Chapter XXV: The Appeal of Despair

“A friend! and thine the ruthless part
To break the bruised reed;
Coldly to crush the trusting heart
In time of deepest need;
To quench the lingering, quivering ray,
Of Hope’s just dying light,
Thus spreading o’er life’s dreary way
One deep unbroken night.”

The next morning, while Malcolm Montrose sat within his private parlor at the “Leaton Arms,” crushed by the failure of his last hopes, the door was suddenly thrown open, and a young girl, dressed in mourning, with a face pale as death, and a manner dreadfully agitated, hastily entered the room.

“So your mission to the Home Secretary has not succeeded!” were the first abrupt words uttered by the visitor, as she threw aside her veil, and stood before Mr. Montrose.

Malcolm sighed, and looked in surprise at this singular intruder.

“And you pretend to be in earnest in your desire to save her, yet could not accomplish your object?” exclaimed the girl in bitter, and scornful irony.

“I would have given my life for hers; I would give it now, could the gift save her!” groaned Malcolm, in deep bitterness of spirit.

“And yet you failed to obtain even a respite of her sentence!”

“Because,” said Malcolm, sorrowfully, “the Home Secretary was unable, on account of the illness of the judge, who tried the case, to consult him on the subject.”

“And so I suppose she must suffer on Wednesday?”

Malcolm choked, and faltered:

“Yes!”

“And you affect to love her, and yet say that? Oh! man! man! you love her not! But I love her, and I say she shall not die!” exclaimed the girl, with an impassioned earnestness that caused the young man to start and look up at her with amazement.

Clearly he supposed his strange visitor to be mad.

“She shall not die, I repeat!” said the girl, in answer to his astonished gaze.

“Who are you, young woman, who seem to take such an earnest interest in the fate of that unhappy lady?” inquired Malcolm, gently.

“One who is far too deeply in earnest to abandon Eudora Leaton to her unmerited fate; one who will save her despite of judge, jury, gaoler, and sheriff,” replied the visitor.

“Alas! poor girl!” sighed Malcolm, feeling sure that he was in the presence of some compassionate young lunatic.

“See here, Mr. Malcolm Montrose. I am not beside myself although your looks seem to say so; and although, if trouble ever crazed anybody, I should be mad!”

“But who are you, then, young woman, who are so kindly solicitous—”

“What does it matter who I am?” impatiently interrupted the visitor. “I am Annella Wilder, the grand-daughter of Admiral Brunton for his sins! But that is not of the slightest consequence. What _is_ of the utmost importance is my errand here to plan with you the rescue of Eudora Leaton!”

She paused for breath, for all this time she had been speaking with eager, earnest, impassioned vehemence; but as Malcolm still regarded her with a fixed, inquiring, distrustful look, she broke forth again, impatiently:

“Oh, I see you still think I am mad! but I am not. I am only nervous, anxious, and excited; and very conscious of being so! How should I be otherwise? I have slept but little since her conviction, and not at all since the last hope of a respite failed. I have lain awake night after night planning how we might free her. And scheme after scheme has surged through and through my brain, until I have grown almost wild from excitement and loss of sleep. So I scarcely wonder that you think me mad; but surely you must see now that I am not.”

“Young lady, I thank you from the depths of a most grateful heart for the deep interest you take in Miss Leaton, whose misfortunes must be her only claim to your regard; for you are probably a stranger to her, and cannot know the excellence of her character,” said Malcolm.

“Can’t I? There you are mistaken. She is no stranger, but the dearest friend I have in the world!” exclaimed Annella, who immediately poured forth in a few vehement words the history of her acquaintance with Eudora.

All this time Annella had been standing before Malcolm, who had remained sitting.

He understood her now, and recollected himself. He arose, took her hand, and led her to a seat with respectful tenderness, saying, deprecatingly:

“I beg you will forgive me, Miss Wilder, but this heavy calamity has quite unmanned me, and made me oblivious even of the common courtesies of life.”

“I know, I know,” said Annella, impatiently, “but don’t waste words of apology on me, I don’t want that; I want your immediate co-operation in a plan for the rescue of Eudora.”

“Kind girl, I thank you earnestly in Eudora’s name; but any plan you might arrange I greatly fear must prove impossible of execution.”

“_Do_ you love her, and _can_ you talk of fear and of impossibility in reference to any scheme for her deliverance?” exclaimed Annella, passionately.

“Miss Wilder, I told you that I would gladly purchase her life with my own, if I could be permitted to do so; but for any plan for her rescue, dear girl, I can have but little hope.”

“Why?”

“Ah, Miss Wilder! have you reflected upon the strength of that prison, and the vigilance and incorruptibility of its officers?”

“The strength of the prison is a hard material fact that I cannot deny; the vigilance of its officers is also very evident to the most casual observer; but their incorruptibility—bah! Voltaire, or Solomon, or Robinson Crusoe, or somebody said, that every man could be bought if you’d only pay him his own price! Now, how do you know that the officers are incorruptible? Is anybody perfect? Are you? The only question is, have you money enough to bribe the gaoler to favor her escape?”

“I do not think I have. For I do not think that any sum would bribe him.”

“You do not _half_ love her! But how much money have you got?” inquired Annella, with eager interest.

Malcolm paused a moment, and then answered:

“I could raise five thousand pounds.”

“La! why that would buy an archbishop or a prime minister, much more a poor provincial gaoler!”

“You have a bad opinion of human nature.”

“Got a right to. The only human being with whom I am intimately acquainted—and that’s myself—I _know_ deserves to be put in a pillory; and all the rest except a few ought to be hung! But try the gaoler with the offer of five thousand pounds. That sum will be an irresistible inducement to a man in his circumstances—especially if you can convince him of what I believe to be the truth—that he will be doing a meritorious act in assisting the escape of an innocent girl.”

“Really, your reasoning has a certain plausibility in it. ‘The drowning catch at straws,’ and I am inclined to seize upon your idea. What is the plan of escape that you wish that the gaoler should be brought to favor?”

“I said _bought_ to favor! Oh, it is a very simple one. I go to the prison closely veiled. I propose to change dress with Eudora, and let her walk out in my gown, mantle, bonnet, and veil, while the gaoler, upon some pretence or another draws off the warders to some other part of the building, so that she can pass out uninterruptedly. And you could have a close carriage somewhere near, put her into it, and drive at once to the sea-coast, where you must have a fishing-smack already hired to take her away. Meanwhile, when they come to look for her, they find me!”

“But do you know, kind girl, even if your plan should succeed, what would be the penalty to yourself for assisting the escape of a convicted prisoner?” inquired Malcolm, gravely.

“No, nor care! They couldn’t hang me, and even if they could, I shouldn’t mind a little hanging in the cause of a friend!” said Annella, cheerfully, for her spirits were rising with sanguine hopes of success.

“They would transport you for life!”

“Well, let them, if it would be any comfort to them for the escape of Eudora! It would only be giving me a free passage to Australia, and I want to see the world. I dare say Botany Bay is not the worst place on the face of the earth. They say convicts there in a very short time are able to retire on ample fortunes. In a word, I should be transported with joy to be sent over for Miss Leaton’s sake. ‘Variety is the spice of existence,’ and that would be one of the spices!” said Annella, gaily, for in Malcolm’s evident acquiescence her spirits were rising.

“Your plan shall be tried,” said Mr. Montrose, gravely, “the more readily that I do not believe you would really come to harm through it. But are you sure that even if you win over the gaoler, you have courage to act out your own part? Remember that yours is far the most perilous part of all. My hand would scarcely be seen in it. The gaoler, with five thousand pounds, could afford to leave the country, but you would be found in the cell, and have to face—”

“The music of the row they’d raise! I know it. I’m not afraid. Go ahead. I’ll do my part,” said Annella, bravely.

“If the peril were all my own—”

“Now you are at your doubts and hesitations again. Think of Eudora’s peril, and act with decision.”

“You are right, Eudora only should be thought of now, but when she is once in safety, my dear girl, I will devote all my energies to helping you out of any trouble you may get into upon her account,” replied Malcolm.

“Thank you kindly, but I will not trouble you. I shall help myself, as I have done all my life. I had a great deal rather you would tell me when we shall begin to help Eudora,” said Annella, bravely.

“Immediately. I was only waiting here for the hour of opening the prison to arrive. Now, by the time we can walk thither it will have come, and we can be admitted. I shall go at once to the gaoler, and in a private interview, open my plan to him. You, meanwhile, can visit Eudora in her cell; but I beseech you, say not one word of the plan of deliverance to her until we discover whether the gaoler can be induced to favor it, for the subject might only agitate with vain hopes a soul that is piously trying to resign itself to death,” said Montrose.

“Why, do you think me an idiot? Of course I should say nothing to her prematurely, even if I had the opportunity, which I should not have, as one of those women warders is always on guard over her.”

“True; but if the governor can be induced to co-operate with us, he will make some opportunity for me to convey the news to Eudora. Then I will hurry away, and make every arrangement for the flight, which may be accomplished to-morrow,” said Montrose, rising, and taking his hat and gloves.

They immediately left the hotel, and walked rapidly on to the prison, exhibited the sheriff’s order, and were at once admitted.

While they waited for a minute in the hall, for some turnkey to attend them, Annella inquired in a breathless whisper:

“After your interview with the governor, you will come immediately to Eudora?”

“Certainly.”

“But one of the warders will be with her, and you cannot speak of it before either of them, how, then, shall I know whether your appeal has been successful?”

“By my face! Could I, with all the self-control of my nature, repress the satisfaction you would read there if I had succeeded, or the despair you would see there if I had failed?”

“But you will _not_ fail. You are sure to succeed,” said Annella, impatiently.

At this moment a turnkey came forward with his bunch of keys.

“Be kind enough to say to the governor that I wish to see him, and then conduct this young lady to Miss Leaton’s presence,” said Montrose.

The officer bowed, opened a side door, and announced:

“A gentleman to see the governor.”

Then touching his hat to Annella, he led the way up the heavy staircase to the upper wards in which the condemned cells were located.

Meanwhile, Malcolm entered the office of the governor, who was seated at a desk engaged in writing, but immediately arose, with an earnest expression of sympathy and respect, to meet his visitor.

“Mr. Montrose, still looking so harassed and ill, and no wonder! You could endure it better in your own person, I know that, but try still to bear up, even for her sake. Time carries away the sharpest griefs as well as the sweetest joys. A few more days and all this agony for you and her will be over for ever. She will be at rest, with her it will be well. If she is guiltless, as I hope she is, and suffers unjustly, as I fear she must, God will abundantly compensate her in another world. When all is over you must travel, and time, philosophy and religion will heal the wounds of your heart. Sit down here, Mr. Montrose, and let me offer you something,” said the governor, placing a cushioned arm-chair for his visitor, and moving towards that buffet where he kept liquors for exigencies like this.

“I thank you—no, I require nothing of that sort. But, Mr. Anderson, I wish to have a private interview with you. Will you be kind enough to turn the key in that door, so that we may not be interrupted?” inquired Malcolm, seating himself in the arm-chair.

The governor, in some surprise, did as he was requested, and then drew a chair and seated himself near Malcolm, saying:

“How can I serve you, Mr. Montrose?”

“First, by giving me your word of honor that what passes at this interview between you and myself shall be considered strictly private and confidential. I make the request, not for my own sake, but for that of another person—a young lady.”

“Miss Leaton?” inquired the governor, dubiously.

“Another young lady, a stranger to you, and until this morning, to me also,” replied Malcolm, evasively.

“She is not in any way concerned in that Allworth poisoning affair, I hope, because, if she were, I would not give you the promise, you know?”

“Nor should I be likely to ask it. No, she was never in the county until about two weeks ago, and has never, in the least degree, transgressed the laws of the land.”

The governor paused in deep thought for a moment, and then cautiously answered:

“Well, Mr. Montrose, I have sufficient confidence in your integrity of mind to believe that you would not confide to me, or bind me to keep secret any conversation that it would be my duty to communicate, and so you have my promise that whatever may pass between us in this interview shall be held strictly confidential.”

“And that upon your word and honor?” inquired Malcolm, solemnly.

“Upon my word and honor, yes,” replied the governor, earnestly.

“Anderson, I have heard that the father of Eudora Leaton was your patron and best friend?” said Montrose.

“I owe him everything I possess in this world,” replied the governor, shortly.

“And, therefore, you must feel for his most unhappy child?”

“As if she were my own—yes, I do.”

“And you believe the daughter of so good a man free from the foul crime for which she is doomed to die?”

“I do not know; I am inclined to believe her so.”

“Then while you are disposed to believe her innocent, how can you consider the approaching execution in any other character than that of a judicial murder?”

The governor arose hastily from his seat, and walked up and down the floor of his office in great agitation.

Mr. Montrose, steadied by the concentrated intensity of his own purpose, sat watching the troubled governor.

At length the latter resumed his seat, and wiped his brow, saying:

“Why do you say all this to me, Mr. Montrose? I did not try her, nor condemn her, and shall not execute the sentence of the law upon her. Granted that her execution may be a judicial murder, I shall not have committed it, and I cannot help it.”

“_You can help it!_” said Malcolm, emphatically.

“Ha!” cried the governor, looking up in perplexity.

“I say you _can help it_! You can hinder this great wrong being done—this great crime being committed—this innocent girl being executed! And if you do not hinder it, you yourself become accessory to the murder of your benefactor’s orphan daughter!” exclaimed Montrose, with impassioned earnestness.

The governor gazed upon the speaker in astonishment and perplexity that only required the additional element of fear to form perfect consternation.

“I—I hinder all this? For the Redeemer’s sake, Mr. Montrose, tell me how. I am a poor man, with a wife and child, but I would joyfully sacrifice everything I possess in this world, and go forth a beggar, if, by so doing, I could save her from the horrible fate awaiting her!” he eagerly protested.

“Noble heart! no sacrifice will be required of you. Eudora Leaton’s friends would never permit you to suffer loss or injury in her cause. No, Anderson! you will at the same time save your patron’s child and enrich yourself!” exclaimed Malcolm, seizing and pressing the brown hand of the governor.

Anderson grew, if possible, more embarrassed than before. He dropped his head upon his breast, bent his eyes upon the floor, and remained silent. Perceiving that he would not make any comment at present, Malcolm continued, by inquiring:

“How much is your post here worth?”

“A small salary with apartments,” replied the governor, glad of a question to which he could return a straightforward answer.

“How much can you save from that?”

“Twenty pounds a year when all goes prosperously.”

“Then, under the most favorable circumstances, it would take you five years to save one hundred, ten to lay by two hundred, and twenty-five to accumulate five hundred pounds?”

“Just, so, if everything went well with me; otherwise, I could save nothing, and might even get into debt.”

“Yes. Well, Anderson, if you will lend your assistance in the most righteous cause of delivering your benefactor’s orphan daughter from unmerited death, I will pay you down five thousand pounds in hard English sovereigns—a sum that will make you and your family independent in this or any other country for the rest of your lives!” said Malcolm, coming at once to the point, though with an unsteady voice and flushed cheek.

“Good Heaven, sir!” exclaimed the governor, shrinking back, as the blood rushed to his face.

“You consent?” asked Malcolm, in a low husky voice.

“I never dreamed of such a thing!”

“The sum is large, it is all I can raise, or it should be doubled, trebled, quadrupled! I would give twenty thousand—a hundred thousand—a million if I had it—as I would give my life, if I could do it, to save Eudora.”

“And I would not ask one penny to save her, if I could do it honestly, sir. Perhaps I didn’t understand you, sir. How could I save her?”

Malcolm seized his wrist, bent to his ear, and in eager, vehement whispers, recounted his simple plan for the escape of Eudora.

While he spoke the governor listened with downcast eyes, and at the end of his speech answered nothing.

“What have you to say to this? Will you take the money, and save her?” demanded Malcolm, impatiently.

“Mr. Montrose, I repeat, without taking one penny of that money, I would gladly save her if I could do so honestly; but to lend my countenance to the plan you propose, or any plan for a prisoner’s escape, would be a grave breach of trust.”

“A justifiable one, if ever such existed,” exclaimed Malcolm, earnestly.

“Yes, if ever such existed; but no breach of trust ever could be justifiable, Mr. Montrose.”

“Not even to save an innocent girl from a horrible death?”

“No, sir, not even for that. But, indeed, I do not know that she is innocent, poor girl, and even if I did, it would not be my place to set judge, jury, and sheriff right by opening the doors and letting a convicted prisoner walk freely out of gaol!” said the governor, trying to speak sternly, though his honest face paled, flushed, and quivered with emotion, and he was again obliged to rise and walk rapidly up and down the floor.

Malcolm watched him closely, and perceived, notwithstanding the decisiveness of his words, that he was undergoing a severe conflict between duty and inclination, and that his temptation came not from greed of gain, but from pity for Eudora.

Malcolm let him walk up and down for some time in silence, and then, as he saw the struggle still going on in his mind, arose and joined him.

And as they paced side by side, Malcolm said:

“You will have compassion on this poor, sweet victim; you will permit her to escape and reach some foreign country in safety, and in after years, when her innocence shall be discovered, you will rejoice to remember that you saved her blameless life from a felon’s death!”

Anderson mournfully shook his head, saying, “My God! I am not fit for my hard duties.”

“No, you are not hard enough for the stern duties of a governor of a gaol. Your humane nature must suffer much in constantly witnessing the very worst forms of human woe, crime, remorse and punishment, and the wide ruin and unspeakable misery they bring upon the innocent as well as the guilty,” said Malcolm, gently.

“True, true! my heart has been wrung daily, for years, in witnessing the wretchedness of prisoners and their friends. But what would you have—some must be gaolers?”

“But not men like you—you suffer too much in the performance of your duties. Come, listen to me! be persuaded to leave this abode of sin and misery. Let Eudora escape! take the compensation that her grateful friends will offer you, and go to some lovely, quiet, rural home, in some foreign country, where you can live with your wife and child amid the sweet influence of nature, and with the almost Divine consciousness of having saved a human life! Come—speak—consent! urged Malcolm persuasively.

“I dare not! oh, Heaven! I dare not commit a breach of trust—I dare not do a dishonorable deed!” said Anderson, wiping the streaming perspiration from his brow.

“Remember her dead father, and all his brotherly kindness to you, and pity his orphan child in her unspeakable wretchedness. Think how dear life is at her tender age; how hard it is to die at seventeen, and such an awful death—a death of public ignominy! How her young heart must shrink in anguish and affright. Think how sweet the offer of life would be to her; how her spirit would leap with joy to meet it; how she would bless you; how she would thank you; how she would pray for you through all the days of the life that she would owe to you;—and how you would rejoice to feel that the debt of gratitude to your benefactor had been abundantly paid off by saving the life of his child, who, but for you, would be mouldering in a premature, dishonored grave! Anderson, think how, at this very moment, the spirit of her sainted father bends down from the Heaven of Heavens to hear what you shall say!” concluded Malcolm, solemnly.

“Oh, Montrose, speak no more! All this that you have said my own heart has urged more forcibly than you could speak! But I must not do this thing. I must not stain my soul with dishonor!” exclaimed the gaoler, and then, man though he was, he burst into tears, went and leaned his elbows on his desk, dropped his face upon his open palms, and wept bitterly.

But not for this would Malcolm Montrose abandon the cause of Eudora.

He went to the side of Anderson, put his arm caressingly over his shoulder, and continued his pleadings with all the impassioned eloquence of love and grief. Whether he was successful will be seen.