“And yet she was innocent!” exclaimed the Marquis, emphatically. “Listen, Prince, to what I am about to say. The old woman to whom you have alluded, inveigled Harriet to my house—and, I confess, by my instructions. I knew that she was married; but the old woman told me not to whom—even if she knew.”
“She did know,” remarked our hero; “but the marriage was kept secret——”
“And I never asked the vile procuress any particulars concerning it,” interrupted the Marquis. “All I coveted was Harriet’s person: I cared nothing for her connexions or circumstances. The young mother came hither, with her child in her arms. One of my female servants took the babe from her, and locked her in a room where she expected to find the woman whom she believed to be her friend. But she was alone with me! She knew me—and the conviction that she was betrayed flashed to her mind the moment her eyes met mine. Then she fell upon her knees, and implored me to save her—to spare her. I was inflamed with wine—maddened with desire; and I heeded not her prayers. I attempted to reason with her;—but not all the tempting offers I made her—not all the promises I uttered—not all the inducements I held out, could persuade her to submit to my wishes. I was already a widower, and I even swore to make her my wife, so soon as a divorce could be obtained between herself and her husband, if she would become my mistress. No:—she wept and shrieked—she prayed and menaced—she grew violent and imploring, by turns. At length—for I must tell you all—I had recourse to violence: I was no longer able to master my passions. But she resisted me with a strength and energy that surprised me. I was completely baffled—and Harriet remained innocent!”
“Thank God—thank God!” exclaimed Markham, fervently clasping his hands together.
“Yes, my lord—she remained innocent,” continued the Marquis; “and, when I myself grew more cool, I felt ashamed—humiliated—cast down, in the presence of that young woman who had preserved her virtue from my violence,—the first who ever entered that room and conquered me! I suddenly experienced an admiration for her—such as I had never known till then on behalf of any female! I approached her—in my turn I became a suppliant;—but it was for pardon! I deplored the outrage I had committed—I went upon my knees to ask her forgiveness.—‘My child!’ she suddenly exclaimed, as if awaking from a profound reverie.—I rang the bell, and received her child at the door: in my own arms I carried the babe to her. She covered it with kisses; and my manner touched her—for she declared that she would pardon me, if I never molested her more. I called heaven to witness the sincerity of the oath that I then pledged to observe this condition. Two hours had thus elapsed; and when she was composed, I rang the bell and ordered a hackney-coach to be fetched. When the vehicle arrived, I escorted her to it. But as I handed her down the steps of the front door, a gentleman, who was passing at the moment, caught sight of her countenance.—‘Harriet!’ he exclaimed, in a voice of mingled astonishment, rage, and despair.—‘My husband!’ she cried, with a wild shriek; and she would have fallen on the pavement, had I not caught her in my arms.—‘Sir,’ I said to the stranger, ‘this lady is innocent, although appearances may be against her.’—‘Innocent,’ he repeated, in a tone of bitterness and grief: ‘innocent when she comes calmly from the house of the Marquis of Holmesford, and sinks into the Marquis of Holmesford’s arms! No: I am not to be deceived! Harriet, vile woman, I cast you off forever!’—And, with these words, the stranger hurried away.”
“Alas! that was my poor father!” said Markham, the tears trickling down his cheeks.
“I had no opportunity to explain the circumstances that had occurred,” continued the nobleman, after a pause. “Your father disappeared with the rapidity of lightning; and the moment he was gone, Harriet burst from my arms, evidently in pursuit of him. I was so bewildered with the suddenness of these events, that I remained transfixed as it were to the spot. At length I hurried down the street after Harriet;—but I could not overtake her. Distressed beyond measure, I returned home, vented my wrath upon the old woman, whom I loathed as the authoress of this misfortune, and drove her from my house. The wretch wrote to me afterwards, and even endeavoured to obtain an interview with me; but I would never see her more.”
“And did your lordship lose sight of poor Harriet altogether?” asked Richard.
“I once received a letter from her,” was the reply: “I think it must have been about a year after the occurrences which I have just related. She wrote in a mild and respectful tone—declaring that the sufferings of her half-famished child could alone have induced her to apply for assistance to me. I enclosed her a hundred pounds, and desired her in my letter of reply never to hesitate to avail herself of my purse—as I should not attempt to take any advantage of the assistance which I might render her. But to my astonishment she sent back eighty pounds—retaining only twenty, and declaring in a brief note that she felt ashamed of being even compelled to accept that sum. I never heard from her again; but I gather from your Highness’s observations that she is no longer living!”
“She died unhappily,—miserably upwards of thirteen years ago,” said Richard. “A strange combination of circumstances threw me in the way of her daughter,—the orphan whom she left,—about fifteen months ago; and it was only last night that I discovered a sister in her whom I had known as Katherine Wilmot.”
“Katherine Wilmot!” exclaimed the Marquis: “surely that name is known to me?”
“My sister was accused of a crime which the Rev. Reginald Tracy had in reality perpetrated; and——”
“I remember the occurrence full well,” interrupted the Marquis. “When that exposure of the rector of Saint David’s took place, I was struck by the name of Wilmot; but I suspected not for a moment that the Katherine Wilmot, who was concerned in that affair, and whose innocence transpired so clearly, was the daughter of poor Harriet.”
“Katherine Markham—for such is now her name,” said Richard, “was for a period the victim of circumstantial evidence—even as a combination of unfortunate circumstances had persecuted her mother before her. Yes—it was evidence of that kind which ruined Harriet in the eyes of my father! But I shall intrude no longer upon your lordship—unless it be to say that your candid explanation this day has gone far to retrieve the past in my estimation. For, oh! my lord—you can perhaps understand how welcome to me is the conviction that the mother of my newly-discovered sister was virtuous:—and to her, poor girl! the assurance of her parent’s innocence will be joyful indeed! Every thing is now cleared up—and the narrative of Katherine’s parentage is complete. Its truth is proved by the fact that certain letters now in my possession are in the handwriting of my father; and some which Harriet also wrote, correspond with a fragment of a note that the poor creature commenced on her death-bed, and which has remained in her daughter’s possession. One link was alone wanting to make the history perfect—the occurrence of that night which was so fatal to my step-mother’s happiness. That link your lordship has supplied;—and I thank you.”
The Prince then took his leave of the Marquis.
Scarcely had Richard left the room, when Greenwood re-entered it from the back apartment.
His countenance was pale—his manner was agitated.
“What is the matter with you?” demanded the Marquis, astonished at his friend’s altered mien.
“Your lordship cannot divine how nearly all that I have overheard concerns me,” was the answer.
And Greenwood left the house abruptly.
We must leave the reader to imagine the joy that prevailed at Markham Place, when the Prince returned thither, the bearer of those happy tidings which proved the legitimacy of Katherine and the innocence of her departed but not unlamented mother.
CHAPTER CCXXVII.
COLDBATH FIELDS’ PRISON
Return we now to the Resurrection Man, that incarnate fiend whose crimes were so numerous, and all of so black a dye.
Firmly bound, and guarded by three officers, who kept their bludgeons in their hands, the miscreant saw that all resistance was vain: he accordingly threw himself back in the cab that was bearing him to prison, and gave way to his saturnine reflections.
“If I had only thought that Richard Markham would have accompanied that young girl Katherine,”—it was thus he mused,—“a very different song would have been sung. But I knew that he was married only a week ago, and never dreamt that he would leave his pretty wife to poke his nose into Banks’s crib. What an infernal oversight on my part! And now—here I am, regularly lumbered; and all the swag arising from Kate Wilmot’s business is in the hands of that canting sneak Banks! Damnation to Richard Markham! I shall swing for this if I don’t take precious good care. He’ll swear to two different attempts on his life—one at the old house near Bird-cage Walk, and t’other at Twig Folly. What a cursed—ten times cursed fool I was to let myself tumble into a snare in this way! Some one else will find the gold that I have saved up; and when I shall be cold and stiff under the pavement of Newgate, others will riot on my treasure! But no—it can’t happen in that way: it’s impossible that my time is come yet—impossible! I shall escape somehow or another;—I must escape—I will escape! But how? That question is the devil of the difficulty. Never mind—escape I will—so I mustn’t be down-hearted!”
These and numberless other reflections, in which despondency and hope alternately asserted a predominant influence, occupied the mind of Anthony Tidkins as the cab proceeded rapidly through Bethnal-Green and Shoreditch,—then along Old Street—up the Goswell Road—through Northampton Square—and lastly along Exmouth Street, in its way to Coldbath Fields’ Prison.
At length the cab turned into the short road which forms the approach, within the wooden railings in front of the governor’s dwelling, to the great gates of the gaol,—those gates over which may be read in large letters, “MIDDLESEX HOUSE OF CORRECTION.”
A shudder crept over even the iron frame of Anthony Tidkins, as those huge portals, towering high above the cab which now drew up close to them, seemed to frown upon him like a colossal genius of evil amidst the obscurity of night.
Benstead leapt from the cab, and knocked loudly at the gate.
The iron din was responded to by gloomy echoes from the courts inside.
In a few minutes heavy chains fell, and the wicket was opened by a man bearing a lantern.
Benstead whispered to him for a few moments; and Tidkins was conducted into a little lobby on the left hand.
The turnkey, who had opened the gate, then proceeded to the governor’s house, which was close by within the walls; and, after an absence of ten minutes, he returned with an affirmative answer to Benstead’s request that the prisoner might be retained in custody in that gaol until a magistrate should otherwise dispose of him.
The turnkey accordingly led the way through the wicket of a strong iron grating, across a yard where a watchman armed with a loaded blunderbuss was stationed, and thence into a building, up the narrow stone staircase of which the party proceeded, until they reached a cell, where the Resurrection Man, who was now released from his bonds, was left.
Tidkins threw himself upon the bed and soon fell asleep. He was not an individual to whom danger or even the prospect of death could bring remorse: darkness and solitude had no alarms for him;—and, thus, in spite of the profound vexation he experienced at his present predicament, he yielded to the influence of fatigue and slept soundly.
On the following morning a bowl of gruel and a piece of bread were supplied for his breakfast; and he washed at the common sink belonging to that department of the gaol.
At ten o’clock Benstead and two other officers arrived, placed manacles upon him, and conveyed him to a cab, in which they seated themselves with him.
In about half an hour the Resurrection Man was placed in the dock at the Lambeth Street Police Office.
The Prince of Montoni, attended by his solicitor, Mr. Dyson, had entered the court a few moments before; and the magistrate, upon being made acquainted with his name and rank, immediately threw down the newspaper, saying, “It is by no means necessary that your Highness should enter the witness-box: your Highness will do me the honour to accept a seat on the bench; and the clerk will take down your Highness’s evidence at your Highness’s leisure. Make room there, for his Highness: usher, clear the way for his Highness.”
Scarcely able to conceal his disgust at this fulsome behaviour of the magistrate, the Prince coldly said, “I thank you, sir, for your politeness: but I cannot consent to receive a favour which would not be shown to a poor and obscure individual.”
The magistrate turned very red, and bowed meekly, but without repeating his offer.
The case was then entered upon.
The Prince detailed the particulars of that adventure at the Resurrection Man’s house in the neighbourhood of the Bird-cage Walk, with which the reader is already acquainted: and he also related the subsequent circumstances connected with the blowing up of the den—a deed which had cost several persons their lives, and which (added Markham) was no doubt perpetrated by Tidkins himself.
When these depositions were taken down, the Prince was about to enter upon his second charge—namely, the attack made upon him at Twig Folly: but the magistrate thought the first case had better be previously completed, and resolved upon remanding the prisoner for three days, in order to allow time to procure the evidence of those surviving policemen who had witnessed the fate of their brother-officers on the occasion of the blowing up of the house.
Tidkins was accordingly remanded to Coldbath Fields’ Prison; and the Prince of Montoni immediately repaired in his carriage to Holmesford House—the particulars of which visit have been detailed in the preceding chapter.
On his return to the gaol, Tidkins was allowed to walk for an hour in the tread-wheel yard nearest to the entrance of the prison. There are several tread-mill yards in Coldbath Fields’ gaol, alike for males and females; but we specify the particular yard in which the Resurrection Man was permitted to take exercise, because it has relation to a certain event which is to follow. It is also of the wheel in this yard that the fan, or balance, is seen above the wall near the south-western angle of the prison, by persons passing through Coldbath Square.
The tread-wheel is an enormous drum, or cylinder, with ranges of steps all round it, at a distance of about a foot and a half from each other. Between forty and fifty persons can work on the wheel at one time. It moves slowly round towards the prisoners placed upon it; and thus the step on which the foot stands descends, while the next step presents itself. A platform is built to half the height of the wheel; and from this platform the prisoners step upon the wheel itself. They support themselves by a railing, and their weight keeps the wheel in motion. Thus they must sink with all their weight, as they work on that rotatory engine of diabolical torture. The action is that of going up stairs, without, however, actually rising higher; for every step so reached sinks beneath the feet, and the prisoner is compelled to get upon the next one in its descent. Those prisoners who wait their turns to go on, sit upon the platform; and the task-master in the yard directs the intervals of labour and those of rest.
And upon this engine of torture, as we ere now denominated the tread-mill, not only boys of twelve years of age are placed, but even women!
Yes:—in this civilised country,—in this land where novelists and poets celebrate the chivalrous devotion which should be paid to the softer sex—in this great city, where the pseudo-saints blurt forth their nauseating hypocrisy at Exeter Hall, and swindle the charitable of alms for the purpose of improving the condition of savages thousands of miles off, while there is such an awful want of instruction and moralising elements at home,—in the very centre of the English capital are women subjected to the ferocious torture of the tread-mill!
The foo
d is scanty;—and yet the labour thus forced upon the poor sickly, half-starved wretches, is horribly severe.
Three-quarters of the crimes which send prisoners to Coldbath Fields, are larcenies and robberies caused by dire penury and pinching want: the miserable beings are half-famished already when they enter that gaol; but they are nevertheless retained in something closely bordering on that state of constant hunger, while the hardest possible labour is required from them!
Remember, reader, that we do not wish idleness to prevail in a prison. It is just the place where habits of industry should be inculcated. We therefore approve of the system of workshops established in Coldbath Fields: we admire the oakum-room—the room, too, where shoe-making is taught—and that department of the prison in which rugs are manufactured for a wholesale warehouse that contracts for the purchase of the same.
But we abhor torture—we detest cruelty; and the tread-wheel is alike a torture and a cruelty!
It makes the heart bleed in the breast of the visitor to the female-division of Coldbath Fields, to behold women nursing their babes at one moment, and then compelled to deliver their sucklings to the care of their fellow-prisoners, while they themselves repair to take their turn upon the tread-mill!
Talk of the despotism of Turkey, Russia, Austria, or Prussia,—talk of the tyranny of those countries where the will of one man is a law, be it for good or evil,—we solemnly and emphatically cry, “Look at home!”
Flogging in the Army and Navy, private whipping in prisons, semi-starvation in workhouses and gaols, and the tread-wheel,—these are the tortures which exist in this land of boasted civilisation—these are the instances in which our rulers seek to emulate the barbarism of past ages, and the wanton inhumanity of foreign autocrats!
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 98
