A Dark Night's Work (24 page)

She went out past the porter, now fully clothed. He was sorry for her
disappointment, but could not help saying, with a slight tone of
exultation: "Well, you see I was right, ma'am!"

She walked as nearly round the castle as ever she could, looking up at
the few high-barred windows she could see, and wondering in what part of
the building Dixon was confined. Then she went into the adjoining
churchyard, and sitting down upon a tombstone, she gazed idly at the view
spread below her—a view which was considered as the lion of the place,
to be shown to all strangers by the inhabitants of Hellingford. Ellinor
did not see it, however; she only saw the blackness of that fatal night,
the hurried work—the lanterns glancing to and fro. She only heard the
hard breathing of those who are engaged upon unwonted labour; the few
hoarse muttered words; the swaying of the branches to and fro. All at
once the church clock above her struck eight, and then pealed out for
distant labourers to cease their work for a time. Such was the old
custom of the place. Ellinor rose up, and made her way back to Mr.
Johnson's house in High Street. The room felt close and confined in
which she awaited her interview with Mr. Johnson, who had sent down an
apology for having overslept himself, and at last made his appearance in
a hurried half-awakened state, in consequence of his late hospitality of
the night before.

"I am so sorry I gave you all so much trouble last night," said Ellinor,
apologetically. "I was overtired, and much shocked by the news I heard."

"No trouble, no trouble, I am sure. Neither Mrs. Johnson nor I felt it
in the least a trouble. Many ladies I know feel such things very trying,
though there are others that can stand a judge's putting on the black cap
better than most men. I'm sure I saw some as composed as could be under
Judge Corbet's speech."

"But about Dixon? He must not die, Mr. Johnson."

"Well, I don't know that he will," said Mr. Johnson, in something of the
tone of voice he would have used in soothing a child. "Judge Corbet said
something about the possibility of a pardon. The jury did not recommend
him to mercy: you see, his looks went so much against him, and all the
evidence was so strong, and no defence, so to speak, for he would not
furnish any information on which we could base defence. But the judge
did give some hope, to my mind, though there are others that think
differently."

"I tell you, Mr. Johnson, he must not die, and he shall not. To whom
must I go?"

"Whew! Have you got additional evidence?" with a sudden sharp glance of
professional inquiry.

"Never mind," Ellinor answered. "I beg your pardon . . . only tell me
into whose hands the power of life and death has passed."

"Into the Home Secretary's—Sir Phillip Homes; but you cannot get access
to him on such an errand. It is the judge who tried the case that must
urge a reprieve—Judge Corbet."

"Judge Corbet?"

"Yes; and he was rather inclined to take a merciful view of the whole
case. I saw it in his charge. He'll be the person for you to see. I
suppose you don't like to give me your confidence, or else I could
arrange and draw up what will have to be said?"

"No. What I have to say must be spoken to the arbiter—to no one else. I
am afraid I answered you impatiently just now. You must forgive me; if
you knew all, I am sure you would."

"Say no more, my dear lady. We will suppose you have some evidence not
adduced at the trial. Well; you must go up and see the judge, since you
don't choose to impart it to any one, and lay it before him. He will
doubtless compare it with his notes of the trial, and see how far it
agrees with them. Of course you must be prepared with some kind of
proof; for Judge Corbet will have to test your evidence."

"It seems strange to think of him as the judge," said Ellinor, almost to
herself.

"Why, yes. He's but a young judge. You knew him at Hamley, I suppose? I
remember his reading there with Mr. Ness."

"Yes, but do not let us talk more about that time. Tell me when can I
see Dixon? I have been to the castle already, but they said I must have
a sheriff's order."

"To be sure. I desired Mrs. Johnson to tell you so last night. Old
Ormerod was dining here; he is clerk to the magistrates, and I told him
of your wish. He said he would see Sir Henry Croper, and have the order
here before ten. But all this time Mrs. Johnson is waiting breakfast for
us. Let me take you into the dining-room."

It was very hard work for Ellinor to do her duty as a guest, and to allow
herself to be interested and talked to on local affairs by her host and
hostess. But she felt as if she had spoken shortly and abruptly to Mr.
Johnson in their previous conversation, and that she must try and make
amends for it; so she attended to all the details about the restoration
of the church, and the difficulty of getting a good music-master for the
three little Miss Johnsons, with all her usual gentle good breeding and
patience, though no one can tell how her heart and imagination were full
of the coming interview with poor old Dixon.

By-and-by Mr. Johnson was called out of the room to see Mr. Ormerod, and
receive the order of admission from him. Ellinor clasped her hands tight
together as she listened with apparent composure to Mrs Johnson's never-
ending praise of the Hullah system. But when Mr. Johnson returned, she
could not help interrupting her eulogy, and saying—

"Then I may go now?"

Yes, the order was there—she might go, and Mr. Johnson would accompany
her, to see that she met with no difficulty or obstacle.

As they walked thither, he told her that some one—a turnkey, or some
one—would have to be present at the interview; that such was always the
rule in the case of condemned prisoners; but that if this third person
was "obliging," he would keep out of earshot. Mr. Johnson quietly took
care to see that the turnkey who accompanied Ellinor was "obliging."

The man took her across high-walled courts, along stone corridors, and
through many locked doors, before they came to the condemned cells.

"I've had three at a time in here," said he, unlocking the final door,
"after Judge Morton had been here. We always called him the 'Hanging
Judge.' But its five years since he died, and now there's never more
than one in at a time; though once it was a woman for poisoning her
husband. Mary Jones was her name."

The stone passage out of which the cells opened was light, and bare, and
scrupulously clean. Over each door was a small barred window, and an
outer window of the same description was placed high up in the cell,
which the turnkey now opened.

Old Abraham Dixon was sitting on the side of his bed, doing nothing. His
head was bent, his frame sunk, and he did not seem to care to turn round
and see who it was that entered.

Ellinor tried to keep down her sobs while the man went up to him, and
laying his hand on his shoulder, and lightly shaking him, he said:

"Here's a friend come to see you, Dixon." Then, turning to Ellinor, he
added, "There's some as takes it in this kind o' stunned way, while
others are as restless as a wild beast in a cage, after they're
sentenced." And then he withdrew into the passage, leaving the door
open, so that he could see all that passed if he chose to look, but
ostentatiously keeping his eyes averted, and whistling to himself, so
that he could not hear what they said to each other.

Dixon looked up at Ellinor, but then let his eyes fall on the ground
again; the increasing trembling of his shrunken frame was the only sign
he gave that he had recognised her.

She sat down by him, and took his large horny hand in hers. She wanted
to overcome her inclination to sob hysterically before she spoke. She
stroked the bony shrivelled fingers, on which her hot scalding tears kept
dropping.

"Dunnot do that," said he, at length, in a hollow voice. "Dunnot take on
about it; it's best as it is, missy."

"No, Dixon, it's not best. It shall not be. You know it shall
not—cannot be."

"I'm rather tired of living. It's been a great strain and labour for me.
I think I'd as lief be with God as with men. And you see, I were fond on
him ever sin' he were a little lad, and told me what hard times he had at
school, he did, just as if I were his brother! I loved him next to Molly
Greaves. Dear! and I shall see her again, I reckon, come next Saturday
week! They'll think well on me, up there, I'll be bound; though I cannot
say as I've done all as I should do here below."

"But, Dixon," said Ellinor, "you know who did this—this—"

"Guilty o' murder," said he. "That's what they called it. Murder! And
that it never were, choose who did it."

"My poor, poor father did it. I am going up to London this afternoon; I
am going to see the judge, and tell him all."

"Don't you demean yourself to that fellow, missy. It's him as left you
in the lurch as soon as sorrow and shame came nigh you."

He looked up at her now, for the first time; but she went on as if she
had not noticed those wistful, weary eyes.

"Yes! I shall go to him. I know who it is; and I am resolved. After
all, he may be better than a stranger, for real help; and I shall never
remember any—anything else, when I think of you, good faithful friend."

"He looks but a wizened old fellow in his grey wig. I should hardly ha'
known him. I gave him a look, as much as to say, 'I could tell tales o'
you, my lord judge, if I chose.' I don't know if he heeded me, though. I
suppose it were for a sign of old acquaintance that he said he'd
recommend me to mercy. But I'd sooner have death nor mercy, by long
odds. Yon man out there says mercy means Botany Bay. It 'ud be like
killing me by inches, that would. It would. I'd liefer go straight to
Heaven, than live on among the black folk."

He began to shake again: this idea of transportation, from its very
mysteriousness, was more terrifying to him than death. He kept on saying
plaintively, "Missy, you'll never let 'em send me to Botany Bay; I
couldn't stand that."

"No, no!" said she. "You shall come out of this prison, and go home with
me to East Chester; I promise you you shall. I promise you. I don't yet
quite know how, but trust in my promise. Don't fret about Botany Bay. If
you go there, I go too. I am so sure you will not go. And you know if
you have done anything against the law in concealing that fatal night's
work, I did too, and if you are to be punished, I will be punished too.
But I feel sure it will be right; I mean, as right as anything can be,
with the recollection of that time present to us, as it must always be."
She almost spoke these last words to herself. They sat on, hand in hand
for a few minutes more in silence.

"I thought you'd come to me. I knowed you were far away in foreign
parts. But I used to pray to God. 'Dear Lord God!' I used to say, 'let
me see her again.' I told the chaplain as I'd begin to pray for
repentance, at after I'd done praying that I might see you once again:
for it just seemed to take all my strength to say those words as I've
named. And I thought as how God knew what was in my heart better than I
could tell Him: how I was main and sorry for all as I'd ever done wrong;
I allays were, at after it was done; but I thought as no one could know
how bitter-keen I wanted to see you."

Again they sank into silence. Ellinor felt as if she would fain be away
and active in procuring his release; but she also perceived how precious
her presence was to him; and she did not like to leave him a moment
before the time allowed her. His voice had changed to a weak, piping old
man's quaver, and between the times of his talking he seemed to relapse
into a dreamy state; but through it all he held her hand tight, as though
afraid that she would leave him.

So the hour elapsed, with no more spoken words than those above. From
time to time Ellinor's tears dropped down upon her lap; she could not
restrain them, though she scarce knew why she cried just then.

At length the turnkey said that the time allowed for the interview was
ended. Ellinor spoke no word; but rose, and bent down and kissed the old
man's forehead, saying—

"I shall come back to-morrow. God keep and comfort you!"

So almost without an articulate word from him in reply (he rose up, and
stood on his shaking legs, as she bade him farewell, putting his hand to
his head with the old habitual mark of respect), she went her way,
swiftly out of the prison, swiftly back with Mr. Johnson to his house,
scarcely patient or strong enough in her hurry to explain to him fully
all that she meant to do. She only asked him a few absolutely requisite
questions; and informed him of her intention to go straight to London to
see Judge Corbet.

Just before the railway carriage in which she was seated started on the
journey, she bent forward, and put out her hand once more to Mr. Johnson.
"To-morrow I will thank you for all," she said. "I cannot now."

It was about the same time that she had reached Hellingford on the
previous night, that she arrived at the Great Western station on this
evening—past eight o'clock. On the way she had remembered and arranged
many things: one important question she had omitted to ask Mr. Johnson;
but that was easily remedied. She had not enquired where she could find
Judge Corbet; if she had, Mr. Johnson could probably have given her his
professional address. As it was, she asked for a Post-Office Directory
at the hotel, and looked out for his private dwelling—128 Hyde Park
Gardens.

She rang for a waiter.

"Can I send a messenger to Hyde Park Gardens?" she said, hurrying on to
her business, tired and worn out as she was. "It is only to ask if Judge
Corbet is at home this evening. If he is, I must go and see him."

The waiter was a little surprised, and would gladly have had her name to
authorise the enquiry but she could not bear to send it: it would be bad
enough that first meeting, without the feeling that he, too, had had time
to recall all the past days. Better to go in upon him unprepared, and
plunge into the subject.