Читать книгу Commodore Junk - Fenn George Manville - Страница 9

Mary Dell went again and again to the prison in the county town, tramping till she was footsore; but she did not see Abel, for she had to encounter double difficulties – to wit, the regulations of the authorities, and her brother’s refusal to see her.

At last, though, she compassed an interview with Bart Wrigley, and the big fellow listened to her stolidly, as he enjoyed the sound of her voice, sighing heavily from time to time.

“But even you seem at times, Bart, as if you did not believe a word I say,” she cried passionately.

“Who says I don’t?” said Bart, in a low growl. “You telled me you didn’t, my lass, and of course you didn’t. Why, I’d believe anything you told me; but as for Abel, he’s dead-set on it that you told the captain, and there’s no moving him.”

“But tell him, Bart, tell him I was angry with him for what he did – ”

“What we did,” said Bart, who was too loyal to shirk his share.

“Well, what you both did, Bart; but that I would sooner have died than betray my own brother.”

“Haw, haw! That’s a wunner,” said Bart, with a hoarse laugh. “That’s just what I did tell him.”

“You did, Bart?”

“Ay, my lass, I did; but he – ”

Bart stopped.

“Yes, Bart, what did he say?”

“Said I was a blind, thick-headed fool.”

“Oh, Bart, Bart, Bart! you are the best, and truest friend we ever had.”

“Say that again, lass, will you?” said the rough fellow.

Mary said it again with greater emphasis, and big Bart rubbed the corner of one eye with the back of his hand.

“Tell him, dear Bart, that his sister was true to him all through, and that he must believe me.”

“Ay, lass, I’ll tell him; but don’t call me ‘dear Bart’ again, ’cause I can’t bear it.”

“But you are our friend, and have always been like a brother to us.”

“Ay, lass, I tried to be, and I’ll speak to him again. Bah! you never went again us. You couldn’t. Your tongue thrashed us a bit, as you allus did, but it was for our good. And now, look here, my lass, when we’re gone – ”

“When you’re gone, Bart!” cried Mary, with her lip quivering.

“Ay, lass, when we’re gone, for I daresay they’ll hang us.”

“Bart!”

“Oh, it won’t hurt much. Not worse than being drownded, and much quicker.”

“Oh, Bart, Bart!”

“Don’t cry, my pretty one, only don’t forget us. You won’t forget Abel, of course; but – I never felt as if I could talk to you like this before – don’t forget as Bart Wrigley was werry fond on you, and that, if he’d been a fine hansum chap, ’stead of such a rough un, with his figure-head all set o’ one side, he’d ha’ stuck up and said as no one else shouldn’t have you.”

“Oh, Bart, Bart!” sobbed Mary, piteously.

“Ay, lass, that he would; but he often says to himself, ‘It wouldn’t be kind to a girl like that to hang on to her.’ So, good-bye, my pretty lady, and I’ll tell Abel as he’s the blind, thick-headed fool if he says it was you as got us into this hole.”

Bart had to wind up his unwontedly long speech very quickly, for a couple of turnkeys had entered the stone-walled room, to conduct the big fellow back to his cell, and show Mary to the outside of the prison.

“Good bye, dear Bart, dear old friend!”

“Good bye, my pretty lady!” cried the big fellow? “You called me ‘dear Bart’ again.”

“Yes, dear Bart, dear brother!” cried Mary, passionately, and, raising his big hand to her lips, she kissed it.

“Bah!” growled Bart to himself, “let ’em hang me. What do I care arter that? ‘Dear Bart – dear Bart!’ I wouldn’t care a bit if I only knowed what she’d do when we’re gone.”

Then the time glided on, and Mary heard from one and another the popular belief that the authorities, rejoicing in having at last caught two notorious smugglers and wreckers red-handed in a serious offence, were determined to make an example by punishing them with the utmost rigour of the law.

The poor girl in her loneliness had racked her brains for means of helping her brother. She had sold everything of value they possessed to pay for legal assistance, and she had, with fertile imagination, plotted means for helping Abel to escape; but even if her plans had been possible, they had been crossed by her brother’s obstinate disbelief in her truth. His last message was one which sent her to the cottage flushed and angry, for it was a cruel repetition of his old accusation, joined with a declaration that he disbelieved in her in other ways, and that this had been done in collusion with Captain Armstrong to get him and Bart out of her way.

“He’ll be sorry some day,” she said on the morning before the trial, as she sat low of spirit and alone in the little cottage.

“Poor Abel! he’s very bitter and cruel; poor – Yes, do you want me?”

“Genlum give me this to give you,” said a boy.

Mary excitedly caught at the letter the boy handed to her, and opening it with trembling hands, managed with no little difficulty to spell out its contents.

They were very short and laboriously written in a large schoolboy-like hand for her special benefit by one who knew her deficiencies of education.

“It is not too late yet. Abel will be tried to-morrow and condemned unless a piece of sea-weed is received to-night.”

“And I used to love him and believe in him!” she cried at last passionately, as her hot indignation at last mastered her, and she tore the letter in pieces with her teeth, spat the fragments upon the ground, and stamped upon them with every mark of contempt and disgust.

Then a change came over her, and she sank sobbing upon a stool, to burst forth into a piteous wail.

“Oh, Abel! – brother! – it is all my doing. I have sent you to your death!”