Chapter XXVI: The Mysterious Plan of Escape

Condemned to death—how near
The fatal, terrible to-morrow!
’Twould end her agony and sorrow,
Yet, oh, how fraught with fear!
She counted—mind’s fore-torturing hell—
Hours, minutes, till the solemn bell
Should sound upon her ear.—_Michell._

Meanwhile Annella had entered the cell of the young prisoner, whom she found extended upon the outside of the bed, looking more like a corpse laid out than a living creature. Mrs. Barton was sitting near her.

Annella nodded to the warder, and then, with that hushed air of awe with which one approaches death or deep affliction, she drew near Eudora, whispering:

“How do you find yourself this morning?”

Eudora, whose eyes were covered with her left hand, put out her right hand, and silently pressed that of Annella, but made no other answer.

Annella stooped and kissed her chilled lips, and after a few minutes, repeated her question:

“How do you find yourself this morning, dear Eudora?”

“Drifting, drifting down the dark river towards the horrible fall! I shall soon go over and be dashed to pieces! That will be well. There will be a catching of the breath, a shiver of fear, a shock of death, and all will be over!” murmured the sufferer.

Again Annella stooped and pressed her lips to those of Eudora, and then turning to the warder, she asked:

“How has she seemed since I was here yesterday?”

“Oh, Miss, it a’most breaks my heart to be with her and see her—it do. She bore up well enough even after Mr. Montrose told her as the petition had been refused, and she knew there was no hope at all. She heard all that as quiet as possible, and took leave of him quite calm when he went away. You see, I think she tried hard to bear up for his sake, to spare his feelings; for the moment he was gone, she turned and sank down in a deep swoon, poor dear! and that’s the second time she’s gone into one o’ them since she has been here. And it was a longer fit than the first, and we only brought her to this morning about sunrise, and she’s been lying as you see her, ever since. And what makes matters worse, the chaplain, as might ha’ spoke some words o’ comfort to her, is ill in bed,” replied Mrs. Barton.

Annella would have given much for the privilege of whispering into the ear of the despairing sufferer a few words of hope, but even her sanguine nature felt that the communication would now be premature, as it might also be cruel and dangerous. And as she might not speak of hope, Annella felt that all other words were worse than mockery in a woe like this.

She sat down beside the bed and took the prisoner’s poor little wasted hand, and held it in silence, sometimes pressing it tenderly, or kissing it, while she waited in breathless suspense for the appearance of Malcolm Montrose.

More than two hours passed in this silent, dreary misery, and still Malcolm did not appear. And now every passing minute seemed to tread with a leaden foot upon the sinking heart of Annella, that every moment grew heavier, more fearful, and more impatient.

“Oh, I cannot stand this! I shall lose my breath presently!” she inwardly exclaimed, feeling the protracted suspense grow almost suffocating.

At length footsteps were heard approaching, the cell door was unlocked, and Malcolm Montrose was ushered in by the turnkey, who, as usual, retired.

Annella bounded forward to meet him, and raised her eyes, dilated and blazing with burning anxiety, to his face.

She read there the death-warrant of Eudora Leaton.

“He has failed!” she said to herself, as she sank, shuddering into the nearest seat, where she sat during the remainder of the interview, like one spell-bound in some awful trance, with her elbow resting on the little table, her chin leaning on the palm of her hand, her face white as death, her lips compressed, her eyes contracted, glittering, and fixed apparently upon some far-distant, visionary, fearful scene in which, perhaps, she saw herself the principal actor.

Malcolm, meanwhile, passed her quickly, and sank upon his knees beside the bed, and took Eudora’s pale hand, inquiring, in a low tone of reverential tenderness:

“How is my dearest Eudora, now?”

“Almost resigned, Malcolm, if I could only suffer alone!—thinking less of my own fate than of your sorrow when all shall be over with me,” replied Eudora, opening her eyes, and fixing them upon his face with an expression of tender pity.

He could not bear the look of those sweet eyes. He bowed his head upon her hands, and it required all his strength to keep the swelling agony of his bosom from bursting forth in sobs.

“Oh, Heaven!” he exclaimed, “what anguish it is to feel myself utterly powerless to save you, or to help you, even by the sacrifice of my life and soul, that I would gladly offer for your sake!”

She drew her hand from under his face, and passing it around his bowed head, gently smoothed his hair, while she said:

“All that human power could do to save me you have done. Let that thought support you.”

“But to think that I can do no more!”

“Yes, dearest, truest friend, you can do much yet to console me.”

“Ah, Eudora, how—how can I comfort or help you?”

“Why, for the few remaining days of my life, come to me as often, and stay as long as they will let you.”

“That be sure I will; but, oh I how little good it can do you!”

“It will do me all the good I am capable of appreciating now. Oh, Malcolm! you do not know how much I regret those precious days vainly lost in London when they might have been spent with me.”

“And so do I, dearest; but yet I should have been even more wretched than I am now, had not those days been employed as they were, in using every possible means to gain a respite for you.”

“I know; so, therefore, it is of no use to regret them.”

“And now, dearest, what else is there that I can do for you?”

“Promise me, dear Malcolm, that when the last day of my life comes, you will be with me in my hour of death. It will not seem so horrible if I can have you near me, and take my farewell look from your kind eyes.”

“I promise, Eudora,” answered Malcolm, feeling sure that it would drive him mad to witness her execution, yet resolving to stand by her to the very last moment of her life, if permitted to do so.

He remained with her as long as possible, and then in rising to take leave, promised to be with her again early the next day.

“Malcolm,” she said, holding his hand as he lingered by her side, “you will think it a frivolous request from one in my awful circumstances, I know, but I must make it for all that—”

“What is it, dear? Be sure that no wish of yours could be thought frivolous by any one,” said Malcolm, earnestly.

“It is only to go to Allworth Abbey this afternoon, and bring away my poor little Fidelle, and bring her with you when you come to-morrow.”

“Certainly, dearest Eudora; I will attend to it at once.”

“I would like to see the faithful little creature once more before I die. Indeed, I wanted to have her here, only I did not like to bring any harmless creature to such a gloomy place as this; and, besides, I do not think they would have let me have her.”

“They will let you have almost anything you desire now, dearest.”

“Except life and liberty, or anything that might help me to either—yes, I know that! You will not think it levity in me, even in my awful position, to ask to have my little dog, will you?”

“No, my own dearest one, no; I only see in your desire the all-embracing goodness of your heart, that, like the love of Divine Providence, encircles all creatures, from the highest to the humblest,” replied Malcolm, bowing his head over her hand, and pressing it to his lips, as he turned to leave the cell.

He looked back for Annella, who remained spell-bound as before.

“Come, Miss, time is up, and you must leave with Mr. Montrose,” said the warder, touching the girl’s shoulder to call her attention.

Annella started from her trance, and arose to obey; but before leaving the cell she turned to Eudora, and, in an eager, earnest, breathless whisper, exclaimed:

“Do not resign yourself to death! Keep up your heart—look forward to life and liberty! for I swear before Heaven, and by all my hopes of salvation, that you shall be saved!”

To Eudora these words seemed nothing more nor less than those of madness—the expression of a compassionate soul wrought by sympathy to frenzy. But before she had considered how to reply to them, the speaker had vanished.

Annella joined Malcolm in the lobby; but it was not until they were fairly outside the prison walls that she spoke, but without the tone of reproach Malcolm expected to hear in her voice. She merely said:

“So you have failed again?”

“Oh, Heaven! yes. I did all that any man possibly could do to win him over! I appealed to his affection for her father, to his compassion for herself, to his regard for his own interests, to every motive that could actuate the soul of man—but in vain! He was not to be tempted by money, or moved by mercy. He made it a matter of conscience not to ‘betray his trust,’ as he called it. And when an honest man—a man like Anderson—takes a stand upon conscience, you might just as well try to uproot Helvellyn as to move him from his position!”

“Pitiless monster!” exclaimed Annella.

“No, he was not that either; he wept like a woman in refusing me; but his last words to me were, ‘Mr. Montrose, I dare not stain my soul with dishonor; and you, as a man of honor, should not dare to urge me to do so.’ What could I reply to that? Nothing. And I came away with a broken heart. Miss Wilder, have you no reproaches for me?”

“No. It is said that things beyond remedy should be beyond regret, and when they are not so, they should be remedied instead of regretted,” said Annella, in so strange a tone that her companion turned to look upon her, and started to see her lips drawn tightly away from her clenched teeth, and a deadly, stiletto-gleam darting from the contracted pupils of her half closed eyes.

“What do you mean, Annella?” he inquired in vague alarm.

“Nothing that I intend to confide to you or to any one else whose friendship is so cold a thing that they will not peril _soul_ as well as body for a friend in extremity!” said Annella, severely.

“That is a very bitter reproach, which I do not deserve, Miss Wilder,” said Malcolm, sorrowfully.

“Is it? Good people like you and Mr. Anderson, who would not strain a point of conscience to save a friend, may think it bitter; I think it just; but then I’m not good, you know. I’m only devoted—mind, body, and estate, for life, death, and eternity—to my friends, or rather for my friend, for I feel only for one.”

“I believe you, Miss Wilder; you have not even the slightest pity for the anguish I suffer on Eudora’s account,” said Malcolm, bitterly.

“No, not one bit! for you have the use of your long limbs to go whither you please over this sunny earth. I pity only, that poor, sweet girl, who cannot get out; who is waiting only for death to release her from prison. But she shall not die! by all my hopes of heaven, she shall not!” hissed Annella through her clenched teeth, while the same fearful expression sat upon her tightly-drawn lips, and gleamed from her contracted eyes.

“She would not die, if you, kind girl, by any effort or any sacrifice, could save her; or if I could do so; but oh, Annella, everything has been tried in vain! human power can do no more!” groaned Malcolm.

“Can it not? We shall see! What is the meaning of that noble proverb, ‘Where there is a will there is a way?’ It came from the wisdom of ages, and I believe it. My own will is so strong that I shall find a way to save her, though it should lead through floods and flames!”

“Dear, dear girl, one must honor your single-hearted devotion to this object, while at the same time—”

“You believe me mad,” interrupted Annella. “Well, believe me so; it will do no harm. Mr. Montrose, I am at this day a poor, weak, wild girl, as I may be in another a corpse, a prisoner, or an exile! but whatever becomes of me, Eudora shall be free!”

“Annella, there is something in your words and manner that fills me with alarm for your sake. I fear you will attempt some desperate act, which instead of serving Eudora, will only ruin yourself. What is the plan you are thinking of?” inquired the young man, in earnest kindness.

“I will not tell you, Mr. Montrose; henceforth I shall act alone in this matter; then, if my deed be a misdemeanor, my person only will suffer for it; and if it be a mortal sin, my soul only will perish for it,” replied Annella, with gloomy firmness.

“Well, Miss Wilder,” said Montrose, solemnly, “whatever your own thoughts may be, this one request I must earnestly make of you—that you say not another word upon the subject of rescue to Miss Leaton. It would be now the greatest possible cruelty to disturb her thoughts with vain hopes of escape, and prevent her from settling her mind into that religious resignation and composure that her awful condition renders so desirable. Therefore I must entreat your silence to her, at least upon this anxious subject.”

“You have my promise. I will not say another word to her upon the subject of her escape,” answered Annella, with great emphasis.

They walked on in silence awhile, until they reached a point where their road forked—the right hand path leading across to the Anchorage, and the left-hand one going into the town. Annella stopped short, saying:

“Our ways divide here, and I must hurry home, lest my longer absence should raise inquiry; but before I go, Mr. Montrose, I have something to say to you, and if you do really love Eudora Leaton, and long for her release, you will attend to what I say.”

“Dear Annella, I am all attention,” answered Malcolm, in anxious perplexity.

She looked up and down the roads, and all around them, to see if any person were in hearing, and finding all the way clear, she suddenly clutched the hand of Malcolm, held it with a spasmodic grip, gazed in his face with eager intensity, drew closer to him, and whispered, with breathless vehemence:

“Do just as you would have done if our plan had succeeded.”

“Eh?”

“Make all the arrangements for flight just as you would have made them if the governor could have been bribed to connive at Eudora’s escape.”

“I do not comprehend you. What do you mean?”

“Dullard! I mean this—go secretly and find out some small vessel; hire it, and keep it hovering near this part of the coast ready for service at a moment’s warning; have a little row-boat always at the beach ready to take you to the vessel at an instant’s notice; keep your fast horse tied in the shade of the thicket, under the dead wall, at the back of the gaol; and you yourself walk every night up and down before the front gate of the prison, just as you walked the first night after Eudora’s conviction, and so wait for what fortune shall send you; and then, when you find Eudora standing before you, do not stop to ask how she came there, but catch her up in your arms, run with her to the thicket, place her before you on the horse, gallop to the beach, put her in the boat, row for life to the vessel, and set sail for some foreign port!” said Annella, speaking with breathless excitement.

“Dear, devoted girl, are you really mad?” exclaimed Malcolm, in dismay.

“No,” cried Annella, with startling energy, “only exalted above doubt, fear, and selfishness. Promise that you will do as I request.”

“Well, to make these arrangements will do no harm, though they may do no good. Yes, Annella, I promise,” answered Malcolm, earnestly.

“And you will set about the business immediately?”

“I will.”

“Then Eudora shall be saved!”