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They had never so much as heard his name before, for Richard had been cautious never to mention Balfour in his letters, since they were, of course, perused by the authorities, and friendships were not encouraged at Lingmoor; but, on the other hand, it was evident that these ladies had an interest for the visitor.
"This" she advanced toward him, keeping her eyes steadily fixed upon his own "this was found among your things after you left my house!" It was a ticket-of-leave the one that had been given to Balfour on his discharge from Lingmoor. It seemed impossible that Richard's colorless face could have become still whiter, but it did so. "Yes, that is mine," said he.
"I am instructed to inclose a locket with miniature, which was found upon your son on his arrival here. The rest of his property will be forwarded by rail." This locket contained the little picture of Harry painted by Richard himself, and which, though he had contrived to secrete while at Cross Key, had been taken from him at Lingmoor. Harry's breast was agitated by conflicting emotions.
To cower under the leafless branches of Bergen Wood, while the November night-blasts made them grind and clang, would have seemed paradise compared with that snug lodging; nay, the grave itself, with its dim dread Hereafter, has been preferred before it. Life at Lingmoor was existence by machinery monotony that sometimes maddened as well as slew. To read of it is to understand nothing of this.
On the night that Richard escaped from Lingmoor, it was Balfour, of course, who assisted him, and who was awaiting him in person at the foot of the prison wall. The old man's arms had received him as he slipped down the rope; and the object at which the sentry had fired had been two men, though in the misty night they had seemed but one.
Don't look this way, and sink your voice if either of these dogs comes to leeward." "If you get away from this place, and I don't " "Now, none of that, lad," interrupted the old man, earnestly. "That's the worst thing you can get into your head at Lingmoor, if you ever want to leave it. Never say die, nor even think it. I am three times your age, and yet I mean to get out again and enjoy myself.
He had also written his will with a point of the said brace-buckles upon the brick of his cell. "Were there any escapes from Lingmoor by any other means?" inquired Richard. "Escapes?" Mr. Rolfe's countenance assumed a more solemn vacuity than ever. It was an indiscretion of his young friend to shape that word with his lips while a warder sat in the same carriage.
On Sunday, except two hours of exercise and chapel, Richard was his own master, to brood as much as he would. There were also no less than three holidays in the year, on which it has been whispered with horror that the convicts have pudding. There was, however, no such excess at Lingmoor. As for society, there was the chaplain.
The next instant they were both in custody, and marched back to the prison, charged with the high crime and misdemeanor of conversation, which at Lingmoor was called "colloguing," "conspiracy," and other terrible terms.
Yes; you must kill 'a dog' or two before you say good-by to Lingmoor, unless you can put them to sleep." "How could that help him?" Richard felt no interest whatever in these narratives as stories; but since they referred to escapes they entrancing. "Well, it was curious.
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