CHAPTER I—OPENING DOORS.

Otago Witness, Issue 2436, 21 November 1900, Page 58

CHAPTER I— OPENING DOORS.

TEPHEN LORNE was sitting on the plain deal chair placed at the head of his little iron bed in the hospital cells at her Majesty's prison at Parkhurst, Isle of Wight. His elbow rested on the counterpane of the comfortably furnished bed, with its spring mattre&s and pillows and sheets and warm-looking counterpane. His head rested on his hand, his body was half reclined against the bed, and his fingers were working slowly and yet with a sort of convulsive motion amidst the thin, iron.grey hair which had been so dark and" thick and glossy when he had heard the prison gates clash behind him six years ago — or was it six centuries V To-morrow those gates would open again. To-morrow he would have his last' interview with the governor, who would utter a few commonplaces such as the commonest kind of criminal was accustomed to hear — a few trite maxims on the folly of falling into crime, and the wisdom, to say nothing of the difficulty, of leading an honest life henceforth. Then he would begin his last journey as j a convict, the journey from Parkhurst to I Pentonville or Holloway, where he would j have to go through the last^ degrading formality of registration and inspection by the police in view of future identification, in case, as happens with most other prisoners, he should lapse into crime again — after which the prison doors would open and shut for the last time and he would be free. Free ! He had almost forgotten what the •word really meant, although, of course, he vividly remembered those other years when he was master of his own actions, when he could do as he liked, within certain limits, and when inside the four corners of the law. But all that seemed like a sorb of dream to him now. For six years he had not been a man. He had been simply a volitionless thing labelled with a number, a tiny portion of a huge", merciless, unfeeling organi&m which ground on, hour and day and week and year, ir exactly the same course — and he had had to grind with it or b& broken by it. Every moment of his waking life had "been ordered by the will of someone else. Every minute he had been either under lock and key or the vigilant eyes of those whose word was law to him — men who, intellectually speaking, were only fit to be his servants in the world of freedom, but whom here, in the House of Bondage, he had to address as " Sir every time- he spoke to one of them — and he had come to say it thankfully too, glad ot the opportunity of exercising th& human faculty o: speech without being punished for it. Well, to-morrow the gates would open. For three months past his hair and beard had been 'allowed to grow. Everybody had treated him with more kindness and consideration, and this was the la&t of the four days of solitary confinement which the regulations prescribe, possibly for mediation on past misdeeds and for the making of good resolutions for the future ; possibly also to prevent illicit messages being carried .out of prison for the hatching of further plots against the property and persons of her Majesty's subjects. Yes, to-morrow morning that cell door in front of him .would open, never to close on him again. He would walk along the matting, laid down on the floor of the hospital between the cells so that the invalids should not be disturbed ; the double "gates would open one after the other j the. blue uniform that he had worn as a prisoner of the first class would be left behind in his cell. For the first time in six years he would be clad in clothes like those which he had seen men walking in along the Cowes roadHe would go out into the pleasant, sunlit gardens with their fresh, green, closeclipped lawns and fiower-beds gay with blossoms. He would be followed by envious glances from other human figures, clad grotesquely as he had been. The warder in charge of him would give the word to the other warder at the gale, the keys would jingle, the bolt of the lock would click back, and the gate would open. How often had he^seen all this before, harnessed like a horse or a dog to a cart ; with waiders marching on each side with loaded rifles. But now instead of a cart there would be a cab. The cab would take him to Newport and the train would take him to Ry<le. Then, crossing the Solent, he would get his first glimpse of the world of freedom again. How well he remembered that other passage from Portsmouth to Hyde when lie was being transferred from Portland to Parkhurst — standing down on the lower deck with a couple ot' dozen other convicts in the drab, arrowmarked livery of shame, with the passengers looking from the upper deck across the limitless gulf which separates the bond from the free with eyes, some pitying, some scorniul, and ail curious. The sun had been bright then, and the waters blue, as he had seen them many a time before ; but there was a mist over tue sun and a haze over the waters which perhaps no other eyes but his saw. Now the sun would be clear and the waters would be bright again ; bright witli the promise, perhaps 01 justice, and certainly, as he thought, of revenge. Ho thinking, the ceH walls seemed to melt and fall ap.>rt. He saw hiiriselt rich j and powerful, armed with powers by which he could s'neep ei.emy after enemy Irom his path, and, best of all, send those who had robbed and ruined him lo take their account at the bar of that inflexible jiistice which does not listen to the subtle arguments of hired pleaders. His bead slipped from his hand and. fell upon the pillow — and when the warder unlocked the door fox

the last time to see that all was right for the night he found him a'ieady asleep, dreaming once more the long dream which he had dreamt sleeping and waking for six | years past. | The officer, like most of his class; was a kind-hearted man, who was only strict or harsh when the regulations compelled him to be so. " It's his last night, poor chap, and he's been a very decent sort," he said to self. " He'll wake up when he's had his , nap and go to bed. He may be dreaming about something now — the home that he's | going back to perhaps — so I'd better not j -wake him. He's a good &ort, whatever he's i done, and I. don't think we shall see him | here again as we do most of the others." | And with that the officer stepped out of the coll and locked the door as quietly as he could, leaving Stephen Lome to his , dreams. ! About half an hour later he woke with a start and a thrill of fear. His.. uneasy position had led as usual to evil dreams." 1 He had been going through his trial at the Old Bailey again ; only this time it was not for treason felony, it was for murder. Several persons had been killed in the explosion for which he had furnished the means, and the words, " there to be hanged by the neck till you are dead," were sounding in his ears like the tolling of a passing bell when he woke. Yes, it was a bell. It was the prison bell, ringing with an emphasis -which betokened something unusual. Not the orderly clang which roused them every morning at 6 o'clock, but something which meant more than mere routine. It could only mean one of two thing? — fire or an escape ; and fire was almost impossible. But meanwhile a new fear had seized him. Lights were" out, and <he was not yet in bed. Had the warder been in and seen him still dressed?- If he had it might mean a report in the morning. The grip of the merciless machine had not opened yet. He was still as utterly in its power as he had been the first day that he had entered the living tomb of penal servitude, and a report might mean a week, 'even a month, more ; and the day after to-morrow his wife and daug-htei would be expecting him, ready, as he hoped and believed, to help him to begin the work of revenge. He hardly heeded the continual clanging of the prison bell as he hurried off his clothes, so terror-stricken .was he by the very idea of being forced to prolong this hideous, soulless life even for a day or two. He folded his day-clothes away as neatly as ever, but with trembling fingers, • crept into bed and lay, as people usually do after a short, broken sleep, stark awake, listening to the angry, persistent clanging of the prison bell. It seemed to go on for hours. He thrust his fingers into his ears and tried to shut out the menachig sounds, but at last they seemed to grow duller and duller and then ceased altogether. He had no more dreams that night, and when he Avoke it was to hear, the -click of the bolt in his cell door, and to see the stalwart form of the warder standing outlined in the light which streamed in. He had a bundle over one arm and some clothes hanging over the other. " These ore for you, Lome,"' he said in a kindly tone, " and I hope you'll never wear the others again. Get up and dress. ■ Interview with the governor after breakfast, and then you're off. I'm to see you as far as Pentonville." j " Thank you, sir," he said, springing out of bed, and holding out his hands for the thrice^welcome exchange for the livery of crime, an exchange which told him definitely that the hour of release was at last really about to strike. " I'm glad you are coming with me. You've been very good to me while I've been here. May I ask what the bell was ringing for last night? It wasn't a fire, was it? " • " No," replied the warder gruffly. "It was an escape ; one of those comrades of yours — the one that got 20 years." " Ah, Marcus Crane ! " exclaimed Lome, with a swift thrill of fear. "Of course, he didn't get away? " "He has for the present," growled the warder,. " but he'll be back before long. There never was one of them got off the island yet. Now, you'd better get dressed," and with that he backed out of the cell and pulled the door to with that horribly familiar click which Stephen Lome had heard so manythousand times, but which after to-day or at any rate to-morrow, he would never hear again.