Читать книгу The Iron Stair - Eliza Margaret Humphreys - Страница 5

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JOSHUA MYERS turned up at the Schultze domicile too late for Bridge, but early enough for that introduction desired by Aubrey. No one spoke of his first failure, if indeed any one thought of it as an interest sandwiched between lost rubbers, or hard-won victories on "no trumps."

Aubrey made himself specially agreeable to the dark sombre-looking young man, who was spoken of as likely to be an ornament to the Bar, and who brought to his profession the acuteness of his race, as well as no mean portion of its wealth and influence.

When Myers took his leave Aubrey did the same, and finding his new acquaintance inclined for exercise, discovered that their ways lay sufficiently near for companionship. He made his opportunity and contrived to lead the conversation to their mutual interest in the Forgery Case. Myers was less reticent than his manner betokened; in fact he seemed keen on explaining just how difficulties had been made, the facts rendered unassailable. He seemed surprised at Aubrey FitzJohn Derringham's interest in criminal matters. More than surprised when, accepting his invitation for a smoke and an apollinaris, he accompanied him to his rooms, and witnessed the luxury of his surroundings.

Over cigarettes and whiskey they touched on political difficulties, and the prospects of prolonged Liberalism. Then, very cautiously, Aubrey led the conversation to the subject that so obsessed him. If the Law was so strong, and yet could make mistakes so vital to human liberty, who was safe?

Joshua Myers sprang eagerly into argument.

"The boy was to blame—in a manner," he said. "He held something back. I couldn't get it out of him. I told him the case was pretty black, but he wouldn't believe me. Even up to the moment that the jury returned with their verdict cut and dried and agreed upon, he didn't seem to realize what it meant."

"That accounts for his declaration of innocence, I suppose?"

"As if that was any use," answered the barrister. "A dramatic episode worked up into the best journalese; warranted to sell a few hundred 'extra specials.' But—it convinced no one."

"It convinced me."

Myers flashed his vivid dark eyes on the quiet face. "Really? You formed your own opinion of the case, in spite of evidence?"

"I heard none. I only attended the last act of the drama."

"Ah—if it was only that! I saw the poor boy to-night, in his cell. It was very—painful."

Aubrey thought none the worse of legal authority for manifesting a little natural feeling. He lit a fresh cigarette, and paid renewed attention to the syphon, before resuming the conversation.

"You won't appeal, I suppose?"

"No use. The judge had made up his mind. That carries weight in the higher courts. Besides, he has no money."

"It seems hard that his own relative should be the prosecutor."

"Hard! My dear Mr. Derringham, have you any conception of the hardness of the Nonconformist conscience? A nether millstone is cotton wool to it! Wrong—judged and condemned as wrong—demands fire and brimstone, and the 'worm that never dies,' and all the horrors that only true piety can paint as its avenger!"

"That's the uncle! What about the brother? Twins are supposed to be devoted?"

"This must be the rare case that means exception. These brothers seem as antagonistic as Charles and Joseph Surface. One all careless good-humour, generosity, and recklessness; the other—well, two words paint him: Canting hypocrite!"

"I thought so. I watched his face."

"I believe he knows something that would have saved the boy. That he could have spoken but he wouldn't. He wanted him disgraced, and he wanted him out of the way."

"Love complications?"

"Exactly. The everlasting she, who from birth to burial plays havoc with men's lives!"

"We are both—safe—so far, I presume?" said Aubrey. "A married man wouldn't have said that."

"No. I'm no Benedict, and have no desire to become one. As for you——" he looked round. "You're wise if you know when you're well off."

"I hope I do know it. On the other hand empty vices don't appeal. I shun morning reflection and the chorus of musical comedy spells only—inanity."

"Yet you're young enough for a loose end or two?"

"Oh, I don't set up as a moral example! It's my fault I suppose that I'm so easily bored, and that human nature interests me more as a study than an incentive."

"A study. Is it that? If you followed a profession like mine——"

"Blame indolence, and the absurd conventions of family pride. A new family, a double edition of pride."

"You do—nothing, I suppose?"

"I specialize a little in travelling, but there's not a quarter of the habitable globe without its hotel, and its telephone. I'm thirty years of age—to-day, and I confess the problem of cui bono is the bogey of my present, possibly of my future——"

"Is that why you sought distraction in the Law Courts?" asked Myers.

"One reason. Yes . . . I've been worrying myself over the result ever since. I expected an interest, I've gained an experience."

"How is that?"

"Something about that boy appealed to me. It wasn't only his youth, his good looks, but that sense of thoughtless innocence baiting a trap that has closed upon him. I seemed suddenly confronted by a problem of Life. I wanted to solve it. I asked myself how such things could be, and why? It looks as if a fiendish calculation was at work behind the regulated machinery of our civilized habits. Setting all precedent at naught; mocking at safeguards as at moral standards."

"One could almost believe it," agreed Myers, "if one pursued the subject deeply enough. In the present case, this of Geoffrey Gale, we both seem to have arrived at the same conclusion though we travelled there by different routes. I can't tell you how gratified I am at finding someone who shares my opinion."

"Illogically, I presume?" said Aubrey.

"I'm not so sure of that. You pay me the honour of convincing you as you heard no direct evidence."

"That's true. But I fancy the boy himself had something to do with it."

"You did not, by any chance, see the young lady, Miss Jessop—cousin of the brothers?" enquired Myers.

"I only saw a girlish figure, and a big black hat. Why do you ask?"

"Perhaps to find if any other influence is at work," smiled the young barrister, as he rose and pushed aside his chair.

"Rest assured there isn't," said his host, also rising. "Must you go? I'm sorry. I hope this first meeting isn't our last."

"I hope so also. This is my address. I live in the Temple. I find I can work better there. Give me a look in any day after five, if you're ever in such an unfashionable direction."

They shook hands. Aubrey conducted Myers to the outer door, and then returned to his comfortable room, and the perusal of the last post.

"I don't feel quite as bored as usual to-night," he said to himself. "But to-morrow, I suppose, it will all come back. Flat, stale, unprofitable! If only I hadn't come up against this blank wall. If I could do anything for that boy, but, of course, I can't. The Law's got him hard and fast."

He turned out the electric light, and sauntered into his bedroom. There flashed into his mind one of those seemingly inconsequent memories that at times surprise us. The lines of a schoolboy recitation; a reminiscence of schoolboy days——

"And Eugene Aram walked between, With gyves upon his wrist."

That was the fate of Geoffrey Dale. The fate of once bright happy boyhood. To be shut fast between prison walls, spending to-night with the memory of that cruel sentence ringing in his ears—"Two years penal servitude."

* * * * * *

Aubrey FitzJohn slept badly.

Towards morning he had a strange dream. He seemed to be standing amidst bleak grey moorland, stretching either side of bare heights, under a grey sky. Huge blocks of quartz and granite lay scattered around as if thrown up by some fierce explosion, or some under-world force. And as he stood, and looked around, he saw a chain of human beings moving in linked apathy towards the blocks. They commenced to hew at them with queer pointed axes. He seemed to hear the monotonous blows, to watch the rise and fall of the various arms. No one spoke. Two by two the gang worked, and two by two the scattered warders watched their efforts. It was a weird sight. Grey sky, grey moor, grey figures. Suddenly the whole space grew misty and indistinct. A sort of curtain veiled the intervening spaces and shrouded the chained groups. He strained his eyes, but could see nothing. He tried to move, but his feet seemed paralysed. Then he became conscious of something approaching through the mist. A rush of rapid feet; hoarse breathing. He felt rather than saw that the approaching figure had discovered him. His legs were clasped by chained hands. Something crouched at his feet; a sobbing voice besought mercy. The face was hidden, but the voice sounded familiar. Aubrey was suddenly wide awake, and it was ringing in his ears. "Don't give me up! I'm innocent!"

Sitting bolt upright in his bed he stared at the lemon-coloured sunlight filtering through a screen of silk draperies. He rubbed his eyes; he told himself it was but a dream born of the disturbances of the previous day.

He flung himself back on the pillows, and glanced at his watch. Only seven o'clock! It was annoying to wake so early, and so completely, for he felt that sleep was effectually banished. He must lie awake and think, or stop awake and read. He always kept a book or two by his bedside. He stretched out a hand, and took the nearest volume. It was the last novel of D'Annunzio's. Aubrey remembered he had begun to read it the previous day. Chaffey had also remembered the fact. As he opened it some newspaper cuttings fell out. He took up one, and an exclamation escaped him. Chaffey again! He had taken the trouble of cutting out the Case of Geoffrey Gale from the first hearing to the verdict. It was a concise and complete history ready for Aubrey to peruse.

He did peruse it from beginning to end. He wondered no longer at the verdict. The summing up was directed to guilt. A harsh, cold, biassed speech, that could not but influence the minds of a British jury. Yet throughout the whole sordid tale Aubrey wondered what had tied the prisoner's tongue. Why he could not have cleared up certain facts that might have thrown more favourable light on his actions? There was something "mulish" about the boy's proceedings. Something that had prejudiced the "twelve good men and true" on whom his fate depended.

Aubrey finished the last paragraph. Re-read that passionate exclamation, learnt how "the prisoner had been hurried off under the charge of the warders," and felt again that someone had blundered seriously. He threw the papers down, and clasping his hands behind his head, gave himself up to thought.

His dream came back with an added significance. The fact of opening his eyes on a fresh day in no way relieved his mind of that previous obsession. His vision of the figure flying to him through mist and obscurity, clasping him in frenzy, entreating aid, was a vivid remembrance. He summoned Chaffey before his usual hour in order to gain distraction. No previous experience had ever affected him in such a manner. He was unable to account for it.

"It's not as if I were a philanthropist. I don't think I've ever done much good to my fellow-man," he reflected. "I took Chaffey as a freak. It amused me to watch his daily wonder at my unsuspicious attitude. My carelessness in the matter of loose silver and sleeve links. The experiment has been a success, still, I don't see where a second enterprise of the sort could land me. . . . That poor chap—I suppose he's feasting on skilly, washing his cell, making his bed, and here am I luxuriating in comfort that I've done little to deserve!"

Chaffey entered with tea and its morning accompaniments, and Aubrey opened the usual morning discussion.

"Thoughtful of you to cut out those press reports," he said. "I suppose there's nothing new to-day?"

"No, sir, not a word. That's the way, sir, with the press. They piles up an interest, and then drops it."

Aubrey took the steaming cup of tea, and sipped it with lazy enjoyment.

"You'll be surprised to hear," he said, "that I met last night the very counsel who defended young Gale. More, I brought him here to talk matters over. He is quite convinced of the boy's innocence."

"Yet he couldn't get him off, sir?"

"No; nor will there be an appeal. The boys fate is sealed for two years. I wonder what life will mean for him—afterwards? I suppose prison discipline hasn't a—softening effect, upon one's sensibilities, Chaffey?"

"It depends, sir. Some takes it hard, and some is resigned, and some, of course, gets credited with ill-health, and have only light tasks. But there's those as rebels from first hour to last. Rebels, and suffers, and plots escapes, and revenge. You see, sir, it's harder to suffer injustice than to bear what one's deserved."

"Plot and plan escapes," repeated Aubrey. "Do prisoners often escape, Chaffey?"

"Not often, sir. Specially from Portland, or Dartmoor. They say no one ever has really got off from either one o' them. You've never seen a big prison p'raps, sir?"

"No, Chaffey."

Aubrey put down his cup, and sat up. "Do you think it would interest me to visit one?"

"I can't say, sir. I only thought that as you'd taken up this—hobby—ain't it, sir?"

"We'll leave it at that, Chaffey."

"Well, sir, bein' interested in criminal law, and queer cases, you might like to see the sort o' place they criminals get put away in?"

"Would I be able to get into one of those prisons, Chaffey?"

"If you've got influence, sir. You could apply to the Home Secretary. Of course you'd have to give a reason. You might say you wanted to inspect 'em for a political purpose, or that you were going to write a book. Lord Dulcimer bein' in the Upper House, it wouldn't be difficult, sir."

"I declare you're a genius, Chaffey! Why did I never think of this before?"

"I'm proud, sir, to do anything that 'ud make you take a real interest in life, so to say. It has hurt me, sir, to see you so bored, and so indifferent to everything. Excuse the freedom o' speech, sir, but you've give me leave to say out what's in my mind."

"Yes. It's good for you. As for my boredom, well, you've done more to relieve it than any one I know. It's a queer thing to say to one's valet—but then I'm by way of being queer, eh, Chaffey? Give me my cigarette case, and I'll think over your suggestion. I—I suppose Geoffrey Gale won't be sent to one of those prisons you mentioned, just yet?"

"I can't say, sir. But the barrister gentleman would be able to tell you."

"I suppose he would. But he might wonder at my curiosity. In fact he did wonder at it. You see I don't know those people. If any one of them had been a personal acquaintance, my interest wouldn't have seemed so remarkable."

Chaffey was silent. He had nothing more to suggest, nor could he see what use his master could make of further information. The case was over and done with. The prisoner's fate sealed. Penal Servitude was a hard fate to face any one so young, but the Law has a long arm and a sharp claw. Geoffrey Gale was safe in its clutches. There he must remain for the proscribed period unless good behaviour, or ill-health, got him a shorter term.

Chaffey knew enough of rigorous penal discipline to know also how rich a crop of sickness, insanity, and desperation it produced. He had heard many a sordid tale; seen more than one broken-down "lifer." He knew how promising careers might be wrecked, moral integrity abandoned, good intentions abolished, and the seeds of future ill-doing sown in reckless hearts. Not to many "gaol birds" is a helping hand outstretched. Few there are who find it possible to establish a new record; to wipe the smirch off the slate, and start afresh on life's highroad.

"Once a criminal, always a criminal" is the accepted verdict of conviction, and it is little wonder that prison records teem with repetitions of crime, instead of justifying a system that should abolish it.

* * * * * *

Aubrey Derringham took his morning bath, and made his usual toilet, and then suddenly recognized that the routine of his life was disorganized.

A taste for criminal subjects had taken the place of fashionable pleasures. To stroll past the Motor Mile, to lunch at his Club, to visit his tailor, to take his car at reckless speed forty or fifty miles out of London, by way of getting an appetite for dinner, to sample the chefs of the Ritz, or the Carlton, to "do" a play, or make one of a crush to witness the last contortions of fashionable waltzing, these occupations had seemed hitherto to fill up the day's programme.

But as he surveyed them in turn he found that the "motor spin" through the sweet spring country alone tempted his leisure. He swept aside lunch engagements with indifference. He ordered the car to be ready at twelve o'clock, and prepared to be his own driver.

"I'm a bit out of practice," he told Chaffey, as he ventured mild remonstrance. "I mean to work it up again. One feels more independent when one drives oneself."

So he attired himself in leather and goggles, and got into the long low touring car whose "records" had nearly brought him into various county courts. Then cautiously and cleverly he steered through outlying traffic and congested suburbs, and so away to the Surrey hills, with Chaffey watchful and admonitory by his side.

They spoke very little. Speed and an open car are not conducive to conversation. But the queer valet noted something was "up" with his master. Some subject, or plan, was engrossing him, independently of his pride in his car, and the speed limit.

"It ain't my business," thought this student of human nature. "But I could give a pretty good guess what's in his mind."