agony.
“Another down,” panted Cyril, with great effort, as he seemed to be listening intently.
“How long will it take us to get back to the town?” said Luke, quickly.
“Two hours, sir, if the fog holds up. If it goes on like this no man can say.”
“Mr Portlock,” said Luke, as he motioned to Sage to take his place in supporting the wounded man’s head, “what is to be done? I am no surgeon, and my bandaging is very rough. He is bleeding to death, I am sure,” he whispered. “We must have a surgeon. Had I not better summon help?”
“Where from?”
“From the prison. A shout would bring the warders.”
“I hear what you say,” cried Cyril, fiercely. “Sage, that man is going to betray me to those blood-hounds.”
“Luke!” cried Sage, who was almost mad with grief.
“There is no surgical help to be got but from the prison,” said Luke, calmly. “I proposed to send for it by the warders.”
“Too late,” said the injured man, in a low voice. “Fifty surgeons could not save me now. Let me be.”
“What shall I do?” whispered Luke.
“Poor fellow! We had better call the men.”
“It would kill him,” groaned Luke; and he stood hesitating, Cyril watching him the while with a sneering laugh upon his lips.
“It’s a sovereign reward, lawyer,” he said, faintly. “Are you going to earn it?”
For answer Luke knelt down there in the mist, and poured a few drops of spirit from his flask between the wounded man’s lips.
He was about to rise, but Cyril uttered a painful sob and caught at his hand.
“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered, “I’m a bad one, and the words came. I’d say God bless you – but – no good – from me.”
Luke’s cold thin hand closed upon the labour-hardened palm of the wounded man, and he remained there kneeling with Sage, who held the other hand between both of hers, and gazed helplessly, and as if stunned, at her husband’s face.
“Glad – you came, Sage, once more,” he said. “Poor little widow!” he added, with a curious laugh.
“Had we not better get the prison doctor to you, Mallow?” said Luke.
“No good,” he replied. “The game’s up, man. I know. Sage – tell the old lady I thought about her – a deal. Have they found poor Ju?”
She stared at him still, for there was not one loving word to her – not one question about his children.
“Poor thing! Always petted me,” he gasped – “poor mother!”
Just then there were voices heard close at hand, the trampling of feet; and Cyril Mallow’s eyes seemed to dilate.
“Hallo, here!” cried a rough voice, as four men seemed to appear suddenly out of the cold grey mist. “Seen anything of – Oh, here we are, Jem; one of the wounded birds.”
The speaker, who was in the uniform of a warder, strode up, and, bending down, roughly seized Cyril by the shoulder.
“Didn’t get off this time, ’Underd and seven,” he said. “Nice dance you’ve – ”
“Hands off, fellow!” cried Luke, indignantly. “Do you not see that he is badly hurt?”
“Who are you?” cried the warder, fiercely. “Don’t you resist the law. Now then, ’Underd and seven, up with you. No shamming, you know.”
He caught the dying man’s arm, as Cyril gazed defiantly in his face, and made a snatch, as if to drag him up, when, exasperated beyond bearing at the fellow’s brutality, and on seeing Sage’s weak effort to shield her husband, Luke started up, and struck the ruffian so fierce a blow, full on the cheek, that he staggered back a few steps, and nearly fell.
He was up again directly, as his three companions levelled their pieces, and the sharp click, click of the locks were heard.
“Down with him, lads!” cried the warder. “It’s a planned thing. They were waiting with that fly.”
The warders came on, but Luke did not shrink.
“You know,” he said, firmly, “that your man exceeded his duty. Here is the Home Secretary’s order for us to see this prisoner. I shall report to-day’s proceedings, you may depend.”
“We’ve got our duty to do, sir,” said one of the men roughly. But he took the paper, and read it.
“Seems all right,” he whispered. “Keep quiet, Smith. They couldn’t get away if they wanted.”
“How long would it take to fetch the surgeon?” said Luke, sternly; “or could we get him to the prison through the fog?”
“I think we could lead the horse,” said the warder addressed, who began to feel some misgivings about the day’s work, as he truly read Cyril Mallow’s ghastly face.
“Luke – Luke Ross,” said a faint voice that he did not seem to recognise, and he turned and knelt down once more by the wounded man, the warders closing in, to make sure that it was no trick.
“Ross – my hand,” panted Cyril. “Fog’s – getting thick – and dark. Smith – you fired – but – do you hear – I’ve got away.”
There was a terrible pause here, and, to a man, the warders turned away, for they saw what was coming now.
“Luke Ross – good fellow,” – panted the dying man – “Sage – my wife – little ones.”
His eyes seemed to give the meaning to his words, as, still heedless of his wife’s presence, he gazed in those of the man whose life he had seemed to blast.
“Wife – little ones. God for – ”
” – Give you, Cyril Mallow,” whispered Luke, bending lower, “as I do, from my soul.”
Part 3, Chapter XV.
Widowed Indeed
“Better take the lady away, sir,” said the warder whom Luke had last addressed, and who had shown some rough feeling, as he beckoned him aside. “There’ll be an inquest, of course, and I must have your card and the names of the others. There’s sure to be a row, too, about your hitting Smith.”
Luke took out his card-case without a word.
“Lady his wife, sir?” said the man.
“Yes, and her uncle,” replied Luke, giving the name of the hotel where they were staying. “I think we’ll come on to the prison and see the governor.”
“As you like, sir,” said the warder; “but if I might advise, I’d say take the lady away at once, and cool down yourself before you come. You could do no good now.”
“You are right, warder,” said Luke, quietly, as he slipped a couple of sovereigns into the man’s hand. “Send for the proper help, and – You understand me. He was a gentleman.”
“You leave it to me, sir,” said the warder; “I know he was, and a high-spirited one, too. Ah, there goes the fog.”
And, as if by magic, the dense cloud of grey mist rolled away, and the sun shone down brightly upon the little white cambric handkerchief wet with tears, spread a few moments before over the blindly-staring eyes looking heavenwards for the half-asked pardon.
Portlock was standing there, resting his hands upon his stout umbrella, gazing at where his niece knelt as if in prayer by her husband’s corpse, and he started slightly as Luke laid a hand upon his shoulder.
“Let us go back,” he whispered, and he pointed to Sage.
The old farmer went to her and took her hand.
“Sage, my child,” he whispered, “come: let us go.”
She looked up at him with a blank, woebegone aspect, and clung to his hand.
“Not one loving word, uncle,” she said, slowly, but in a voice that reached no other ears. “Not one word for me, or for my little orphans. Oh, Cyril, Cyril,” she moaned, as she bent over him, raising the kerchief and kissing his brow, “did you love me as I loved you?”
She rose painfully as her uncle once more took her hand to lead her to the fly, where he seated himself by her side, Luke taking his place by the driver; and as they drove sadly back to the old cathedral town, the fog that had been over the land appeared to cling round and overshadow their hearts.
It seemed to Luke as he sat there thinking of Sage’s sufferings that Nature was cruel, and as if she was rejoicing over Cyril Mallow’s death, for the scene now looked so bright and fair. He wished that the heavens would weep, to be in unison with the unhappy woman’s feelings, and that all around should wear a mourning aspect in place of looking so bright and gay. Upon his right the deep blue sea danced in the brilliant sunshine. Far behind the grey fog was scudding over the high lands, looking like a veil of silver ever changing in its hues. Here and there the glass of some conservatory flashed in the sun-rays and darted pencils of glittering light. The tints upon the hills, too, seemed brighter than when they came, and he gazed at them with a dull, chilling feeling of despair.
It seemed to him an insult to the suffering woman within the fly, and with his heart throbbing painfully in sympathy with her sorrow, he thought how strangely these matters had come about.
For the past three months this idea had been in his head: to obtain the order for Sage to see her husband; but he had had great difficulty in obtaining that he sought, and now that he had achieved his end, what had it brought? Sorrow and despair – a horror such as must cling even to her dying day.
The driver respected his companion’s silence for a time, but finding at last that there was no prospect of Luke speaking, he ventured upon a remark —
“Very horrid, zir, warn’t it?”
“Terrible, my man, terrible,” said Luke, starting from his reverie.
“I shall be called at the inquest, I s’pose. This makes the third as I’ve been had up to, and all for convicts zhot when trying to escape, I don’t think it ought to be ’lowed.”
