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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.
RGL e-Book Cover
Based on an image created with Microsoft Bing software
ALONG the dusty road leading from Taviton to Moorlands tramped a solitary figure, a youngish man wearing grey flannel trousers and a Norfolk jacket and carrying a small knapsack on his back.
At the crest of the hill he paused, and, leaning on the low stone wall to the left of the road, looked down upon a group of tall buildings lying about a quarter of a mile away on the slope beneath.
These buildings, which were enclosed by a high stone wall, looked rather like a factory, only that the windows were curiously small and each protected by solid iron bars.
The buildings were bare and ugly—very ugly, yet surely it was not their lack of beauty which made the tourist scowl at them with such concentrated fury on his lean brown face, or clench his fists so tightly that the knuckles stood out white on his gnarled hands.
For the moment the place appeared deserted, but presently a clock boomed out two strokes, and suddenly from the doors poured out long lines of drab-clad figures, shepherded soldier-like looking men in dark blue uniforms.
Clement Conway's tall, thin frame shook with the passion that wrung him. It was only a few weeks since he himself had been a member of one of those parties, a poor slave in the grip of a merciless routine, one of those soulless machines that obeyed orders but existed without initiative of its own.
Now he had served his term in prison and was at liberty. He had enough money to satisfy his modest needs, enough even to leave England and the scene of his misfortunes far behind him; yet in all this, which to another would have been happiness untold, be look no pleasure.
Imprisoned for manslaughter at the age of twenty-two, he had served ten full years and when at last he had come out, it was to find his relations dead, his friends gone, himself alone in a world in which he seemed to have no place or part.
So deeply had the iron entered into his soul, so utterly had those ten years penal servitude warped a nature originally generous enough, that liberty had no charms. All that was left in the heart of him was a passion for revenge, and that passion chiefly directed against Principal Warder John Bandon, whom, rightly or wrongly, he held responsible for the worst of his torments.
It was for the sole purpose of satisfying this passion that Clement Conway had returned to the site of his miseries.
The farm parties came out into the open. One moved up the road towards the quarry. Before it approached Conway had crossed the road, vaulted the wall the far side, and disappeared into the black depths of the thick fir plantation.
John Bandon walked homewards. It was past six, the dreary routine of the prison day was over so far as he was concerned, and the lines of his rather stern face relaxed at the thought.
His cottage lay at the cross roads above the prison, and to reach it he took a short cut through the Big Plantation. The sun was sinking, and the wood looked gloomy and mysterious in the dim light.
He was in the thickest of the wood when he stopped short. A figure had flitted among the close-set stems. A man—dressed in the unmistakable drab of a convict.
Bandon could hardly believe his eyes. He had not heard of any escape. Then suddenly it occurred to him that it was one of the milking gang who had sneaked off, and at once he dashed in pursuit.
The convict heard or saw him, and fled like a flash. But Bandon, though fifty, was hard and active, and kept up.
The trees opened a little, and he saw his man on the edge of a small gully, not twenty paces ahead.
"Stop!" he cried; but the man leaped down into the gully and vanished.
Brandon sprinted hard, and was in the act of following the fugitive into the gully when something caught his feet and he pitched headlong into the hollow, falling some six feet with a force that stunned him.
Before he knew what was happening, the lag was on him. A rope ready noosed encircled his body and arms, another his legs. He was left helpless as a log.
"Got you!" snarled a voice in a tone of hideous triumph.
Bandon, dizzily opening his eyes, at first believed he must be in the grip of a nightmare. He stared incredulously at the face of the man who bent over him.
"You—Conway! But you got out. You were released. What does it mean?"
"It means," replied Conway, glaring down at his prisoner, "it means that I've come back to pay my debts—come back to get even with you."
"I don't understand," stammered Bandon.
"You soon will," said Conway. "When you've laid here a night or two and had time to think about it."
Bandon's lips tightened. The man was mad!
Conway seemed to read his thoughts. "Oh, no, I'm not barmy. Never had better command of my senses. It's you who made me suffer torments. Now I'm going to get a bit of my own back."
Bandon gazed at him. "You're mistaken, Conway. I never had anything to do with your conviction."
"I never said you had. That's not what I've got against you. It's the way you treated me, once I was in that place down below."
"Treated you?" repeated Bandon. "I never did anything beyond my duty."
"Duty," snarled Conway. "That's it. That's the way you all talk. Duty without mercy! I suppose you've forgotten the day you reported me for talking at work—just for asking another chap to help me lift a stone."
"You should have asked me first. That's the rule."
Conway's face twisted again. "Rule! You're the living embodiment of rules, and soon you'll be the dead one. But before then you'll have time to feel something of what I've felt. Only something, for I had ten years, and you won't last ten days—no, not the half of it. And you won't get the bashing I had. Still, you'll suffer, and when you're gone perhaps I'll feel better. Anyhow, I'll have done what I came for."
Bandon was silent. He knew it was useless to appeal to this madmen for mercy. Perhaps, also, he was too proud to do so.
Conway stood a while, then, without another word, turned and left his victim. For the moment his soul was full of wild exultation. He had accomplished his purpose. His enemy was trapped.
As he reached the edge of the wood the reaction set in. All that day he had eaten nothing, and he had walked the whole distance from Taviton. For nights he had not slept. He felt suddenly giddy. His head seemed to grow like a balloon and to be as empty.
Turning westwards, he walked slowly up the slope, but each moment he felt worse. There was a cottage on the right of the road. He would go in and ask for a glass of water. That would put him right.
He got to the gate, opened it, then quite suddenly the whole surrounding began to swing in a giddy whirl around him. He felt himself falling, grasped at the gate-post, missed it, and fell flat on his face on the gravel walk.
"The poor gentleman is right down starved, mother. That's what's the matter with him."
The words, uttered in a soft Devonshire drawl, were the first that reached Clement Conway's slowly returning senses.
"You don't mean to say it, Ellen?" answered another voice, in a shocked tone. "Who'd ever have thought it?"
"Hush, mother, he's coming round. You watch him while I beat up an egg in milk. That's the thing for him."
And presently Conway, still dizzy, felt his aching head lifted on a firm, warm arm, and a glass put to his lips.
He opened his eyes to look up into the pleasant face of a girl of about twenty, a girl wonderfully pretty, and with a sweetness in her face which was good to look at.
Behind her stood a plump, comfortable-looking woman, evidently her mother.
"Drink this," said the girl, gently, "it will do you good."
He got it down and dropped back. Now he was able to see that he was lying on a sofa in a neatly-furnished little parlour. "I—I'm better now," he said. "Thank you very much. I—I did not mean to trouble you."
"'Twasn't no trouble at all, sir," replied the elder woman. "Ellen and me were so sorry you were took bad. We found you lying right at the gate."
"And—and you carried me in?" faltered Conway.
"Why, that wasn't nothing, sir.—Ellen here—she's nigh as strong as her father."
Ellen looked at the clock over the chimney-piece. "Where is father?" she said, suddenly. "He ought to be home by now."
"I reckon he was kept down to the prison, Ellen. You know he does the accounts for the War Pensions. Likely that's what kept him.
The prison! All of a sudden recollection flashed back into Conway's muddled brain, and he, too, glanced at the clock. But it was not the clock face that he saw. What arrested his attention was a photograph beside it.
"Who is that?" he asked, sharply, pointing a shaking finger.
"That is father," the girl answered, quietly. "His name is Bandon, and he is a warder in the prison."
Conway lay breathless. Somehow the idea that John Bandon had a wife and family had never occurred to him. That this kindly woman and sweet girl were the wife end daughter of his hated enemy seemed the most impossible thing he had ever dreamed.
"I—I must go," he said, and tried to struggle up, only to drop back helpless.
"He be mazed, Ellen," he heard Mrs. Bandon say. "I wish father was home."
Time passed, and Conway lay helpless. The woman and girl grew more uneasy, and he himself suffered the tortures of the damned. His mind was working like yeast. All sorts of new ideas and impressions were crowding upon him.
At last Ellen got up. "Mother, I'll run down to the prison and see when father's coming. You dish up supper."
The moment the room was empty Conway made a desperate effort and gained his feet. He must get away at any price. Somehow he reached the door, and in the deep dusk struggled down the path. The cool air nerved him, and he turned towards the village. He would get a bed there for the night.
He stopped again. The thought of those two kind women waiting all night in agony and suspense struck him like a blow. "No!" he muttered "No! I can't do it." Then, somehow, he was over the far wall and groping his way through the dark wood.
How he reached Bandon he never knew. But he did it, and it was not until he had cut him loose that he collapsed for a second time and dropped into a pit of blackness.
When he woke again it was with the sting of brandy in his mouth, and in the lamp-light Bandon himself, looking more human than Conway had believed possible, was bending over him.
Once more Conway struggled up. "Let me go!" he panted.
The warder pressed him gently back. "Not to-night," he answered, gently. "If you think that doing of my duty took your senses away from you, I want to show you as duty teaches me to try and get 'em back for you."
"Why, bless you, father," struck in Mrs. Bandon, "I think he's got 'em back without you."
Bandon nodded. "That's what I believe, mother," he answered cheerily. "Come to think of it, I reckon it was you and Ellen here worked the change."
For the first time for years Conway smiled quite naturally. "God bless them, they did," Conway said; then closing his eyes, dropped off, but this time into a natural and healing sleep.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.