Convict 99. A true story of penal servitude ... With eight illustrations by Stanley L. Wood

Front matter

convict BY THE SAME AUTHORS- /;/ Preparation. Michael Dred, Detective. In the Shadow of Quilt " A shot whizzed through the air, striking him sharply. He stumbled and fell. ." Frontispiece. [See p, 12; CONVICT 99 A TRUE STORY OF PENAL SERVITUDE BY MARIE C. LEIGHTON and ROBERT LEIGHTON WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS BY STANLEY L. WOOD LONDON: GRANT RICHARDS 9 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C. TTO ALFRED C. HARMSWORTH, Esq This story is inscribed by tfie writers, tn grateful appreciation of the fact t/iat it owes to him. its inceptions and that whatever vitality it may possess was in great part inspired by his earnest enthusiasm on behalf of those ground doivn beyond redemption under tkg iron rigour of a merciless convict system. CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE THE LOVERS I. I II. LAURENCE GRAY TELLS HIS STORY THE GOSPEL OAK TRAGEDY - 4 III.

IV. 14 THE BLACK CAP 27 V. VI. IN THE SHADOW OF DEATH THE NEWSPAPER 35 42 VII VIII. A MESSAGE OF LIFE A PENAL SETTLEMENT - THE MASK OF FRIENDSHIP THE RIVAL'S TREACHERY IN THE EXERCISE YARD MISHAP OR MURDER ? - THE PURSUING TYRANNY THE SERPENT AND THE DOVE RENEWED MISTRUST - 47 54 IX. 66 x. 75 XI 79 S5 XII XIII xiv. 90 94 XV. 9S XVI, XVII. XVIII. CHECKMATE ! 102 THE CROWNING SORROW DEADLY NIGHTSHADE - FOR LIBERTY AND LOVE THE INFIRMARY WARD FATHER AND CHILD ioS n6 XIX 121 XX. 124 128 XXI BLOOD MONEY 133 XXII, XXIII XXIV XXV. THE ABYSS OF DESPAIR THE TYPEWRITTEN LETTER A BOLD APPEAL 139 144 CONTENTS. VI PAGE 153 CHAP. ON THE WAY TO IGNOMINY CONFRONTING IGNOMINY JIM LACY xxvr. i6o XXVII. XXVIII. i6S 169 XXIX. GRINDING THE AIR THE CONFEDERATES 173 XXX. i8i THE LAST BRIGHT HOPE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS IN THE BATH-HOUSE - VICE VERSA XXXI. 1 84 XXXII.

XXXIII. xxxiv. 190 193 xxxv. xxxvi. THE STRESS OF CIRCUMSTANCE WARDER HEWITT 198 204 XXXVII. XXXVIII. XXXIX. AT THE BRINK OF FREEDOM GERALDINE'S JOURNEY 2IO 2l6 A STRANGE INTERVIEW THE SUBSTITUTE 220 XL. 222 XI.I. THE DARKEST HOUR - 228 THE " TICKET-OF-LEAVE " MAN A SWEET GOOD-NIGHT XLII. 232 XLIII. 239 XLIV. UNDER THE BAN AT THE BEDSIDE FACE TO FACE REMANDED 245 XLV. 250 XLVI. 252 XLVI I. XLVIII. 257 BEFORE THE DIRECTOR NOT AT HOME 263 XLIX, 266 FLIGHT ! L 271 LI AT THE THIRD BELL - 276 LII. LIII LIV, AN UNLOOKED-FOR PROCEEDING IN THE CHAPEL AT NEWGATE THE SECOND TRIAL - 28o 284 287 LY THE VINDICATION 295 LVI. LVII. LVIII PROOF ADDED TO PROOF THE VERDICT 298 3°5 FOR EVER AND EVER 3n ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE A shot whizzed through the air, striking him sharply. He stumbled and fell," - . - . . Frontispiece.

Chapter I. The Lovers

" Geraldine, listen — I love you ! I have loved you for months, but have never dared to tell you, because you were so beautiful, so delicate, so far above me. You have been brought up in luxury, while I — only a few years ago I was working in a dark, grimy Lancashire town, where I was born, and where my parents lived and worked humbly before me. But those dark factory towns breed hearts as true as ever came out of palaces ; and, Geraldine, with all my true heart I love you." The man who spoke these passionate words, and the girl to whom they were addressed, were standing in one of the conservatories of Fenton Court, the large and picturesque gabled house in Hampstead that was the home of Mr. Christopher Lucas, the rich city merchant. There was a ball at his house that night, at which his motherless daughter, Geraldine, reigned both as hostess and as belle ; and so much was she sought after, so eagerly did men compete for the honour and delight of a word, a look, a smile, from her, that it was only with difficulty that Laurence Gray had led her apart for a moment from the brilliant crowd into the stillness and shadow of the farthest conservatory.

She stood there now among the waving palms and massed azaleas, one of the loveliest women, surely, that ever graced this earth. Her eyes were of that rare velvety violet that is as if a heart's-ease had been set under the blue-veined, satin lid, and the soft A CONVICT 99. 2 masses of her hair glistened like gold. The skin of her bare arms and shoulders gleamed pure, white, and smooth as marble against the shadowy background of dark leaves. Her figure was tall, and its beautiful curves were clearly shown by the exquisite dress of faintest prim rose silk, that fell about her in a mystery of subtle folds, and trailed in shining billows behind her on the mosaic floor. She was, as yet, scarcely nineteen, but she had the ripened dignity and grace of a young princess. The man who stood before her, waiting for her reply, looked worthy of any woman's love.

His face, glowing now with the ardour of a passion and tender ness inexpressible in words, was at once refined and strong. His handsome brown eyes looked out fear lessly from under straight dark brows, and the noble forehead above was crowned with thick curling hair of a rich dark brown. There needed but one glance at those frank eyes to know that his nature was brave and loyal, and his heart a prize of whose winning even the best of women might be proud. " Geraldine," he pleaded, as she delayed to speak, " won't you answer me ? " She looked up then, half tenderly, half shyly. " I will give you your answer to-morrow," she said. " Come in the evening. I am too hurried now, I cannot think in all this movement, and music, and glare, and this question that you have asked me is a question that I dare not answer lightly."

She paused a moment. Then she said, in a changed tone: "Take me back to my guests, Laurence. We have been here long enough. Father will be wondering where I am." Laurence! She had never called him by this name before. Thrilled with a stronger hope, he did as she wished, and led her back to the noisy, laughing THE LOVERS. 3 crowd. Already, before they had lest the conserva tory, the harmonious beat of the music reached them, and the rhythm of the dancers' feet. He thought her hand trembled on his arm. But she said nothing. Everyone looked at them as they re-entered the ball-room ; the eyes seemed to be searching their faces, trying to read what had occurred between them. Mr. Lucas himself, a short, stout, kind-looking old gentleman, with white hair, hurried up to them, accompanied by a dark-bearded young man, who bore the name of Ralph Vickers.

This Mr. Vickers addressed Geraldine Lucas familiarly, as one who knew her well, and it was noticeable that she, who was all sweetness and gentleness, turned from him coldly and with few words, while the smile that had hovered like fleeting sunshine about her lovely mouth died suddenly away.

Chapter II. Laurence Gray Tells His Story

It was eight o'clock on the following evening when Laurence Gray rang at the entrance of Fenton Court, and was shown into the familiar gold and white drawing-room. Geraldine Lucas was there alone, waiting for him. She was in her dinner-dress, and its dark purple richness set off her wonderful beauty better even than the tender primrose silk had done on the night before. Her face was changed a little, too ; it was softer, sweeter, more radiant. As soon as he met her eyes Laurence knew what answer she would give. " Dearest ! oh, my dearest ! " he exclaimed, in his sudden, uncontrollable gladness and thankfulness. She let him clasp her in his arms and hold her close against his breast. "I knew last night that I loved you," she whispered, " only I could not tell you then. It was too sudden." " My darling," he said, in a low, broken voice, " oh, what have I ever done that such happiness should be given to me ; that this world, so dark for others, should be made for me a paradise of sunshine ?

" " You have been brave, and true, and noble, Laurence," she answered, drawing back her head so that he might see the proud light of admiration shining in her eyes. " You have been better than other men." " No, no," he interrupted, stopping with a kiss the torrent of tender praise that flowed from her shyly smiling lips. Then, with his arm about her waist, he led her to a seat, and sat down by her side. " Geraldine," he began, bending forward so that he might watch the expression of her face, " before you pledge yourself to me, before I can accept, with a free conscience, the treasure of your love, I must tell you something about myself. With your beauty and wealth you might marry a man very high up in the social scale. Your position is far better than mine, you know. If you marry me the world will say you have stooped too low, have thrown yourself away.

Perhaps, even, your father will think that I have entrapped your love — that I am mercenary and presumptuous — " " Don't be unjust to papa, Laurence," she broke in, smiling. " I have already told him that I love you, and he is glad." " He is glad ! " exclaimed Laurence Gray joyfully. " How good he is ! As kind a father as he is a friend. He thinks more of your happiness, Geraldine, than of all the wealth and state in the world ; it must be so if he allows you even to think of marrying me. But, dearest," he bent his serious face down close to hers, " did he tell you all that he has done for me — how, ever since I was a child, he has helped and protected me ? " The beautiful girl looked up with wondering eyes. " No," she said slowly, " he has told me nothing of that. But I should like to hear it."

" You shall hear it, darling," returned Laurence resolutely, " you shall hear it now from me. You only know me as I am here in London, as manager in your father's office. But there have been days in Lancashire when I have nearly starved. It would not be right for me to marry you — you so dainty, so delicate — without telling you of those days." " Where is the shame in having been poor ? " the CONVICT 99. 6 girl asked, smiling. " My father was poor, too, when he began life." "I know, dearest; I never thought there was shame in it. I only want to tell you everything, so that you may know what man it is that you are taking for your husband. You have never seen any but beautiful places open to the sunlight, and made pleasant by wealth. You have no idea of a town where the walls and streets are grimy, and hundreds of high, black chimneys pour forth dense clouds of black smoke that veil the sky.

It was in a place like that that I was born — in Blackburn. My father was a weaver, but I don't remember him very well. He died when I was three years old, leaving my poor mother to support herself and me. She was the handsomest woman I'd ever seen until I first saw you. Our Lancashire towns can boast vastly pretty women, in spite of their grime and dirt." " Have you a picture of your mother, Laurence ? " Geraldine asked eagerly. "Yes, dearest. If you would like to see it, I'll bring it with me the next time I come. But your father could tell you how pretty my mother was before her bitter struggles made her face too sad." " Oh," cried Geraldine, " did he see her? " "Yes, he had business in Blackburn, and used often to come there, and somehow — I think it was through the master of our factory — he got to know my mother, and used to help her.

She was in delicate health, and could not work much — not always enough to keep us both, and when she was ill, it was your father who kept us from starving. That was when I was too young to work. Afterwards, when I was old enough, I went into the factory. I was a weaver for a long time, and then I rose to be a cut-looker. I worked very hard. My darling, although I didn't know it, I was working for you, to bring myself into a position in which I should meet you, and love you, and win you." " Did you ever think of love then, Laurence? " "Yes, dearest. Men and women think of love in all places, and in all classes of life. I thought of it as a great blessing that might one day be mine, and I tried to make myself worthy of it. In the evenings I used to go to the Free Library and read and think : and your father, when he came to Blackburn, brought me books.

At last, when I was twenty-three, he got me promoted to be an overseer at the factory. But soon after that my mother died. I was alone in the world." Geraldine laid her delicate hand on his shoulder. " Poor Laurence ! " she said. And the tender sympathy in her tone made the colour deepen in his handsome face. " Then your father came to me," he went on, holding her captive hand against his breast. " He offered to give me a place in his own office in London. There was nothing to keep me in Blackburn any longer, my mother being dead, and I accepted his offer gladly. You know how it has been with me since — how I have tried by hard and faithful work to show him some gratitude for his life-long kindness to me. Dearest, but for his help my mother must have died years before, and I, a poor little orphan boy, would have been left dependent upon public charity.

Whereas now I have strength and a position, and — oh, greatest of all riches ! — you. My darling, when I think of how beautiful and how sweet you are, all that I am, all that I have, seems as no thing to offer you. What can I do to prove to you the greatness of my love? If you will bend down to me, and try to teach me how to go even a little way towards becoming your equal, I will worship, be faithful to you always — " "As I will be faithful to you," she broke in solemnly. CONVICT 99. 8 He started at the seriousness of her tone. "Geraldine, what has changed you so suddenly? You look quite sad." " It was an odd feeling that came over me," she answered, her eyes growing troubled. "A presentiment that we should need all our faithfulness — that our love for each other would be put to a terrible and bitter test.

It can't be so, can it, Laurence? No thing can come between us now ? " " No — no." He spoke gaily, pressing her hand closer against his breast. "You must not let such fancies come into your head. Why — look, dear !— is not that your father stealing away on tiptoe — there in the conservatory?" He was right, as her laugh instantly told him. The kindly old man had come to take a peep at the lovers from the curtained archway that led from the drawing-room into the conservatory. At the sound of his daughter's recalling voice, he turned and came towards the half-embarrassed pair. "So I'm to have you for a son-in-law, sir? Well, well, it's not quite unexpected. You've been a good fellow, and I've long thought of making you a junior partner, and we'll get along famously. I've known you from your childhood, and, after all, I'd sooner trust her with you than with any other man I've met."

" I will deserve your confidence, Mr Lucas," replied Laurence, in a voice that shook a little with happiness and emotion. " Before God, I will ! " The old merchant looked at him with a glistening eye — looked at them both, and saw how well fitted they were for each other ; he so handsome and frank of face, she so fair and sweet. " Will you play us something, Geraldine ? " he asked presently. She went to the piano and began to play, as he wished. But instead of the joy-song, the outburst of melodic gladness that both father and lover had ex pected, there came from under her graceful fingers a slow mournful refrain, sounds as of subdued wailing that presently rose and swelled into a wild passionate lament, a flood of heart-breaking sorrow. Suddenly, abruptly, the music ceased, and the player burst into tears.

" Geraldine ! " exclaimed her father anxiously, " what is this ? " She looked up, dashed aside her tears, and tried to smile. " I am very foolish, I know," she said apologeti cally, " but it seemed as if my happiness were too great to last. I tried to play something joyful, but the notes wouldn't come, while those horrible strains of sadness seemed to form themselves under my hands." " Dearest, you must not imagine such things," said Laurence, with tender reproach. " I could almost say that it is unkind of you so to spoil our first happy hours." " Poor girl ! " smiled Mr. Lucas playfully. " I suspect the excitement of this evening has disturbed her nerves. Too much gladness is sometimes as bad as grief in its effects upon the mind." Laurence glanced at the clock. " It is time for me to go," he said regretfully.

" But I must not regret even that. I know I am the happiest man anywhere on earth to-night." " What it is to be young and in love ! " laughed Mr. Lucas. "By the way," said Laurence, "as I was coming here this evening, I met Ralph Vickers, and he asked to be remembered to you, Geraldine." " Did he ? " cried the old merchant, with an approv ing nod. " A very worthy young fellow is Vickers — a very worthy young fellow indeed." " I think so, too," rejoined Laurence. " We get CONVICT 99. 10 along well together in the office. He's a smart man of business." "I dislike and mistrust him," interposed Geraldine " Do you, dear? " said her father, surprised. " Odd what prejudices women have ! Wrhy, I'm sure you oughtn't to dislike him, for he likes you exceedingly well — rather too well for his peace, I think, now that young Gray here has got the better of him with you."

Laurence joined in the old gentleman's laugh. "I'm sorry for him," he said earnestly. "It must be a very bitter thing to have loved and lost you, Geraldine." He took her hand to bid her good-night. At this moment Mr. Lucas considerately rose and strolled out of the room. " Good-night, my darling — my beloved — my queen ! There is no word tender enough to express what my heart would call you, Geraldine." " Good-night," she whispered in return. " This has been the sweetest evening of my life. And yet, somehow, I am afraid — I am afraid — " " Afraid of what, sweetheart ? " " That there is evil coming to you. I am sure of it. I feel it in the air about me," she said; as she spoke she glanced half-shudderingly round the large, brightly-lighted room. "Darling, it is nothing." He wondered at her mood.

" You are over-excited. You will sleep all those fancies away, and to-morrow we will laugh at them together." " It may be so," she returned doubtfully. " I pray that it may be so." " It will be so," he said, with a reassuring smile. " And now, good-night." " Good-night." He bent down and laid his lips on hers, clasping her closely the while. For one long, delicious, sacred moment they stood thus. Then he gently freed her, and, with many glances back, left the room. Mr. Lucas was waiting for him in the hall. " Good-night, Laurence," he said, in his kindly hearty voice. They shook hands, and Laurence Gray then went out. The night was clear and starlit, and the air on those northern heights of London pure and strong. The night wind blew on his flushed face, cooling it ; but no outward cold could lessen the wild fever of rapture that was burning in his heart.

Oh, to possess at last the love of the woman he had for so long adored, how sweet it was ! His very veins were afire with the joy of it. He looked up at the stars — those golden scintillat ing stars, that shone as gloriously over London on this night as ever they could have shone over lovely southern Verona on the night when Romeo waited in the fragrant gardens to speak with Juliet. If, indeed, as men of science said, those myriad shining worlds were peopled, could there be in them all one creature as happy, as blessed as he (Laurence Gray) was now on this lower earth ? He felt there could not be. He looked before him, and out of the clear deep air Geraldine's face seemed to start — her face, tender, lustrous, radiant with a beauty whose possession a king well might envy. And then he saw in fancy the long sweet years of the future, in which they would be together.

How he would work for her ! Everything he did, everything he thought, should be consecrated to her service. For her sake his labour in the world should be the best that a man could do. And so he would rise higher and higher, until at last his name should be known and honoured of all men, and she would own that, even in a worldly sense, she had done well to trust to the promise that was in him. Oh, beautiful face, shining out against the night CONVICT 99. 12 shadows, leading him on ! What could it not spur a man to do— a face like that in his house, at his side, for ever ? Suddenly the vision faded, and in its stead a dark form, all too real, all too prosaic, advanced from the gloom towards him. A lantern light flashed in his face. "I beg your pardon, sir; are you Mr. Laurence Gray?" Laurence, astonished, stared at the man who accosted him.

The light from a neighbouring lamp post showed him to be an utter stranger. " Laurence Gray is my name," he answered quietly. "What is it you want with me? I don't know you." " I daresay not, sir. But you'll find out all about it if you'll just step down to the police station with us. Jim," he added, turning to a man who stood behind in the shadow, "it's all right. Come on." Laurence Gray drew back half-angrily. " Why should I go with you ? There is some mis take here," he cried. " No mistake at all, sir," retorted the stranger dryly. " We've been looking for you all the evening. And we're two of us, so it's no good your making any resistance." " I shall not attempt to resist you, if it comes to that," rejoined Laurence quietly. " But I think that before I go with you I have a right to understand what authority you have for interfering with me."

" You'll learn that soon enough," said the man who had accosted him. " Come on, and no more parley ing. We can't stand here talking all night." Laurence reflected. "Very well," he decided presently. "I'll come. Fortunately it is not far from here to the station, and the sooner I go with you, the sooner this mystery will be cleared up." They were then at the top of the Hampstead High Street, and ten o'clock was striking from the church clock close by. Laurence Gray hastened his pace. The two men walked on either side of him. Within a few minutes the police-station was reached. " Now," said Laurence, when they had entered it, " what am I wanted for ? " One of the men answered grimly: " You are arrested." " Arrested ! For what ? On what charge ? " The answer came as grimly as before : " Wilful murder."

" Murder ! " Laurence echoed the word in startled horror. " Yes," said the second man, who had not before spoken. " Here's the warrant for your arrest. You are arrested on suspicion of having wilfully mur dered Charles Kesteven,"

Chapter III. The Gospel Oak Tragedy

WITH a firm step Laurence Gray entered the prisoner's dock in the sombre hall of the Central Criminal Court, indicted for the wilful murder of Charles Kesteven. He pleaded " Not Guilty." The few weeks that had passed since the night of his arrest in Hampstead — that all too happy night of his betrothal to the beautiful Miss Lucas — had been to him as years of painful anguish. The reading of the warrant — to him so incompre hensible — at the very moment when his joy was at its fullest ; his first weary night in custody ; his removal in the dismal prison-van from the police station to the court in which was held the inquest on the body of the man he was presumed to have killed, and his transference thence to the gloomy old House of Detention, all appeared as a horrible dream. Next had come the tedium and the more public disgrace of the magisterial inquiry.

He had felt confident that the evidence given at this in quiry would substantiate his innocence, and bring about his discharge. After the blow of the verdict of wilful murder here returned against him, he had been consigned to a thick-walled cell in Newgate, where the long dreary days and nights, filled with harrowing doubts and anxieties concerning the result of his trial, had been as terrible to endure as any bodily torture. But the crucial hour had come at last. He stood before the tribunal of his fellow-countrymen, and conscious of his absolute guiltlessness, and even innocence, of the horrible crime with which he was charged, he felt certain that the truth must now inevitably be made known, and that very soon he would again lift his head proudly among men — scatheless, stainless, and free.

He looked straight before him at the judge, keenly, unwaveringly. His lordship was a broad shouldered, comfortable man, whose judicial wig covered a full round head, and whose ruddy coun tenance appeared to be that of a kindly, well-to-do country gentleman. Laurence Gray read leniency in the blue eyes that surveyed him from over a pair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses, and his hope rose higher. His estimate of the twelve jurymen, who sat in a double row at his left, was less rapidly made. The foreman was a black-browed furrier of Cheapside, whose severe aspect was not encour aging. From the jury he looked into the body of the court at the numerous gentlemen in wigs, busily conning their briefs, or sitting with heads together whispering. In the reporters' bench, directly op posite the jury-box, sat a pinch-nosed, grey-haired veteran, calmly inserting his sheets of carbon paper between the leaves of his blank "flimsies."

The prisoner was himself the centre to which all other eyes were directed. From the little gallery above his head a wave of whisper reached him, as those of the public who had succeeded in gaining admission leaned over the rail, that they might see even the curly brown hair and the candid white forehead of the man whose life, perhaps, depended upon the issue of that day's trial. Wearing the same neat frock-coat and dark check trousers that he had worn on the night when he had CONVICT 99. paid his last visit to the home of the woman he loved, he still looked the honest and handsome Lancashire lad of whom his beloved had said : " You have been brave and true, Laurence. You have been better than other men." But his cheeks were thinner and paler now than they had been in that hour of his supreme joy, and his clear brown eyes had lost some of their lustre.

But they regained it for a moment when he saw his betrothed enter the court, conducted by his own solicitor. Eagerly he scanned her face as she turned it towards him. It was pale, but its pallor hardly lessened her uncommon loveliness, making her sorrowful eyes look larger and more luminous even than their wont. The gaze of the whole court was upon her, as, wrapped in a long fur-trimmed grey velvet cloak, she passed to her seat behind the jury box. Laurence felt his heart beat quicker as he watched her. She had not changed towards him. Even across the distance those tender eyes of hers told him she trusted him, and bade him have no fear. The leading counsel for the prosecution — a tall man, whose black beard contrasted strangely with his white wig — rose to open the case for the Crown. A deep silence, broken only by the speaker's sonor ous voice, and the scratching of many pens, fell upon the court.