Читать книгу The Man who was Two - Fred M. White - Страница 8

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Many weary months had elapsed since Raymond Mallison had disappeared from the world and his place had known him no more. A year or more had dragged along, and now it was the spring of the poet, and all nature outside was rejoicing in the glorious weather. But there was little enough of that in the gloom of Slagmoor Prison, where Mallison now was, and the mere glimpse of an occasional burst of sunshine gave him a longing at the heart and a pain that almost brought the tears to his eyes. He had taken it hard enough at first, and the spirit of rebellion raged within him; but that was all gone now, and something like despair had taken the place of the more combative feeling. He had grown a little grey on the temples, and his eyes were a trifle sunken, but otherwise he had altered little. Before him lay a weary prospect, stretching out another three years at least, even with the reduction of his sentence allowable for good conduct, and the deadly monotony of it fretted him at times to the soul. Once a month he was permitted a letter or two from the outside world, but it was inevitable that his correspondence should be restricted and somewhat restrained, because before it passed into his hands it was examined by the governor of the prison.

But his friends were loyal enough; he heard at frequent intervals from Peggy Ferriss, and Sir Marston Manley, and Hetty Bond, but it was very little he gathered from these letters as to what was going on in the outer world. He knew, of course, that Walter Pennington was not dead. Had it been otherwise, Mallison would have stood in the dock on a still more serious charge. His whilom friend, indeed, had quite recovered from his injuries.

But Pennington still stuck to the story as told by the witnesses during the course of the trial. He was absolutely certain that he had been attacked in his chambers by Mallison--a strange delusion on the barrister's part, and one, no doubt, coloured by what he had heard from other witnesses. And so the thing had drifted on--the same strange mystery that apparently baffled every attempt at solution. For Sir Marston Manley had been untiring in his efforts to clear up the tangle, and up to now, had spent a large sum in vain. It seemed to Raymond as if he would have to go through with it to the end, and emerge from his prison presently a broken man, with no hope for the future, and nothing to sustain him beyond the knowledge that Peggy was absolutely convinced of his innocence.

Not that that made much material difference, because, whatever happened in the future, Mallison was determined that nothing should induce him to drag Peggy down to his level. It would be a hard task, because Peggy had announced her intention of marrying him in any case, but that could never be, and however much she suffered Mallison would be firm. And so the months drifted on, with no hope in the present, and no promise in the future.

And yet, in himself, Mallison was well enough. The fine moorland air of the prison was like so much wine, the plain food was plentiful enough, and the exercise kept him in a fine and hard physical condition. He had rebelled against the manual labour at first, and had asked if he could not be given work to do which was likely to be of some use to the community. He wanted to put his scientific knowledge to practical work, but the governor of the prison had shaken his head. He was not unsympathetic, but he was an official, with the official mind, and he could not admit of anything outside the usual routine.

Therefore, there was nothing better for it than for Mallison to dig and plough, and make himself useful out of doors. Gradually he was learning something of convict life, though he had carefully abstained from taking any interest in his fellow prisoners at first; but the awful solitude had at length begun to tell upon him, so that if he meant to retain his reason, he must have someone to talk to. There were opportunities for this in the prison library, and at meal times, when the better type of convict and the prisoners who accepted their sentences philosophically, were allowed to meet at certain hours and talk under the eye of a more or less sympathetic warder. And thus it came about that Mallison got a view of life at quite a new angle, and heard many experiences that he had not even imagined before his trouble.

There were some men, of course, who were frankly impossible, the low and brutal type that nothing could tame--men who were predestined to pass most of their lives in gaol from the very first. It was amongst these that the warders moved cautiously, with their rifles in their hands; but those custodians, by long experience, had learnt something of the men under them, and there were many prisoners at Slagmoor who enjoyed a fair degree of latitude. And amongst these was one who gave his name to Mallison as Philip Baillie. He was obviously a man of education, and, as a public school boy himself, Mallison did not doubt when he said that he had been at a famous educational establishment. By favour of a friendly warder those two sat next to one another at meals, and for one hour a day the prison library was at their disposal. And strange to say, Baillie seemed to know all about Mallison and why he was at Slagmoor.

"Now, how did you find that out?" Raymond asked.

"Oh, that was easy enough," Baillie replied. "You'll know when you've been here a bit longer. There's a sort of free-masonry in gaols which the authorities rather wink at, so long as it does not lead to trouble. And besides, don't forget that I am a good-conduct man, and see a paper every day. I know you are Mallison, who was convicted of assaulting Walter Pennington. I knew it the very first day you came into the gaol. I read the case in one of the papers, and, do you know, I am half inclined to believe that you have been very unfortunate."

Just for a moment Mallison had hesitated to reply. The wound was still very raw, and he did not feel like discussing his trouble with anyone. But he was human after all, and the desire for companionship was very great.

"I am absolutely innocent," he murmured. "There has been a terrible mistake somewhere, or I am the victim of a vile conspiracy. But probably I shall never know."

"They all say that," Baillie smiled. "There isn't an old 'lag' in the prison, not amongst those who have been convicted a score of times, who won't tell you that he is innocent. I don't know why it is, but every rascal in the world has a passionate desire to pose as an honest man. It is an example, I suppose, of the fact that the lowest of us has a conscience."

Mallison thrilled indignantly.

"If you don't believe me," he began. "Why in that case--"

"Here, don't get angry," Baillie said. "Of course I believe you. I have read your case very carefully, and I believe that there has been a conspiracy against you. You are one of the few men who really are innocent."

"Including yourself, I hope," Mallison said politely.

"So I should say, if I was talking to anybody else within these walls," Baillie grinned.

"But I don't want to try and fool a man like you. I am guilty enough. Forgery is my trouble. You see, I was an artist in black and white, and from the time I was at school I always had a fatal knack of copying signatures. I could do it with a turn of the wrist. And when I got out into the world and had to look after myself, owing to the fact that my father died almost penniless, I was fool enough to live in the old way. You see, I was rather lucky with my sketches at first. Then I had the usual slump, and before I knew where I was, I was up to my neck in debt. Don't ask me how it came about, but there was a certain rich man who was rather fond of posing as a Bohemian, and I forged his signature to a big cheque. I thought he was one of the careless sort of men, who would never find it out, but he did. He prosecuted me, and I got six months."

"Six months?" Mallison asked. "Six months only? Then what are you doing in a convict prison?"

"Ah, that was the first time," Baillie said coolly. "When I came out, of course I was done for. Most of my friends turned their backs on me, and, though there were others who no doubt would have helped, I was too ashamed, or too proud, to go near them. Then others approached me, professional criminals who knew my record and what I could do, and that was the beginning of the end. My idea was to make a few thousand pounds or so and try and live the past down, perhaps in America. The same ill-luck followed me: the police were too clever for us, and I got five years. And so far as I am concerned, that is my story."

From that time something like a friendship sprang up between the two men, and because of the comradeship between them Mallison became more reconciled to his lot. It was lonely enough there on the open moor, with its dreary outlook, and nothing to do, for the most part, but till the poor soil and occasionally pass a week or so in the stone quarries, it was bad enough in the dreary winter weather, when the east winds swept over the tableland, and the sun was hidden for days, but it was worse still the first spring, when the hillsides were all aflame with gorse, and the larks were singing overhead in the blue dome, it was at times like these, when all the world rejoiced in the coming of summer and the feeling of freedom, that Mallison suffered most. There were days when he felt almost impelled to fling himself headlong down the stone quarries, and end it once and for all.

"Is it always like this?" he asked Baillie one afternoon early in April, when they were sweating over their barrows. "Don't we ever get a chance to see anything but limestone and gorse, and these everlasting fogs?"

"Oh, occasionally," Baillie said. "Last summer they used to send gangs of us as far as the coast, which is only twenty miles away. We were making a new cliff road there, and so far as I can ascertain, it isn't finished yet."

"That sounds interesting," Mallison said. "I had quite forgotten the coast was so near. I'd give anything to have a look at the sea again. How do we get there?"

"We go by train. Do you happen to know anything of this part of the world?"

With a thrill Mallison remembered for the first time that he was in North Devon. It was the country where he had been born and bred; he knew every inch of the coast for miles, and his heart was in it as it ever had been.

"Yes," he said. "I know Merston very well; in fact, I was born there. I lived there till I went to school. Come to think of it, Merston can't be far off."

"Not more than 15 miles," Baillie explained. "There is a light railway that runs across the moor from Everstone to Charlock. They used to take us to Witch's Gate Station, and we went by that little railway to our work. The train used to stop on purpose to let us get down."

Mallison drew a long, deep breath. He could see all the glory of that magnificent coast, with its clear trout streams running through wooded valleys to the sea; he could see the gigantic cliffs, and the towering expanse of Hangman's Rock pointing to the sky, and the perilous path down to the beach from the summit, which had once been shown him by an old fisherman. And on one occasion, at the risk of his neck, he had climbed up that secret path to the top, and actually down again. It had been something in the nature of a miracle, and he had never ventured to attempt it again. But he could see every step of the way, even after a lapse of all these years; he could see the group of bushes fringing a great overhanging rock where he had lain to recover his breath, until he had felt equal to tackling the last dizzy twenty feet or so. He could see the long stretch of sands at the foot of Hangman's Rock, and the glorious walk from thence four miles to the quaint old village of Merston, where he had lived with his mother until she died. He recollected, too, the narrow cliff roadway along the top, and how the old fisherman had always prophesied that some day or another the road would collapse, and that another one would have to be cut out of the cliff-side, along there by Hangman's Rock. All this seemed to be a long way off, as if he were looking at light through the wrong end of a telescope, but he could see it plainly enough. And a wild longing to revisit the scenes of his youth possessed him.

"I know every blade of grass, and every twig there," he said. "It was there that I first found a raven's egg, and half-way up one of the cliffs one day I located the nest of a peregrine falcon. I very nearly lost my life on that occasion. Well, perhaps, it would have been better if I had."

"Here, cheer up," Baillie smiled. "Not but what I know the feeling exactly. And if you are particularly anxious to see that spot again, I have no doubt you will. I'll find out it the road is finished or not."

It was a day or two later, when the weather had grown suddenly warmer, and the whole moorland was enveloped in fog, so that it was almost impossible to work out of doors, when Baillie came along with the desired information.

"It's all right," he said. "That road isn't finished yet. It's just as it was when we left off last year. It was too dangerous to work there in the October gales, but we've got to finish it all right."

"Ah, if I could only be one of them," Mallison said.

"Oh, I'll work that for you," Baillie replied. "I am rather well in with Donaldson, who is one of our head warders. I mean the chap with the red beard. I made a little sketch for him of his little daughter, and he's as proud of it as if it had come out of the Academy. Any little thing that Donaldson can do for me, he will do, I am sure."

A few days passed, and Mallison heard no more of the matter. And, indeed, it was passing out of his mind altogether when Baillie recalled the subject again, during the precious library hour.

"I have been talking to Donaldson," he whispered. "I had to be rather careful, because those chaps are so infernally suspicious, and if I had told him that you knew Hangman's Rock like an open book, he would have been certain to have jumped to the conclusion that you have got something in the back of your mind. So I had to work it pretty carefully. Donaldson knows that you and I are pals, and I fixed up some yarn to the effect that you were getting into a very melancholy state, and that a change of scenery would do you good. He is not a bad chap, is Donaldson, and if you talk to him about that little girl of his, you can do anything with him. So I suggested that the first time there was anything doing off the moor he might put you into the gang. Of course, I had got that road in my mind, and it's all the easier because most of the men here hate travelling by train. You see, to begin with, we are handcuffed in gangs to prevent escape, and besides, passengers in the train are always so curious. Anyhow, Donaldson promised that when the weather cleared he will see what he can do. Then I spoke about the new Merston road, and he let on that work there was beginning almost at once."

"That's very good of you," Mallison said gratefully. "At any rate, it is something to look forward to. It is a hateful idea, to think of travelling in gangs chained together, like so many wild beasts, and there is always the chance that someone might recognise you. But the mere fact that I am going to see Merston once more is like a glass of champagne to me."

"I wonder if I shall ever taste it again," Baillie smiled. "I very much doubt it, but I'd give all the champagne in the world for one little cigarette. I wonder if you miss your tobacco, Mallison. I've been without mine now for over two years, and the longing is as great as over."

But Mallison was not listening. His mind was far away along those sunny cliffs, where he could see Hangman's Bock standing like a sentinel over the smiling sea, and the village of Merston climbing the hillside with every cottage smothered with fuchsias and the begonias blazing in front of them.