 Chapter 15 of It is Never Too Late to Men. Almost the last cell he visited was Thomas Robinson's. The man had been fretting and worrying himself to know why he did not come before. As soon as the door was opened he took an eager step to meet him, then stopped irresolutely and blushed and beamed with pleasure mixed with a certain confusion. He looked volumes but waited out of respect for his reverence to address him. Mr. Eden held out his hand to him with a frank manner and a kind smile. At this Robinson tried to speak but could only stammer. Everything seemed to rise in his throat and block up the exit of words. Come, said Mr. Eden, no more of that. Be composed, and I will sit down, for I am tired. Robinson brought him his stool and Mr. Eden sat down. They conversed, and after some kind inquiries Mr. Eden came to the grand perpet of this visit, which, to the surprise and annoyance of Robinson, was to reprobate severely the curses and blasphemies he had uttered as they were dragging him to the dark cell. And so threatening and severe was Mr. Eden that at last poor Robinson winded out. Sir, you will make me wish I was in the dark cell again, for then you took my part, now you are against me. There is a time for everything under the sun. When you were in the dark cell, consolation and indulgence were the best things for your soul, and I gave them you as well as I could. You are not in the dark cell now, and out of the same love for you, I tell you that if God took you this night the curses you uttered yesterday would destroy you to all eternity. I hope not, your reverence. Away with delusive hopes they wore against the soul. I tell you those curses that came from a tongue set on fire of hell have placed you under the ban of heaven. Are you not this Hawes' brother, his brother every way, two unforgiven sinners? Yes, sir, said Robinson, truckling. Of course I know I'm a great sinner, a desperate sinner, not worthy to be in your reverence's company. But I hope he added, with sudden sincerity and spirit, you don't think I am such an out-and-out scoundrel as that Hawes. Mr. Hawes would tell me you are the scoundrel, and he is Ellis' servant of morality in order. But these comparisons are out of place. I am now deferring not to the world's judgment, but to a higher, in whose eye Mr. Hawes and you stand on a level, two unforgiven sinners. If not forgiven you will both perish everlastingly, and to be forgiven you must forgive. God is very forgiving. He forgives the best of us a thousand vile offenses. But he never forgives unconditionally. His terms are our repentance and our forgiveness of those who offend us one millionth part as deeply as we offend him. Therefore, in praying against Hawes, you have prayed against yourself. Give me your sleep. No, take it yourself. Right. Robinson took his pencil with alacrity. He wrote a beautiful hand and wanted to show off this accomplishment to his reverence. Give us our sins as we forgive them that trespass against us. It is down, sir. Now particularize. Particularize, your reverence. Right under us, are, and we, me, my, and I, respectively. All right, sir. Now under them, write Mr. Hawes. Buh. Yes, your reverence, Mr. Hawes. And under the last four words, write his cruelty to me. This was wormwood to Mr. Robinson. His cruelty to me. Now read your work out. Forgive me my sins as I forgive Mr. Hawes his cruelty to me. Now ponder over those words. Keep them before your eye here and try at least to bow your stubborn heart to them. Fall on them and be broken, or they will fall on you and grind you to powder. He concluded in a terrible tone. Then seeing Robinson abashed, more from a notion he was in a rage with him than from any deeper sentiment, he bade him farewell kindly as ever. I know, said he, I have given you a hard task. We can all gavel the Lord's prayer, but how few have ever prayed it. But at least try, my poor soul, and I will set you an example. I will pray for my brother Robinson and my brother Hawes, and I shall pray for them all the more warmly that at present one is a blaspheming thief and the other a pitiless blockhead. The next day being Sunday, Mr. Eden preached two sermons that many will remember all their lives. The first was against theft and all the shades of dishonesty. I give a few of his topics, the dry bones he covered with flesh and blood and beauty. The tendency of theft was to destroy all moral and social good. For where it wants to prevail so far as to make property insecure, industry would lose heart. Enterprise and frugality be crushed, and at last the honest turned thieves in self-defense. Nearly every act of theft had a baneful influence on the person around. Here he quoted by name instances of industrious frugal persons, whose savings, having been stolen, they had lost the courage and good habits of years standing, and had ended ill. Then he gave them a cinema. These great crimes are like great trunk railways. They create many smaller ones. Some flow into them, some out of them. Drunkenness generally precedes an act of theft. Drunkenness always follows it. Lies flow from it in streams, and perjury rushes to its defense. It breeds two other vices that punish it, but never cure it, prodigality and general loose living. The thief is never the richer by this vile act, which impoverishes his victim. For the money obtained by this crime is wasted in others. The folly of theft, its ill economy. What high qualities are laid out to their greatest disadvantage by the thief? Acuteness, watchfulness, sagacity, determination, tact. These virtues, coupled with integrity, enrich thousands every year. How many thieves do they enrich? How many thieves are a-shilling a year the better for the hundreds of pounds that come dishonestly into their hands? In jail, Mr. LaPel's, there's now a family that have stolen first and last, property worth 18,000 pounds. The entire possessions of this family are now two pair of shoes. The clothes they stand in belong to the government. Their own had to be burned. So foul were they. 18,000 pounds had they stolen to be beggars. And this is the rule, not the exception, as you all know. Why is this your fate and your end? Because a mightier power than man's has determined that leaving shall not thrive. The curse of God is upon theft. Then came life-like pictures of the honest man and the thief, the one with an eye that faced you with a conscious dignity and often a cheerful countenance, the other with a shrinking eye, a conscious meanness and never with a smile from the heart, sorted, sly and unhappy, for theft is misery. No wonder this crime degrades a man when it degrades the very animals. Look at a dog who has stolen. Before this, when he met his master or any human friend, he used to run up to greet them with wagging tail and sparkling eye. Now see him. At sight of any man he crawls meanly away, with cowering figure and eye scant, the living image of the filthy sin he has committed. He feels he has no longer a right to greet a man, for he is a thief. And here the preacher gathered images, facts and satire, and hurled a crushing hailstorm of scorn upon the sordid sin. Then he attacked the present situation, his invariable custom. Not all the inmates of a jail were equally guilty on their arrival there. A large proportion of felons were orphans or illegitimate children. There is still more unfortunate were the children of criminals who had taught them crime from their cradles. Great excuses were to be made for the general mass of criminals. Excuses that the ignorant shallow world could not be expected to make, but the balance of the sanctuary is not like the world's clumsy balance. It weighs all men to a hair. Excuses will be made for many of you in heaven up to a certain point. And what is that point? The day of your entrance into prison. But now plead no more the ill example of parents and friends. For here you are cut off from it. Plead no more that you cannot read, for here you have been taught to read. Plead no more the dreadful power of vicious habits that began when you are unguarded, for those habits have now been cut away from you by force and better habits substituted. Plead no more ignorance of God's word, for here day by day it is poured into your ears. Your situation has other less obvious advantages. Here you are a little exposed to the soul's most dangerous enemy, self-deception. The world destroys thousands of sinners by flattery. Half the great sinners upon earth are what is called respectable. The world tells them they are good, they believe it, and so die as they have lived and are lost eternally. The world, intending to be more unkind to you, is far more kind. It tells you the truth, that you are desperate sinners. Here then, where everything opens your eyes, oh, fight not against yourselves, repent or fearful will be the fresh guilt heaped upon your heads. Even these words of mine must do you good or do you harm. I tremble when I tell you so. It is an awful thing to think. The preacher paused, you know that I love you, that I would give my life to save one soul of all those I see before me now. Have pity on me and on yourselves. Let me not be so unfortunate as to add your guilt, I whose heart yearns to do you good. Oh, my poor brothers and sisters, do not pity yourselves so much less than I pity you. Do not love yourselves so much less than I love you. Why will ye die? Repent and be forgiven. Some of you profess attachment to me, some talk of gratitude. There are some of my poor brothers and sisters in this jail that say to me, oh, I wish I could do something for you, sir. Perhaps you have noticed that I have never answered these professions. Well, I will answer them now once for all. While the preacher paused, there was a movement observed among the prisoners. Would you make me very, very sad? Remain impenitent. Would you make me happy? Repent and turn to God. Not tomorrow or next day, but on your knees in your own cells the moment you go hence. You don't know, you can't dream what happiness you will confer on me if you do this. Then, suddenly, opening his arms with wonderful grace and warmth and energy, he cried, my poor wandering sheep, come, come to the heavenly fold. Let me gather you as a hand gathers her chickens under her wing. You are my anxiety, my terror, be my joy, my consolation here, and hereafter the brightest jewels in my heavenly crown. In this stream he soared higher than my poor earthclogged wings can follow him. He had lashed sin severely, so he had earned a right to show his love for the sinner. Gracious words of entreaty encouragement gushed from him in a crystal stream with looks and tones of more than mortal charity. Men might well doubt, was this a man or was it Christianity speaking? Christianity, born in a stable, was she there, illuminating a jail? For now, for a moment or two, the sacred orator was more than mortal. So high above earth was his theme, so great his swelling words. He rose, he dilated to heroic size, he flamed sacred fire. His face shone like an angel's, and no silver trumpet or deep-toned organ could compare with his thundering, peeling, melting voice that poured the soul of love and charity in heaven upon friend and foe. Then it seemed as though a sudden blaze of music and light broke into that dark abode. Each sinful form stretched wildly forth to meet them. Each ear hung aching on them. Each glistening eye lived on them, and every heart panted and quivered as this great Christian swept his immortal heart among thieves and homicides and oppressors in that sad house of God. What did you think of the sermon, Frye? Frye, like the first part, sir, where he walked into Theven, don't like his telenomy loves him, tisn't to be supposed a gentleman could really love such rubbish as that. Sounds like paliver. Pause. Now I liked it all, though it spoiled my nap. Frye, well, sir, it is very good of you to like it, for I don't think you like the man. Pause. The man is all very well in his place. He ought to be bottled up in one of the dark cells all week and then brought up an uncorked and chapel of Sundays. It is as good as a romance in a sermon of his. Frye, that it is, sir, comes next after the Newgate calendar, don't it now? But there's one thing about all his sermons I can't get over. Pause. And what is that? Frye. Preaching at him so. Pause. Why ye fool, that is the beauty of him. How is he to hit him if he doesn't hit at him? Frye. Mr. Jones usant. Pause. Oh, Jones. He shot his arrow up in the air and let it fall wherever the wind chose to blow it. And then, if it came down on the wrong man's head, he'd say, never mind my boy, accident, pure accident. No, give me a chap that hits out straight from the shoulder. Can't you see this is worth 100 Joneses beating about the bush and droning us all asleep? Frye. So he is, sir, so he is. But then I think he didn't ought to be quite so personal. Fancy his requesting such a lot as ours to repent their sins and go to heaven just to oblige him. There's an inducement. I call that himper dig from the pulpit. What do you call it? Growl howl snappishly. Himper dig, replied frow statley. In the afternoon, Mr. Eden preached against cruelty. No crime is so thoroughly without excuses this. Other crimes have sometimes an adequate temptation. This never. The path to other crimes is downhill. To cruelty is uphill. In the very act, nature, who is on the side of some crimes cries out within us against this monstrous sin. The blood of our victim flowing from our blows, its groans and sighs and pallor, stay the uplifted arm and appeal to the furious heart. Wonderful they should ever appeal in vain. Cruelty is not one of our pleasant vices and the opposite virtues are a garden of delights. Mercy is twice blessed. It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. God has written his abhorrence of this monstrous sin in letters of fire and blood on every page of history. Here he ransacked history and gave them some 30 remarkable instances of human cruelty and of its being punished in kind so strangely and with such an exactness of retribution that the finger of God seemed visible writing on the world, God hates cruelty. At the end of his examples, he instanced two that happened under his own eye, a favorite custom of this preacher. A man was tried in London for cruelty to animals. He was acquitted by a legal flaw though the evidence was clear against him. This man returned homeward triumphant. The train in which he sat was drawn up by the side of a station. An express train passed on the upline at full speed. At the moment of passing, the flywheel of the engine broke. A large fragment was driven into the air and fell upon the stationary train. It burst through one of the carriages and killed a man upon the spot. That man was seated between two other men, neither of whom received the slightest injury. The man so singled out was the cool man who had evaded man's justice but could not escape his hand who created beasts as well as man and who abhors all men who are cool to any creature he has formed. A man and his wife conspired to rob and murder their friend and constant guest. Determined to escape detection, they coldly prepared for the deed of blood. Long before the murder, they dug a hole in the passage leading from their pallor to their dining room and this hole was to receive the corpse of the man with whom meantime these heartless wretches eat bread day after day and drank his health at their own board. Several times the unfortunate man walked with his host and hostess over this concealed hole, his destined tomb, before the time came to sacrifice him. At last they murdered him and buried him in the grave they had prepared for him. The deed done, despite of all their precaution, fear fell on them in hatred and they fled from the house where the corpse was and from each other, one to the north, one to the south. Fled they ever so fast or so far apart, justice followed to the north, justice followed to the south and dragged the miscreants together again and flung them into one prison. They were convicted and condemned to death. There came a fatal mourning to this guilty pair when the sun rose upon them and found them full of health and strength yet in one short hour they must be dead. They were taken into the prison chapel according to custom and from the chapel they must pass at once to the gallows. Now it so happened that the direct path from the chapel to the gallows was blocked up by some repairs that were going on in the prison so the condemned were obliged to make a long circuit. It was one of the largest of our old prisons, a huge irregular building, constructed with no simplicity of design and one set of officers do not always know at once what was going on in a distant department. Hence it befell that in a certain passage of the jail the condemned and their attendants came suddenly upon a new-made grave. Stones had been taken up and a grave dug in this passage. The workmen had but just completed it. The grave filled up the passage which was narrow but little used. The men who accompanied the murderers paused, abashed and chilled. The murderers paused and looked at one another. No words can describe that look. Planks were put down and they walked over their own grave to their death. Is there a skeptic who tells me this was chance? Then I tell him he is a credulous fool to believe that chance can imitate omniscience, omnipotence and holiness so inhibitably. In this astounding fact of exact retribution I see nothing that resembles chance. I see the arm of God and the finger of God. His arm dragged the murderers to the gallows. His finger thrust the heartless cruel miscreants across the grave that was yawning for their doomed bodies. Trembled ye cruel, God hates ye. Men speak of a murder and sometimes by way of distinction they say a cruel murder. See now what a crime cruelty must be since it can aggravate murder, the crime before which all other sins dwindle into nothing. Of minor cruelties that do not attack life itself, the most horrible he thought was cruelty to women. Here the man must trample on every manly feeling, on the instinct and the traditions of sex, on the opinion of mankind, on the generosity that goes with superior strength and courage. A man who is cruel to a woman is called a brute, but if the brutes could speak they would appeal against this phrase as unjust to them. What animal but man did you ever see maltreat a female of a species? The brutes are not such beasts as bad cool men are. Or if you ever saw such a monstrosity, the animal that did it was some notorious coward, such as the deer, which I believe is now and then guilty in a trifling degree of this dirty sin, being a ranked coward. But whoever saw a lion or a dog or any courageous animal let himself down to the level of a cowardly man so far as this. Here sprang from his lips a true and tender picture of a wife, the narrow and virtuous circle of her joys, her many sufferings great and little. No need of being cruel to her, she must suffer so much without that. The claims to pity and uncommon consideration every woman builds up during a few years of marriage, her inestimable value in the house, how true to the harsh she is unless her husband corrupts her or drives her to despair, how often she is good in spite of his example, how rarely she is evil but by his example. God made her weaker that man might have the honest satisfaction and superior joy of protecting and supporting her. To torture her with the strength so entrusted him for her good is to rebel against heaven's design. It is to be a monster, a coward and a fool. There was one more kind of cruelty it was his duty to touch upon. Harsh treatment of those unhappy persons to whom it has not pleased God to give a full measure of reason. This is a sacred calamity to which the intelligent and the good in all ages and places have been tender and pitiful. In some countries these unfortunes are venerated and being little able to guard themselves are held to be under heaven's special protection. This is a beautiful belief and honors our fallen nature. Yet in Christian England I grieve and blush to say cruelty often falls on their unprotected heads. Who has not seen the village boys follow and mock these afflicted persons? Youth is cruel because the great parent of cruelty is general ignorance and inexperience of the class of suffering we inflict. Men who have come to their full reason have not this excuse. What? Persecute those whom God hath smitten but whom he still loves and will take vengeance on all whom I'll treat them. On such and on all of you who are cruel, shame and contempt will fall sooner or later even in this world. And at that solemn day when the cruel and their victim shall meet the judge of the quick and the dead, he on whose mercy hangs your eternal fate will say to you, have he shown mercy? Oh, these words will crush your souls. Madmen, know ye not that the most righteous man on earth can only be saved by God's mercy, not by his justice? Would you forfeit all hope, all chance, all possibility of that mercy by merciless cruelty to your brothers and sisters of the race of Adam? Does the day of judgment seem to you uncertain or so distant that you dare be cruel here during the few brief days you have to prepare yourself for eternity? If you are under this delusion here, I tear it from your souls. That day is at hand, at the door. Then in a moment, by the magic of eloquence, the great day of retribution was no longer faint and distant, but upon them in all its terrors. And they who in the morning had leaned forward eagerly to catch the message of mercy, now shrank and cowered from the thunder that peeled over their heads and the lightning of awful words that showed them by flashes the earth quaking and casting forth her dead, the sea trembling and casting forth her dead, the terrible trumpet peeling from pole to pole. The books opened, the dread judge seated and hell yawning for the guilty. Well, sir, how did you like this sermon, said Frye respectfully. He won't preach many more such, imperative mood him. I'll teach him to preach at people from the pulpit. Well, that is what I say, sir, but you said you like to hear him preach at folk. So I do, replied Hawes angrily, but not at me, you fool. This afternoon, two of the prisoners rang their bells and on the water, coming to them, begged in much agitation to see the chaplain. Mr. Eden was always at the prisoners' orders and came to both of these. One was a man about 30, the other a mere boy. The same evening, Mr. Hawes sat down, his features working wrathfully and dispatched a note to Mr. Lowcock, one of the visiting justices and a particular admirer of his. Meeting Mr. Eden in the prison, he did not return that gentleman's salute. This was his way of implying war, events were thickening, a storm was brewing. The same evening, there was a tap at Mr. Eden's private door and Evans entered the room. The man's manner was peculiar. He wore outside a dogged look as if fighting against some inward feeling. He entered looking down most perniciously at the floor. Well, Evans? Evans approached, his eyes still glued upon the floor. He shoved a printed paper roughly into Mr. Eden's hand and said in a tone of sulky reproach, saw ye fret because you could not get it and couldn't bear to see ye fret. Thank you, Evans, thank you. You're very welcome, sir, said Evans with momentary deference and kindness. Then turning suddenly at the door in great wrath with a tendency to whimper, he roared out, you'll get me turned out of my place, that's what you'll do. And went off apparently in tremendous dudgeon. The printed paper contained the rules of the prison, a copy of which Mr. Eden had asked from Hawes and been refused. Evans had watched his opportunity and got them from another warder in return for two glasses of grog outside the jail. Mr. Eden fell to and studied the paper carefully till bedtime. As he read it, his eye more than once flashed with satisfaction in spite of a great despondency that had now for a day or two been creeping upon him. This depression dated from Biped Carter's crucifixion or soon after. He struggled gallantly against it. It appeared in none of his public acts, but when alone his heart seemed to have turned to lead. A cold, languid hopelessness most far into his high, sanguine nature weighed him to the earth and the dead sea rolled over his spirit. Ernest Mr. Hawes hated good Mr. Eden. One comfort by means of his influence with the justices he could get him turned out of the prison. Meantime, what could he do to spite him? Begin by punishing a prisoner that is the only thing that stings him. With these good intentions, Ernest Hawes turned out and looked about for a prisoner to punish. Unfortunately for poor Joseph's, the governor's eye fell upon him as he came out of the chapel. The next minute he was put on a stiff crank, which led him due course to the pillory. When he had been in about an hour and a half, Hawes winked to Frye and said to him under his breath, let the parson know. Frye strolled into the prison. He met Mr. Eden at a cell door. Joseph's refractory again, sir, he said with mock civility. Mr. Eden looked him in the face but said nothing. He went to his room, took a paper off the table and came into the yard. Joseph's was beginning to sham and a bucket had just been thrown over him amid the coarse laughter of Messers Frye, Hodges and Hawes. Evans, who happened to be in attendance, stood aloof with his eyes fixed on the ground. As soon as he saw Mr. Eden coming, Hawes gave a vindictive chuckle. Another bucket cried he and taking it himself, he contrived to sprinkle Mr. Eden as well as to sluice his immediate victim. Mr. Eden took no notice of this impertinence but to the surprise of all there, he strode between the victim and his tormentors and said sternly, do you know that you are committing an illegal assault upon his prisoner? No, I don't, said Hawes with a cold sneer. Then I shall show you. Here are the printed rules of the prison. You have no authority over a prisoner but what these rules give you. Now show me where they permit you to pillory a prisoner. They don't forbid it, that is enough. No, it is not. They don't forbid you to hang him or to sear him with a hot iron but they tell you in this paragraph what punishments you may inflict and that excludes all punishments of your own invention. You may neither hang him nor burn him nor famishing nor crucify him. All these acts are equally illegal. So take warning all of you here. You are all servants of the law. Don't let me catch you assaulting a prisoner contrary to the law or you shall be smart to the uttermost. Evans, I command you in the name of the law release that prisoner. Evans thus appealed to fidgeted and turned color and his hands worked by his side. Your reverence cried he in an imploring tone and stayed where he was. On this Mr. Eden made no more ado but darted to Joseph's side and began to unfasten him with nimble fingers. Pause stood dumbfounded for a minute or two then recovering himself wore it out. Officers, do your duty. Frye and Hodges advanced upon Mr. Eden but before they could get at him the huge body of Evans interposed itself. The man was pale but doggedly resolved. Mustn't lay a finger on his reverence said he almost in a whisper but between his clenched teeth and with the look of a bulldog over a bone. What, do you rebel against me Evans? No sir answered Evans softening his tone but nobody must affront his reverence. Look here sir. His reverence knows a great deal more than I do and he says this is against the law. He showed you the act and you couldn't answer him except by violence which ain't no answer at all. Now I am the servant of the law and I know better than go against the law. There I want no more of your chat. Loose the prisoner. Seems to me he is loosed said Frye. Go to the five pound crank Joseph's and let me see how much you can do in half an hour. That I will your reverence and off he ran. Now sir said Hodges sternly. I put up with this now because it must end next week. I have written to the visiting justices and they will settle whether you were to be the master in the jail or I. Neither Mr. Haas. The law shall be your master and mine. Very good but there's a hole in your coat for as clever as you are every jail has its customs as well as its rules which customs if illegal or abuses and shall be swept out of it. I'll promise you one thing the justices shall sweep you out of the jail. How can you promise that? Because they only see with my eyes and here with my ears. They would do a great deal more for me than kick out a refractory chaplain. Mr. Eden's eye flashed. He took out his notebook. Present Frye Hodges Evans. Mr. Haas asserts that the visiting justices see only with his eyes and here with his ears. Haas laughed insolently but a little uneasily. In spite of your statement that the magistrates are unworthy of their office I venture to hope for the credit of the county there will not be founded three magistrates to countenance your illegal cruelties but should there be I what then? I shall go higher and appeal to the home secretary. Ha ha he won't take any notice of you then I shall appeal to the sovereign and if she takes you for a madman I shall appeal to the people. Oh Mr. Haas I give you my honor this great question whether or not the law can penetrate a prison shall be sifted to the bottom. Pending my appeals to the home office, the sovereign and the people I have placed a thousand pounds in my solicitor's hands. A thousand pounds have you sir. What for if I am not too curious? For this sir each prisoner whom you have pilloried and starved and assaulted contrary to the law shall bring in action of assault against you the moment he leaves prison. He shall have counsel and the turn keys and myself shall be subpoenas as evidence. When once we get you into court you will find that a prison is the stronghold of law not a den of lawlessness. Then he turns sharp on the warders. I warn you against all your illegal practices. Mr. Haas's orders shall neither excuse nor protect you. You owe your first obedience to the crown and the law. Here are your powers and your duties. You can all read. Here it is ruled that a prisoner shall receive four visits a day from the governor, chaplain and two turn keys. These four visits are to keep the man from breaking down under the separate and silent system. You have all been breaking this rule but you shall not. I shall report you Evans, you Fry and you Hodges and you Haas to the authorities. If after this warning you leave a single prisoner unvisited and unspoken with. Have you done preaching, Parson? Not quite, Jailor. He tapped the printed paper. Here is a distinct order that sick prisoners shall be taken out of their cells into the infirmary, a vast room where they have a much better chance of recovering than in those stinking cells ventilated scientifically, i.e. not ventilated at all. Now there are seven prisoners dangerously ill at this moment, yet you smother these unfortunates in their solitary cells instead of giving them the infirmary and nurses according to the law. Let these seven persons be in the infirmary before post-time this evening or tomorrow I report you to the secretary of state. With these words he went off leaving them all looking at one another. He is coming back again said Fry. He did come back again with heightened color and flashing eyes. Here is the prisoner's diet, cried he, tapping the printed rules. It is settled to an ounce by law and I see no authority given to the Jailor to tamper with it under any circumstances. Yet I find you perpetually robbing prisoners of their food. Don't let me catch either Jailor or turn keys at this again. Jailors and turn keys have no more right to steal a prisoner's food than to rob the till of the Bank of England. He receives it to find in bulk and quality from the law's own hand and the wretch who will rob him of an ounce of it is a felon without a felon's excuse. And as a felon I will proceed against him by the dog whip of the criminal law, by the gibbet of the public press and by every weapon that wit and honesty have ever found to scourge cruelty and thefts and civilization dawned upon the earth. He was gone and left them all turned to statues. A righteous man's wrath is far more terrible than the short-lived passion of the unprincipled. It is rarer and springs from a deeper source than temper. Even Hawes staggered under this mortal defiance so fierce and unexpected. For a moment he regretted having pushed matters so far. This scene let daylight in upon shallow earnest Hawes and showed him a certain shallow error he had fallen into. Because insolence had no earthly effect on the great man's temper, he had concluded that nothing could make him boil over. A shade of fear was now added to rage, hatred, and a desire for vengeance. Frye, come to my house. Evans had a wife and children and these hostages to fortune weighed down his manly spirit. He came to Hawes as he was going out and said submissively, though not graciously, very sorry, sir, to think I should disobey you. But when his reverence said it was against the law, that is enough, my man replied, Hawes quietly. He has bewitched you, it seems. When he has kicked out, you will be my servant again, I dare say. The words in the tone were not ill-humored. It is not Hawes' cue to quarrel with a turnkey. Evans looked suddenly up, for his mind was relieved by Mr. Hawes' moderation. He looked up and saw a cold, stern eye dwelling on him with a meaning that had nothing to do with the words spoken. Small natures read one another. Evans saw his fate inscribed in Hawes' eye. End of Chapter 15. Chapter 16 of It is Never Too Late to Mend. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mary Lou in New York City. It is Never Too Late to Mend by Charles Reed. Chapter 16. Hawes and Fry sat in council, a copy of the prison rules before them. And the more they looked at the prison rules after Mr. Eden's interpretation, the less they liked them. They were severe and simple, stringent against the prisoners on certain points, stringent in their favor on others. The sick list must go to the infirmary, I believe, said Hawes thoughtfully. He'd beat us there. The justices will support me on every other point because they must contradict themselves else. I'll have that fellow out of the jail fry before a month is out. And meantime, what can I do to be revenged on him? Punish him all the more, suggested the simple-minded fry. No, that won't do. Better keep a little quiet now till he is out of jail. Fine it would look if he was really to bribe these vermin to bring actions against me and subpoena himself and that sneaking dog, Evans. Well, sir, but if you turn him out, he will do it all the more. You fool, can't you see the difference? If he comes into court, a servant of the crown, every lie he tells will go for gospel. But if he comes a disgraced servant, cashiered a refractory conduct, why then we could tell the jury it is all his spite at being turned off. You know a thing or two, sir. Mind the doleful fry. Hawes passed him a fresh tumbler of grog and pondered deeply and anxiously, but suddenly an idea flashed on him that extinguished his other meditations. Give me the rules. He ran his eye rapidly over them. Why, no, of course not. What a fool I was not to see that half an hour ago. What is it, sir? Finish your grog first, and then I have the job for you. He sat down and wrote two lines on a slip of paper. Have you done? Yes, sir. Then take this order. Yes, sir. And the printed rules in your hand. Here, take them. Yes, sir. And take Hodges and Evans with you and tell me every word that sneaking dog Evans says and everything he does. Yes, sir. But what are we all three to do? Execute this order. An evolution of wrath was as rare with Mr. Eden as an eruption of Vesuvius. His deep-rooted indignation against cruelty remained. It was a part of his nature, but his ruffled feathers smoothed themselves the moment little haws and company were out of his eye. He even said to himself, what is the matter with me? One moment so despondent, the next irascible, I hardly know myself. I must take a little of my antidote. So saying, he proceeded to visit some of those cells into which he had introduced rational labor anti-theft, he called it. Here he found cheerful looks as well as busy hands. Here industry was relished with a gusto inconceivable to those who have never stagnated body and soul in enforced solitude and silence. Here, for the time at least, were honest converts to anti-theft. He had seen them dull and stupid, brutalized, drifting like inanimate bodies on the heavy waters of the Dead Sea. He had drawn them ashore and put life into them. He had taught their glazed eyes to sparkle with the stimulus of rational and interesting work and those same eyes rewarded him by beaming on him with pleasure and gratitude whenever he came. This soothed and cheered his weary spirit vexed by the wickedness and stupidity that surrounded him and obstructed the good work. His female artisans gave him a clean pleasure. For here he benefited an entire sex as well as a prisoner. He had long been saying that women are as capable as men of a multitude of handicrafts from which they are excluded by man's jealousy and grandma's imbecility. And this wise man hoped to raise a few English women to the industrial level of French women and English men. Not by writing and prattling that the sex are at present men's equals in intelligence and energy, which is a stupid fault so it calculated to keep them forever our inferiors by persuading them they need to climb no higher than they have climbed. His line was very different. At present you are infinitely man's inferior in various energy, said he. Those who are dependent are inferiors throughout the world. If they were not so at first, starting such a relation would make them so in two months. Try and be more than mere dependence on men was his axiom. Don't talk that you are his equal and then open that eloquent mouth to be fed by his hand. Do something. It is by doing 50 useful and therefore lucrative things to your one that man becomes your creditor and a creditor will think himself a superior to the world's end. Out of these 50 useful things you might have done, 20 as well as he can do them and 10 much better. And those 30 added to the domestic duties in which you do so much more than your share would go far to balance the account and equalize the sexes. Thus he would sometimes talk to the more intelligent of his hussies. But he did a great deal more than talk. He supplied from within himself that deficiency of invented power and enterprise which is woman's weak point. And he tilled those wide powers of masterly execution which they possess unknown to Kant and precedent. As this clear head had foreseen, his women came out artisans. The eye that could thread a needle proved accurate enough for anything. Their supple taper fingers soon learned to pick up type and place it quite as quick as a man. All one size from knuckle to nail. The same with watchmaking and other trades reputed masculine. They beat the man's heads off at learning many kinds of finger work new to both. Their singular patients stood them in good stead here. They undermined difficulties that the males tried to jump over. A great treat was in store. One of the fruit trees he had planted in the huge fallow of the jail was to be shaken this afternoon. Two or three well-disposed prisoners had been set to review their past lives candidly and to relate them simply with reflections. Of these, Mr. Eden cut out everyone which had been put into pleasing, retaining such as were sober and seemed genuine to his link's eye. Mr. Eden knew that some men and women listened more to their fellows than their superiors, to the experiences and sentiments of those who are in their own situation than to those who stand higher but farther away. He had found out that a bad man's life, honestly told, is a beacon. So he set roguery teaching by examples. There were three male narratives in the press and two female. For a day or two, the printer's all women had been setting up the type and now sheets were to be struck off. There was no little expectation among the prisoners. They were curious to see if their compiers in print and to learn their stories and see how they would tell them. And as for the writers, their bodies were immured but their minds fluttered about on tiptoe around the great engine of publicity as the author of the Novum Organon fluttered when he first went into print and as the future authorists of lives and careers of infants in arms as she will flutter. The press stood in the female governor's room. One she-artisan, duly taught before, inked the type and put in a blank sheet. Number two pulled the bar of the press toward her and at the moment of contact threw herself back with sudden vigor and gave the telling snip. The types were again covered with ink, the sheet reversed and number three, one of the writers, drew out a printed sheet, two copies of two stories complete. Oh, oh, oh, cried number three, flushing with surprise and admiration. How beautiful, see your reverence, here is mine, life of an unfortunate girl. Yes, I see it and pray what you mean by an unfortunate girl. Oh, sir, you know. Unfortunate means one whom we are bound to respect as well as pity. Has that been your character? No, was the mournful reply. Then why print a falsehood? Falsehoods lurk in adjectives as well as the substantives. Misapplied terms are strongholds of self-deception. Nobody says I am unfortunate, therefore I abhor myself and repent in dust and ashes. Such words are fortifications to keep self-knowledge and its brother repentance away from the soul. Oh, sir, what am I to call myself? She hid her face in her hands. My dear, you told me a week ago you were a penitent. So I am, indeed I am, sir. May I change it to a penitent girl? You would make me very happy if you could do it with truth. Then I can, indeed I can. And she took out an unfortunate and put in a penitent. There, said she, glowing with exultation and satisfaction, life of a penitent girl. Oh, it was a pretty sight. Their little hearts were all in it. Their little spirits rose visibly as the work went on, such beaming eyes, such glowing cheeks and innocent looks of sparkling triumph to their friend and father who smiled back like Jupiter and quizzings of each other to stimulate to greater speed. In went the sheets, on went the press, out came the tails, up grew the pile amid quips and cranks and rays of silver-toned laughter, social labors, natural music. They were all so innocent and so happy when the door was unceremoniously opened and inburst Frye and Hodges followed by Evans, crawling with his eyes on the ground. The work women looked astonished but did not interrupt their work. Frye came up to Mr. Eden and gave him a slip of paper on which Hawes had written an order that all work not expressly authorized by the law should be expelled from the jail on the instant. Mr. Eden perused the order and the color rose to the roots of his hair. By way of comment, Frye put the prison rules under his eye. Anything about printing or weaving or watchmaking in these rules, sir, Mr. Eden was silent. Perhaps you will cast your eye over him and see, sir, continued Frye slyly. Shouldn't like to offend the law again. Mr. Eden took the paper but not to read it. He knew it by heart. It was to hide his anguish from the enemy. Hawes had felled him with his own weapon. He put down the paper and showed his face which was now stern and composed. What we are doing is against the letter of the law as your pillory and your starvation of prisoners are against both letter and spirit. Mr. Hawes shall find no excuse for his illegal practices in any act of mine. He then turned to the artisans. Girls, you must leave off. Leave off, sir, cried number three faintly. Yes, no words. Obey the prison rules, they do not allow it. Come, my birds, shouted Hodges roughly to the women. Stand clear, we want this gear. What do you want of it, Mr. Hodges? Only to put it outside the prison gate, sir. That is the order. The printing press, representative of knowledge, enemy of darkness, stupidity, cruelty, organ of civilization was ignominiously thrust to the door. This feat performed, they went to attack anti-theft. Will you come along with us, sir, to see it is all legal, sneered fry? I will come to see that insolence is not added to cruelty. At the door of Mary Baker's cell, Mr. Eden hung back as Hodges and Fry passed in. At last, after a struggle, he entered the cell. The turn keys had gathered up the girls' work and tools and were coming out with them while the artisans stood desolate in the middle of the cell. Oh, sir, cried she to Mr. Eden. I'm glad you are here. These blaggards have broke into my cell and they are robbing it. Hush, Mary, what they are doing is the law and we were acting against the law. Were we, sir? Yes, it is a bad law and will be changed, but till it is changed, we must obey it. You are only one victim among many. Be patient and pray for help to bear it. Yes, your reverence, are they all to be robbed of their tools? All, poor things, said Mary Baker. Evans, it is beyond my strength. I am but a man. I can bear even this, but I can't bear to see it done. I can't bear it. I can't bear it. And his reverence turned his back on the moral butchers and crept away to his own room. There he sank into a chair and laid his brow upon the table with his hands stretched out before him and his whole frame trembling most piteously. Eden and Hawes are not level antagonists. One takes things to heart, the other to temper. In this bitter hour, it seemed to him impossible that he could ever counteract the pernicious Hawes. But there is one chance left for these poor souls. I shall try it and it will fail. Well, let it fail. Where there are a thousand more chances against me than there are, I must battle to the last. Let me mature my plan. And he fell into a sad but stern reverie. He lay thus crushed, though not defeated, more than two hours in silence. Had Hawes seen him, he would have exalted at his appearance. A man from the jail to speak to you, sir. A heavy wrap at the parlor door and Evans came in, sheepishly smoothing down his hair. Mr. Eden turned his head as he lay on the sofa and motioned him to a seat. I couldn't sleep till I had spoken to you. I obeyed your orders, sir. We have undone your work. How did the poor souls bear it? Some cried, some abused us. One or two showed they were better than we are. How? They prayed heaven to forgive us and hoped we might never come to know what they felt. I wish I'd never seen the inside of a jail. For I got a scratched face in one cell, sir. I'm sorry to hear that. I shall have to scold her, who was it? You won't scold her. You won't have the heart. I will scold her whether I have the heart or not. Who was it? Number 57, a gal that had some caterpillars. Silkworms. Yes, sir, silkworms. And it seems she has got to be uncommon fond of them. She calls them her children, poor soul. When we came in and went to take them away, she stood up for them and said we had no right. His reverence gave them to her. Well, well, sir, of course they made short work and took them away by force. Then I saw the girl turn white and her eye getting wildish. However, I don't know as it would have come to anything. But with them snatching away the leaves and the grubs, one of them fell on the ground. The poor girl, she goes to lift it up and fry he sees her and put his foot on it before she could get to it. Ah, I dare say he didn't stop to think, you know? But I don't envy him having done it. Well, sir, he paid for it. The girl just gave one sort of a yell. You could not call it anything else. And she went right at his head, both claws going and as quick one ebbed her another as a cat. The blood squirted like a fountain. I never saw anything like it. She'd have killed him if it hadn't been for Hodges and me. Killed him, nonsense, a great strong fellow. No nonsense at all, sir. She was stronger than he was for a moment or two and that moment would have done his business. She meant killing, sir, said Evans, lowering his voice. Her teeth were making for his jugular when I wrenched her away and it was like tearing soul from body to get her off him. And she's snarling and her teeth gnashing for him all the time. Mr. Eden winced. The wretched creature. I was putting her on the way to heaven and in one moment they made a fiend of her. Evans, you are not the same man you were a month ago. No, sir, that I am not. When I think of what a brute I used to be to them poor creatures, I don't seem to know myself. What has changed you? Oh, you know very well. Do I know I have a guess but why your sermons to be sure? My sermons? Yes, sir. Why, how could I hear them and my heart still be as hard as it used to be? They would soften a stone. A faint streak of surprise and simple satisfaction crossed Mr. Eden's shallow face. But it isn't your sermons only. It is your life as the saying is. I was no better than haws and fry and the rest. I used to look on a prisoner as so much dirt but when I saw a gentleman like you, I would respect them and say openly you loved them. I began to take a thought and says, I, hello, if this reverence respects them so an ignorant brute like Jack Evans isn't going to look down on them. Ah, can I confess too that half hour in the jacket opened your eyes and so your heart. It did, sir, it did. It was like a good many more that misused prisoners. I didn't know how cruel I was. You're on my side then. Yes, I am on your side and I am come here mainly to speak my mind to you, sir. It goes to my heart to see you lost and wasted in such a place as this. You think I do no good here? No, no, sir, why I am a proof the other way but you would do more good anywhere else. Everybody says you are bright and shining light, sir. Then why stay where there is dirty water thrown over you every day? Besides, it is killing you. I don't want to frighten you, sir but if you could only see how you are changed since you came here, I do feel very ill. Of course you do, you are ill and you will be worse if you don't get out of this dreadful place. If you are so fond of prison, sir, you can go from here to another prison. There is more than one easygoing chaplain as would be glad to change with you. Do you think so, said Mr. Eden faintly lying on his back on the sofa. Not a doubt of it. If it weren't for Hawes, you would convert half this prison but you see the governor is against you and he is stronger than you. So it is no good to go wasting yourself. Now what will be the upshot? Why you'll break your heart to begin and lose your health and when all is done at a word from Hawes, the justices will turn you out of the jail and send me after you for taking your part. What do you advise? Why, cut it. Cut it? Turn your back on the whole ignorant lot and save yourself for better things. Why you will win many a battle yet, your reverence, if you don't fling yourself away this time, said Evans in tones of homely cheerfulness and encouragement. There was a deal of good sense in the rough fellow's words and a homely sympathy, not intruded but rather as it were forcing its way against the speaker's intention. All this cooperated powerfully with Mr. Eden's present inclination and feeling as he lay sick and despondent upon the couch. So that is really your advice, inquired Mr. Eden, feebly and regretfully. Yes, your reverence, that is my advice. Mr. Eden rose in a moment like an elastic spring and whirled around in front of Evans. And this is my answer. Retro Satanus shouted he with two eyes flashing like a pair of sabers in the sun. Mercy on us roared Evans, recoiling so hastily that he rolled over a chair. What is that? And he sat upon the floor long way off with eyes like saucers and repeated in a whisper, what did you say? What is that? A quotation, replied Mr. Eden. A quotation. Now only think of that, said Evans, much relieved. Sounded like cussing and swearing in Latin. Come here my good friend and sit beside me. Evans came gingerly. Well, but you mustn't thunder at me in Latin anymore. Well, I won't. It isn't fair, how can I stand up against Latin? Well, come here and I'll have at you in the vulgar tongue. Aha, so you come in robust health and spirits and tempt a poor broken sick creature to mount the white feather to show his soldierly qualities by running from the foe to some cool spot where there are no enemies and they're fighting the good fight in peace. Evans, you are a good creature, but you are a poor creature. Yes, haus is strong, yet I will resist him. And I am weak, yet I will resist. He will get the justices on his side, yet I will resist. I am sick and dispirited, yet I will resist. The representative of humanity and Christianity in a stronghold of darkness and cruelty and wrong must never sag with doubt nor shake with fear. I will fight with pen and hand and tongue against these outlaws so long as there is a puff of wind in my body and a drop of indomitable blood in my veins. No doubt you are game enough, Mohr and Evans. I wish you weren't. And as for you, you came here to seduce a sick broken creature from his master's service. You shall remain to be enlisted in it yourself instead. Evans shuffled uneasily on his chair, these words. I think I am on your side, said he, half, but it is no use being half anything. Your hour has come to choose between all right and all wrong. I wouldn't be long choosing if it weren't for one thing. And what is that one thing which can outweigh the one thing needful? My wife and my four children. If I get myself turned out of this jail, how am I going to find bread for that small lot? And do you think shilly-shallying between two stools will secure your seat? You have gone too far with me to retract. Don't you see that the jailer means to get you dismissed the next time the justices visit the jail for business? Can't you read your fate in the man's eye? Evans groaned. I read it, I read it, but I didn't want to believe it. He set a trap for you half an hour after you had defended me. He did. I told my wife I was a gone coon, but she over persuaded me. Keep quiet, said she, and twirl bow over. But you see it in the same light as I did, don't you sir? Mr. Eden smiled grimly in assent. You are a doomed man, said he, coolly. Half measures can't save you, but whole measures may, perhaps. What is to be done, sir? asked Evans helplessly. Your only chance is to go hard and hand with me in the project which occupies me now. I will, sir, cried fluctuance, with a sudden burst of resolution. For I'm drubbing a corner, so please tell me what is your project? To get Mr. Hawes dismissed from this jail. As he uttered these words, the Reverend gentlemen had a severe spasm which forced him to lie back and draw his breath hard. Evans uttered something between a cry of dismay and a groan of despair and stared down upon this audacious invalid with wonder and ire at his supernatural but absurd, cool courage. Turn our governor out of this jail, now hark to that. You might as well try to move a mountain and look at you lying there, scarce able to move yourself and talking like that. Pour me a cup of tea, Mr. Faintheart. I am in great pain, thank you. He took the cup and as he stirred it, he said, coolly. Did you ever read of martial sacks, Mr. Faintheart? He fought the battle of Fontanoy as he lay dying. He had himself carried on his bed of death from one part of the field to another. At first the fight went against him but he spurned craven councils with his expiring heart. He saw the enemies blunder with his dying eye and waved his troops on to victory with his dying hand. This is one of the great feats of earth but the soldiers of Christ are as stout-hearted as any man that ever carried a marshall's baton or a sergeant's pike. Yes, I am ill and I feel as if I were dying, Evans, but living or dying I am the Lord's. I will fight for him to the last gasp and I will thrust this malifactor from his high office with the last action of my hand. Will you help me or will you not? I will, sir, I will. What on earth can I do? You can turn the balance scale and win the day. Can I, sir, cried Evans, greatly puzzled. You will find some wine in that cupboard, my man. Fill yourself a tumbler. I will sip my tea and explain myself. You think this haws is a mountain? No. He is a large pumpkin hollow at the core. You think him strong? No. But he seems so because some of the many at whose mercy he is are so weak. There is a flaw in haws which must break him sooner or later. He is a felon. The law hangs over his head by a single hair. He has forfeited his office and will be turned out of it the moment we can find among his many superiors one man with one grain either of honesty or intelligence. But how shall we find that, sir? By looking for it everywhere till we find it somewhere. Mr. Hawes tells me, in other words, that the visiting justices do not possess the one grain we require. I profit by the intelligence. The enemy was weak enough to give me and I go not to the visiting justices. Tomorrow, if my case is ready, I send a memorial to the home office, accuse Hawes of felonious practices and demand an inquiry. Evan's eyes sparkled. He began to gather strength from the broken man. But now comes the difficulty. A man should never strike a feeble blow. My appeal will be read by half educated clerks if I don't advance something that the small official mind can take in. I shall never reach the heads of the office. It would be madness to begin by attacking national prejudices by combating a notion so stupid and therefore so deep rooted as that prisoners have no legal rights. No, the pivot of my assault must be something that a boy can afford to be able to comprehend for 80 pounds a year and a clerk's desk in a government office. Now, Mr. Hawes has for many months passed furnished false reports to the justices and to the home office. Here is the true stepping stone to an inquiry. Here is the fact to tell on the official mind for the man's cruelty and felonious practices are only offenses against God and the law but a false report is an offense against the office and here I need your help. You shall have it, sir. I want to be able to prove this man's reports to be lies. I think such proof exists, said Mr. Eden very thoughtfully. Now, if it does, you alone can get hold of it for me. One of the turn keys notes down every punishment of a prisoner in a small pocket book for I have seen him. Yes, sir, Fry does, never misses. What becomes of those notes? I don't know. What if he keeps a book and enters everything in it? But if he had, shouldn't we have caught a glimpse of it? A man does not take notes constantly and destroy them. Fry, too, is an enthusiast in his way. I am sure he keeps a record and if he does, it is a true one for he has no object in tampering with his own facts. Bring me such a book or any record kept by Fry. Let me have it for 12 hours and haws shall be turned out of the jail and you stay in it. Sir, cried Evans in great excitement. If there is such a thing, you shall see it tomorrow morning. No, tonight. Come, you have an hour before you. Do you want the sinews of war? Here, take this five pounds with you. You may have to buy a side of it. But if you ask him whether I am right in telling you, it is not the custom of jails to crucify prisoners in the present century. Perhaps the barbarian will produce his record of abuses to prove to you that it is. Work how you please, but be wary. Be intelligent and bring me Fry's ledger or never look me in the face again. He waved his hand and Evans strode out of the room animated with a spirit not his own. He who had animated him lay back on the sofa prostrate. Half an hour elapsed, no Evans. A quarter of an hour more, still no Evans. But just before the hour struck, in he burst out of breath but red with triumph. Your reverence is a witch. You can see in the dark, look here, sir. And he flung a dirty ledger on the table. Here's all the money, sir. He did not get a farthing of it. I flattered the creature's pride and he dropped the cheese into my hand like the old carrion crow when they asked him for one of his charming songs. But he had no notion it was going out of the jail. So you'll bring it in and give me back the first thing tomorrow, sir. I must run back. Time's up. Good night, your reverence. Am I on your side or whose? Good night, my fine fellow. You shan't be turned out of the jail now. Good night. He wanted him gone. He went to a drawer and took out his own book. A copy of Haw's public log book which he had made as soon as he came into the jail with the simple view of guiding himself by the respectable precedents he innocently expected to find there. He lighted candles placed to sheaths by the side of Fry's well-thumbed ledger and plunged into a comparison. It was as he expected. On one side lay the bare, simple, brutal truth in Fry's hand. On the other, the same set of facts, colored, molded, and cooked in every imaginable way to bear inspection with occasional suppressions where the deed and consequences were too frightful to bear coloring, molding, extenuating, or cooking. The book was a thick quarto containing a strict record of the prison for four years, two years of Captain O'Connor and two of Haw's, the worthy who had supplanted him. Mr. Eden was a rapid penman. He set to, and by half past 11 o'clock, he had copied the first part for under O'Connor there were comparatively few punishments. Then he attacked Haw's reign. Sheet after sheet was filled and numbered. He threw them on another table as each was filled. Three o'clock, he still wrote with all his might. Four o'clock, black spots danced before his eyes and his fingers ached and his brow burned and his feet were ice. Still, the light, indefatigable pen galloped along the paper. Meantime, the writer's feelings were of the most mixed and extraordinary character. Often his eye flashed with triumph as Frye exposed the dishonesty and utter mendacity of Haw's. O'Connor, still, it dilated with horror at the frightful nature of the very revelations. At six o'clock, Frye's record was all copied out. Mr. Eden shaved and took his bath and ran into the town. He knocked up a solicitor with whom he was acquainted. I want you to make my will while your son attests this copy of the ledger. But my son is in bed. Well, he can read in bed, which is his room, that one. He rapped at the door, come in. Here, Mr. Edward, compare these two and correct or attest this as a true copy. 20 minutes work, two guineas. Here they are on your drawers. And he chucked the documents on the bed, opened the shutters, and drew the bed curtains. And passing his arm under the father's, he drew him into his own office, opened the shutters, put paper before him, and dictated a will. Three bequests, one to Evans, and his mother, Residuary Legatee. The will written, he ran upstairs, made father and son execute it, and then darted out, caught a fly that was going to the railway, engaged it upstairs again. The work was done, copy attested. Half a crown if you're at the jail in five minutes. Galloped off with his two documents, entered the jail, went to his own room, sent for Evans, gave him Fry's book, and ordered himself the same breakfast the prisoners had. I am billious and no wonder I have been living too luxuriously. If I had been content with the diet my poor brothers live on, I should be in better health. It serves me just right. Then he sat down and wrote a short memorial to the secretary for the home department, claiming an inquiry into the jailer's conduct. I have evidence on the spot to show that for two years he has been guilty of illegal practices, that he has introduced into the prison an unlawful instrument of torture, that during his whole period of office he has fabricated partial, colored, and false reports of his actions in the prison, and also of their consequences. That he has suppressed all mention of no less than seven attempts at suicide and has given a false color both with respect to the place of death, the manner of death, and the cause of death of some 20 prisoners besides. That his daybook kept in the prison for the inspection and guide of the magistrates is a tissue of frauds, equivocations, exaggerations, diminutions, and direct falsehoods. That his periodical reports to the home office are a tissue of the same frauds, suppressions, inventions, and direct falsehoods. The truth therefore is inaccessible to you except by a severe inquiry conducted on the spot. That inquiry I pray for on public grounds and if need be, demand in my own person as Her Majesty's servant driven to this straight. I am responsible to Her Majesty for the lives and well-being of the prisoners and yet unable, without your intervention, to protect them against illegal violence covered by organized fraud. Mr. Eden copied this and sent the copy at once to Mr. Hawes with two lines to this effect, that the duplicate should not leave the town till seven in the evening. So Mr. Hawes had plenty of time to write to the home secretary by same post and parry or meet this blow if he thought it worth his while. It now remained only to post the duplicate for the home office. Mr. Eden directed it and waxed it, but even as he leaned over it, sealing it, the room suddenly became dark to him and his head seemed to weigh a ton. With an instinct of self-preservation, he made for the sofa, which was close behind him. But before he could reach it, his senses had left him and he fell with his head and shoulders upon the couch but his feet on the floor, the memorial tight in his hand. He paid the penalty of being a blood horse. He ran till he dropped. End of chapter 16. Chapter 17 of It is Never Too Late to Mend. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sue Max from Yorkshire, England. It is Never Too Late to Mend by Charles Reed. Chapter 17. Two ladies to see you. Grunted the red-head servant, throwing open the door without ceremony and she actually bounced out again without seeing anything more than that her master was lying on the sofa. Susan Merton and her aunt came rapidly and cheerfully into the room. Here we are, Mr Eden and Davies and I are. Oh! The table-beam between the sofa and the door, the poor gentleman's actual condition was not self-evident from the latter but Susan was now in the middle of the room and her gaiety gave way in a moment to terror. Why the man has fainted? cried Mrs Davies hurriedly. Susan clasped her hands together and turned very pale but for all that, she was the first at Mr Eden's head. He is choking, he's choking, help me aunt, help me. But even while crying for help, her nimble fingers had untied and flung away Mr Eden's white necktie which, being high and stiff, was doing him a virial turn as the air forced him itself violently through his nostrils plainly showed. Take his legs, aunt. Oh! Oh! Don't be a fool, girl, it's only a faint. Susan flew to the window and threw it open then flew back again and seized one end of the couch. Her aunt comprehended at a glance and the two carried it with its burden to the window. Open the door, aunt, cried Susan as she whipped out her scent bottle and with her fingers wetted the inside of his nostrils with spirit as the patient lay in a thorough draft. Susan sobbed with sorrow and fear but her emotions far from disabling her. She poured some of her scent into the water glass and diluted it largely. She made her aunt take a handscreen from the mantelpiece. She plunged her hand into the liquid and flung the drops sharply into Mr. Eden's face and Mrs. Davis phoned him rapidly at the same time. These remedies had a speedy effect. First the film cleared from the patient's bright eye then a little colour diffused itself gradually over his cheek and last his lips lost their livid tint. As soon as she saw him coming to Susan composed herself and Mr. Eden on his return to consciousness looked up and saw a beautiful young woman looking down on him with a cheerful encouraging smile and wet cheeks. Ah, sighed he and put out his hand faintly to welcome Susan. But what, how do I come here? You have been a little faint, said Susan smiling but you are better now, you know. Yes, thank you. How good of you to come. Who is this lady? My aunt, sir, a very notable woman. See, she is setting your things to rights already and I wonder at you. She then dipped the corner of her anchorchief in scent and slightly colouring now that her patient was conscious she made the spirit enter his nostrils. He gave a sigh of lung with pleasure. That is so invigorating. Then he looked upward. See how good God is to me. In my sore need he has sent me help. Oh, how pleasant is the face of a friend. By the way, I took you for an angel at first. How did he, naively? But you have come to your senses now, sir. Cried busy Mary, Mrs. Davis, hard at work. For as soon as the patient began visibly to return to life, she had turned her back on him and fallen onto the furniture. I hope you've come to stay with me. As Susan was about to answer in the negative, Mrs. David made signals for a private conference and after some whispering, Susan replied that her aunt wanted to put the house in a Popeye order and that she, Susan, felt too anxious about him to go until he should be quite recovered. In that case, ladies, said he, I consecrate to you my entire second floor, three rooms, and you rang the bell and said to the servant, take your orders from these ladies and show them the second floor. While his visitors were examining their apartments, Mr. Eden sought a little rest and had no sooner dropped upon his bed than sleep came to his relief. He slept for nearly four hours, at first soundly, then dozing and dreaming. While he slept, a prisoner sent for him, but Susan would not have him awakened for that. By and by, Susan went into the town leaving her aunt's sole guardian. Now aunt, said she, don't let him be disturbed whoever comes for him, it is much as his life is worth. Well, then, I won't, there. Susan had not been long gone when a turnkey called and was shown into the parlor where Mrs. Davis was very busy. He looked about him and told her he had called for a book Mr. Eden promised him. Mr. Eden is asleep. Asleep at this time of day, said the man in credulously. Yes, asleep, answered Mrs. Davis sharply. Is he never to have any sleep? Well, perhaps you will tell him Mr. Fry has come for the book as requested. Couldn't think of disturbing him for that, Mr. Fry, replied Mrs. Davis, not intermitting her work for a single moment. Very well, ma'am, said Mr. Fry into gym, and I was here before and I shan't ever come again. That is all. And off he went. Mrs. Davis showed her dismay at this threat by dusting on without once taking a right or her mind off her job. It was eight o'clock. Mr. Eden woke and found it almost dark. He rose immediately. Why have slept the day away? thought he in dismay. And my memorial to the home office, it is past post time and I have not sent it. He came hastily downstairs and entered the parlor. He found it in a frightful state. All the chairs were in the middle of the room, every part of which was choked up a set, a pathway three feet broad that ran by the side of the wall all around it. From this path, all access into the interior was blocked by the furniture, which now stood upon an area frightfully diminished by the loss of three feet taken from each wall. Mrs. Davis was a character, a notable woman. Mr. Eden's heart sank at the sight. To find himself put to rights gives a bachelor an innocent pleasure, but the preliminary process of being put entirely to wrongs crushes his soul. Another fanatic let loose on me, thought he. And my room is like a road that is just mended as they call it. He peered about here and there through a grove of chairs whose legs were kicking in the air as they sat above them downward upon their brethren. But he could see no memorial. He rang the bell and inquired of the servant whether she had seen it. While he was describing it to her, Mrs. Davis broke in. I saw it, I picked it up off the floor. It was lying between the sofa and the table. And what did you do with it? Why, just did it to be sure. But where did you put it? On the table, I suppose. Another search and no memorial. Somebody has taken it, but who? Has anybody been in this room since? Plenty, you don't get much peace here, I should say. But Susan gave the order you were not to be disturbed. This won't do, thought Mr. Eden. Who has been here, said he to the servant. Mr. Fry is the only one that came into this room. Mr. Fry, said Mr. Eden with some surprise. Aye, I cried Mrs. Davis. I remember now there was an ill-looking fellow of that name here talking to me, pretending you had promised him a book. But I did promise him a book. Oh, you did, did you? Well, he looked like a thief. Perhaps he has, goodness gracious me. I hope there was no money in it. And Mrs. Davis lost her ruddy colour in a moment. No, no, it was only a letter, but of great importance. Another violent search at the risk of shins and hands. That fry has taken it. I never saw such a hand-dog-looking fellow. Mr. Eden was much fext, but he had a trick of blaming himself. Heaven only knows where he caught it. My own forgetfulness, even if the paper had not been lost, I had a loud post-time to go by, and Mr. Horse will anticipate me with the home secretary, he sighed. In so severe a struggle, he was almost as reluctant to give an unfair advantage as to take one. He ordered a fire in the little back parlour, and with a sigh sat down to rewrite his memorial and to try and recover, if he could, the exact words and save the next post that left in the morning. As Mr. Eden sat trying to recover the words of his memorial, Horse was seated in Mr. Williams' study at Ashton Park, concerting with that worthy magistrate the best way of turning the new chaplain out of jail. He found no difficulty. Mr. Williams had two very strong prejudices, one in favour of Horse personally, the other in favour of the system pursued this two years in that jail. Egotism was here too, and mended these prejudices almost impregnable. Williams had turned out a corner and his milder system and put in Horse and his more rigorous one. Horse was my man, his system mine. He told his story, and Williams burned to Avengers injured friend, whose patron and director he called himself and whose tool he was. Nothing can be done until the 25th when Palmer returns. We must be all there for an act of disimportance. Do your duty as you always have, carry out the discipline and send for me if he gives you any great annoyance in the meantime. That zealous servant of Her Majesty, earnest Mr. Horse, had never taken a day's holiday before. No man could accuse him of indolence, carelessness or faint discharge of the task he had appointed himself. He perverted his duties too much to neglect them. He had been reluctant to leave the prison on a personal affair. The drive however was pleasant and he returned freshened and animated by assurances of support from the images straight. As he strode across the prison yard to inspect everything before going to his house, he felt unvulnerable and sneered at himself for the momentary uneasiness he had let a crap brain pass and give him. He went home. There was a nice fire, a clean swept hearth, a glittering brass kettle on the hob for making toddy and three different kinds of spirits in huge cruits. Four systems reigned in the house as well as the jail. With the difference that the house system was devoted to making self-comfortable, the jail system to making others wretched. He rang the bell in came the servant with slippers and candles unlighted for he was want to sip his grog by firelight. He put on his slippers, then he mixed his grog, then he noticed a paper on the table and putting it to the fire, he found it was sealed. So he lighted the candles and placed them a little behind him. Then he stirred his grog and sipped it and placing it close beside him, leaned back with a grunt of satisfaction. Open the paper, read it first slowly. Then all in a flutter started up as if he was going to act upon some impulse. But the next moment sat down again and stared wildly a picture of stupid consternation. Meantime, as Mr. Eden with a heavy heart was writing himself out nauseous task. Susan stood before him with a color like a rose. She was in a brown cloak. From under which she took out a basket brim full of little packages, some in blue, some in white paper. These are grits, said she, and these are arrow root. I know one of the phases of the potato. Oh for shame Mr. Eden, well I never. And I posted your letter sir. What letter? What letter? The long one, I found it on the table. You don't mean you posted that letter? Why? It was to go wasn't it? Yes it was to go, but it was wonderfully intelligent of you. Ah, Mr. Eden, don't talk so, you make me ashamed. Why, there was immediate written on it in your own hand. Was I to wake you up to ask whether that meant it was to stay here immediate or to go to London immediate? Then she pondered a moment. He thinks I'm a fool, said she, in quiet explanation without a shade of surprise or anger. Well Susan my dear friend, you don't know what a service you have done me. Susan glittered with pleasure. There cried he. You have spared me this most unpleasant task and he flung his unfinished papers into a basket. Mr. Eden congratulated himself in his way, i.e. thanked heaven Susan had come there. The next thing was he had a twinge of conscience. I have suspected Fry have taken it in the interest of horse his friend. Poor Fry, who is a brute, but as honest a man as myself every bit. He shall have his book at all events. I'll put his name on it that I meant forget it again. Mr. Eden took the book from its shelf, wrapped it in paper and wrote on the cover for Mr. Fry from Mr. F. Eden. As the incidents of the day are ended, I may as well relate what the book was and how Fry came to us for it. The book was Uncle Tom, a story which discusses the largest human topic that ever can arise for the human race is bisected into black and white. Nowadays a huge subject greatly treated receives justice from the public and Uncle Tom is written in many places with art in all with reading and with the biceps muscle. Great by theme and great by skill and greater by a writer's soul honestly flung into its pages. Uncle Tom, to the surprise of many that twaddle traditional phrases in reviews and magazines about the art of fiction and to the surprise of no man who knows anything about the art of fiction was all the rage. Not to have read it was like not to have read The Times for a week. Once or twice during the crucifixion of a prisoner Mr. Eden had said bitterly to Fry. Have you read Uncle Tom? No, would Fry grunt. But one day that the question was put with me asked with some appearance of interest. Who is Uncle Tom? Then Mr. Eden began to reflect. Who knows? The cases are in a great measure parallel. Prisoners are at a boot class in England as are blacks in some few of the United States. The lady writes better than I can talk. If she once seizes his sympathies by the wonderful power of fiction she will touch his conscience through his heart. This disciple of Legree is fortified against me. Mrs. Stowe may take him off his guard. He said slightly to Fry. Not no Uncle Tom. Why it is the most interesting story, a charming story. There are things in it too that meet your case. Indeed sir. It is a book you will like. Shall I lend it you? If you please sir, nights are drawing in now. I will then. And he would. But that frightful melody jaundiced amongst its other feats impairs the patient's memory. And he forgot all about it. So Fry, whose curiosity was at last excited, came for the book. The rest we know. End of chapter 17.