XII. THE PRISON BABY. No. II. —Concluded.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 380, 26 June 1889, Page 4

XII. THE PRISON BABY. No. 11. —Concluded.

,WHJ3NMr Dinmore Smith, the dramatists , -met Captain itanyers, one of Her. Majesty's „[ Inspectors of Pf(isons,/,at the, Club according, to appointment, ; he lost no , time, f in coming , to , the , subject t wfiich was* upper- \ \ imo3t,in his mind. , *„'.'-, > „ r.j,, , , i He, informed- his ,'friends that since the . ,visit to the prison he had read up the case ', of the, young, woman, convicted of. , the , jewel robbery ,< and he was anxious to obtain . - „aj little, further information, and for I that , purpose ,he should ,have,, to, trespass,, still,, f urther, upon tne Captain's kindness. . ,' , ! t What do you want?' ? said,the,paptain. , o ;l t want to obtain an interview, Vith^'the ;* ; * male prisoner, the man ,who called himself Captain Garth.' ,' , ' .> < / 1 ' You don't' suppose he, would give,ypu', t any -information ?' . , ,«,. '." 'He might — the information I want. \ 'What*! am anxious to find out is' the exact relationship in which the woman stood , to him.' , „ ■ 'That's, hardly,, .difficult to arrive, at,' v replied the Captain. ' The baby ought to , be a prettyjgood clue to anyone in doubt. 5 ' ' Under ordinary circumstances, yes, but ( b'he girl was so anxious at the.trial to have,* it thoroughly understood that I( she was not ;', Garth's wife. She wasn't living with him when they were arrested, and at the Picca- , dilly lodgings, they had taken \three rooms,if you remember.' 'Does that suggest anything to you, then?' " m . 'Yes. Ifysuggests to me that there is a mystery which we have ,hot yet fathomed. It seems odd to me that.this young woman, , who is' described as a gentle, well-behaved creature, and who has preserved such an obstinate silence, according t'o'the matron, ' concerning her share in the transaction, - should have been mixed up in such an affair a b all. Ij havean idea that after all she may have been innocent of any direct share in it — she may have been the victim of circumstances.' • I'm afraid you're Ibtbjng your sympathy with a pretty woman run away with you, my dear fellow,' said the Captain. 'So far as I remember the case, the woman was in the room at the time the jeweller's assistant was chloroformed, and escaped from the room with Garth. She must have been an accomplice, and later on she- was found attempting to pawn apportion of the stolen property, while the, man was waiting round the corner for the proceeds. I can't see,^ myself, under these circumstances, where* the innocence can possibly come in. 1 , 'It looks black against the woman "certainly, uncommonly black ; but I want to j get at her motive in helping this man, who must have been at least thirty years her senior, in his wicked plot^' 4 She probably helped him because she was his mistress, and she would have bene-, fited by the transaction.' ,' I don't think so.' . ' What do you think, then V ' I think that this girl was an unwilling assistant all through — that for some reason, which did not" come out at the trial, she was in this man's power, and that he, compelled her to do what she did.' The Captain shrugged his shoulders. ' You may be right,' he said ; ' I doh'fc think you are, but even then the woman was guilty in the eyes of the law, not being his wife. According to her own statement, she was not in the slightest way compelled to obey the fellow," I don't think that anything you could discover would have altered the verdict.' • Perhaps not, but it might have mitigated her punishment. I tell you frankly that since I saw that poor little girl baby in the prison nursery, and learned the mother's story, the desire to find out her real share in the transaction has become a fixed idea with me. - 1 want to see the man. It is jusb possible I might get from him an inkling of the truth.' 'That's a difficult job, and even if it* could be managed, I doubt if the prisoner would tell you anything but lies. 1 ' Will you try and manage it for me ?' ' I'll see. You will have to get an order from the Home Secretary, and I shall have to find a very strong reason for asking that it may be granted.' 'Well, try.' { Oh, I'll try. I'll think the matter out and see which is the best way to go about it, and let you know. In the meantime I'll make inquiries at the prison about the man— he may have friends from whom you could obtain the information, you know.' With this promise Mr Dinmore Smith was obliged to, be satisfied, and there the matter was left for the time. Before they parted, Mr Smith remarked that he had another question to ask his friend. What were the regulations with regard to children born in the prison ? Supposing a convict mother consented, might not some, respectable person outside have the custody of the baby ? Captain Danvers didn't think that there was any official obstacle to such an arrangement. It frequently happened that the friends of the prisoner 'took the, baby as soon, as it could leave the mother and brought it up until its mother was set ab liberty. •But,' he added, with a smile, 'you surely don't contemplate taking the child yourself?' „ ( "'" ' No, but my sister, to whom i told the story, would take it, I think. She has just lost her own little one, and is sentimental on the subject of babies, you know.' ' Well, it' would be a fine thing for the child if the mother would consent — which is doubtful. But I'll see about that too for you, if you are serious. , You seem to have got the, woman and her baby on your brain !' , . "'ln some unaccountable way I have. When will you let me know the result 'of your inquiries ?' H ' ' Well, I'm rathex; busy just now. I have to inspect some provincial prisons- this we3k.* I' shall be away about a fortnight. On my return I'll see what can be done.'. The , conversation then turned on other subjects, and presently the two men separated. t , , t ' t , A 6(! they were parking ' the Captain .jokingly said, s*l say, old Mope when you adopt the baby you'll be satisfied. Don't ask me to take an offer of marriage on your behalf to ttiej'mother. ' According to all accounts she's J *a rvery beautiful and fascinating young woman, V ',' ''' The dramatist smiled,' Hut' his smile' was a sad- one. * ' ■' '*, j 'No fear of. that,', he said. •My t 6rst matrimonial experience ,\yas too terrible a - for me ever .to be tempted torepeat the experiment.' * ;, „„,.>,, 4 1 beg *your -pardon,, old feilowj I'd r forgotten about that. Forgive me, won'b - f you'?l f ;*.T s " ' ' • '"- ; k ' v i There is nothing "to 1 forgive. Good 'nigm;, and thank you very niuqh'for the trouble you are taking for me.'' ■ - *

* Delighted to do anything I can for you. Good night.' * ' About a fortnight after the conversation at the club, Mr Smith was sitting at- his desk, ln the throes of a drama which obstinately refused to allow itself to be con- J structed on recognised dramatic lines, i when his servant came into his room with a j telegram. He opened it and read it. ' Call upon me at ths Home Office, if possible, today, before two o'clock. Important. — Danvers.' At one o'clock Mr Smith was at the Home Office, and was taken at once to Captain Danvers's room in the Prison Department. 'Hullo, old fellow,' said the Captain. ' Sorry to fetch you here, but 1 only came up for the day on business, and I leave j for Manchester again to-night, so I couldn't call on you.' 1 You have some information for me about ' ' About the prison baby's mamma ? Yes. I wrote to the matron the other day, and her letter in reply has been lying here for me, so that I only got it this morning. Read it.' The Captain handed Mr Smith a letter, which was as follows :—: — * Dear sir, — The prisoner, Annie Garth, about whom yo\i enquire, is still seriously ill— so ill that her life is despaired of. Ido not think myself that she will over recover. 1 spoke to her about the baby being taken by a lady, and she seemed pleased to think that the little one would have a home instead of going to the workhouse. But she did not want it sent away yet. She says it is her only comtort to see it now and then, and she has quite made up her mind that she is going to die. She says she shall die happier knowing that the baby will have a friend when she i* gone. I think myself that it would be as well to leave the child here for the present. The poor woman will not, I feel confident, last long. ' lam, sir, your obedient servant, ' , Chief Matron.' 'Poor thing,' said Mr Smith, as he pu fc the letter down; ' what a terrible life drama it is !' 'If she dies, am I to understand that your sister will take the child ?' • Certainly.' 'It will be an act of real Christian charity. Poor little mite, it will save it from being sent to the workhouse.' ♦Now about the other matter. The interview with the man. I suppose you haven't had time to do anything in that direction yet ?' ' Yes, I have. I have ascertained that on visiting days he has been visited by a man who says that he is his brother. I have ascertained that this man is a stage carpenter at one of the East End theatres. I have his address for you somewhere.' The Captain looked in his pocket book, and presently from a mass of paper? selected a half sheet of paper on which an address had been written down. He handed it to Mr Smith. ' There you are,' he said, ' there is the name of the theatre at which he is employed, and there is his private address. If you take my advice, instead of going through the tedious process of getting an order for an interview with the prisoner, you'll go and see this man. You'll probably get a good deal more out of him than you will out of the convict.' 'Thanks,' said Mr Smith, putting the address catefully away. *At any rate I will see this man. He may save me any further trouble.' The next day Mr Smith was too busy to go out, but the following morning he made his way to the • Theatre, and being known pro f essionally, had no difficulty in getting on to the stage, where Joseph Ruston, the carpenter attached to the establishment, was at work. Introducing himself, and saying that he wished to speak to Mr Ruscon on private business, Mr Smith had very little difficulty in persuading that gentleman to step across the road with him to the publichouse and have a glass of ale. Entering private bar, which at that time of the day was smpty, and the beer having been called for, the dramatist plunged at once in media* res. 'You must forgive me asking you,' he said, ' but are you not a relative of the man who calls himself Garth, and who, about two years ago, was,convicted of chloroforming and robbing a jeweller's assistant ?' The carpenter, who had the glass of ale to his lips, put it down aerain with a trembling hand, while his face changed colour. • Don't be alarmed,' exclaimed Mr Smith. ' I assure you that your secret is safe with me, a»id that my motive for asking you is .not an unkind one. I am anxious, on the contrary, to do one of the prisoners a service.' • I—lI — I don't know how you found it out,' stammered the man, ' but I hope you won't go putting it about. It would do me a lot of injury if it was known here.' ' I quite understand that, and I give you my word of honour that no one shall know it from me. I have only come to you for some information, for which I should otherwise have had to go to your brother.' 1 He is my brother, worse luck,' said the man, ' and a nice disgrace he's been to the family. We lost sight of him for years, and I never knew it was him as was mixed up in thafe chloroforming business till I had a letter from him after he was in prison.' 'Then you hain't seen much of him previous to that?' 'I hadn't seen him for nearly twenty years — the last time as I saw him was when he went to America with his wife and child. 'He was married twenty years ago, then?' 'Four and twenty years ago. He was a steady chap after he married, and he did pretty well in the States for a time, but he cot into bad company, I suppose. At any rate, I know he got in prison there.' ' And his wife ' • Died of a broken heart, I helieve.' < What became of the child V ' I heard she was taken care of by the people in whose house the wife died while her father was in gaol.' ' Since he has been in prison this time you have seen him ?' ' Yes, twice on visiting days. There was some family matters I wanted to see him about.' ' Now, tell me, if you know — this young woman who helped him to commit the crime — she was his mistress, I suppose? ' 'Nothing of the kind. She was his daughter.' ' His daughter !' exclaimed Mr Smith, trying to bring all the facts of the case back to his mind, ' that was ib, was it ? Why didn't she say so at the trial ? Why did she keep her relationship a mystery ?' 'I believe there was some reason. I didn't have much time to go into that with Jim : there was a warder sitting between us all the time, you know, an&Oim evidently didn't want to say too much, but I understood as she was his gal.' 'Don't you know yourself? Can't you form any idea why ihe concealed the true relationship ?' . The carpenter shrugged his shoulders ' She vras a curious, retercent sort of gal, I believe, and kept her troubles to herself. I believe that she hadn't seen her father for years till they met accidentally, and then ehe went to live with hfm. I never saw her after she was a child and went to America. I heard that she came over to England long before he did, and supported herself, ' but that's only what I gathered from Jim in the' few 'minutes we had together.'

' You haven'b been to see her ?' ' No, she don't know me ; don't know of my existence, I dare say, for I never kept up any correspondence after Jim got into trouble in the States. I thought the less I had to do with him the better for me.' eDoc Do you know that after she was soned she became a mother ?' ' No !' exclaimed the carpenter, opening his eyes, ' I didn't. Jim never told me. P'raps he didn't know himself.' 'Perhaps not.' ' Poor girl, what an awful thing for her, but I can't understand it. I thought that she was a most quiet, respectable girl from what Jim said. Poor girl. Talk about the sins of the fathers coming on the children ; it is true sometimes, ain't it ?' ' Yes, unfortunately. But about the poor girl ; you can give me no idea of what she was before she went back to her father ?' | ' No, I can't, indeed. I tell you that the less I know about Jim and his people the better I liked it. So the poor girl had a baby, born in the prison, did she ? Well, ! so to speak, she's my own flesh and blood, and I'm sorry for it. I wish I hadn't knowed it.' ' That is all the information you can give me V 1 Yes, and now as I have given it, perhaps you'll tell me what you want it for. How did you come to know about my niece having the baby ?' 1 I've been to the prison. I learnt it there. 1 ' You went to see her,' exclaimed the carpenter, suspiciously. ' No, I went there on other business, and learnt her story quite accidentally. It interested me, and I wanted to see if I could find any of her relatives. ' ' You're not going to ask me to take the child, I suppose?' exclaimed the carpenter. < No.' ' That's rrght, because I've seven of my own, and that' 3 quite as many as I can do with,' • I had no idea of that sort, but I'm glad I've found you. You are at any rate a relative ot the poor girl's, and if anything can be done for her or her child T shall let you know. ' ' Oh, that's all right. I'm very sorry for the girl, I givo you my word, and I should be glad if anything could be done for her when she comes out, as I balieve she wouldn't have done as she did but for her father. I daresay he forced her to it. He never let man, woman, or child stand in his way, and he never thought of anybody but himself, and a nice mess he's made of it.' The stage carpenter finished his ale, and said that he must be going— he was wanted on the stage, and he'd stayed too long already. Mr Smith thanked him for the information he had given, and before he had left gave him his solemn promise that he would not divulge his relationship to the convicts to anyone who was likely to come in contact with him. With this assurance the carpenter professed himself satisfied and returned to the theatre. Left alone, the dramatist thought over all that he had learned and tried to see in what way it affected the situation. The girl was Garth's daughter — there was no "doubt about that. Then came the question who was the father of her child. He presumed that the poor girl, previous to meeting her father, had contracted one of those illegal unions which are unforrunately too common, and that the punishment of her fault had fallen thus entirely upon herself. ' The man must have been a coward,' he said, * not to come forward, not to ooake some inquiry ab the prison for the poor woman who had to suffer so terribly for her faith to him. ' Perhaps he had inquired, perhaps he had visited her. Buthe thought if it had been so he should have heard of it through Captain Danvers, as the matyon would have told him when the application was made about the child. No, wherever the lather of the poor little one was he had kept out of the way. That was what Mr Smith considered after thinking the matter carefully out. The information he had obtained so far would fail to benefit the female convict in the eyes of the law. She was the male criminal's daughter, buc that did not compel her to be his accomplice. If a father and daughter commit a crime together, the daughter, being a grown-up woman, could not claim that she was forced into the act by her father's exercise of authority. The net result of all that Mr Smith had learned, therefore, came to this. The woman at the time she assisted her father to commit a robbery and to get rid of the proceeds, had a lover, and that lover was the man who ougHt to be found for the sake of the child. 'I should like to find the fellow,' thought Mr Smith to himself, ' and tell him what I think ot him. But I might as well, with the few facts I have to go upon, look for a needle in a bottle of hay unless the girl herself would reveal the secret.' But the girl was dying, and even if she recovered she would probably be as silent in the future as she had been in the past. Her lover's name was never likely to pass her lips. A month after his interview with the carpenter of the Theatre, the prison baby was in Mrs Winslow's house. The poor mother had justified the prognostication of the matron and had passed away, to be tried for her earthly crimes before the all-merciful Judge. They brought the baby to her as she was dying. She opened her eyes and looked yearningly at the face of her baby girl. The child recognising her said * Mum-mum,' and smiled. The dying woman motioned to them to put the child near her. They placed its little face close to hers, and she pressed her clammy lips to its soft, white cheek. She murmured something which was indistinct to those who stood beside her bed, and then she gave a long, deep sigh and died. The child, by the direction of Captain Danvers, who had interested himself greatly in the case, was taken the next day to Mrs Winslow, who took the poor little motherless prison baby to her breast, and wept many womanly tears over it, and promised to love it aa though it had been her own. Mr Smith, the dramatist, came almost every day to see it ; and the child took to him at once, and was never so happy as when it was upon his knee. The child had been christened Amy. f When Mr Smith discovered the child's name, it gave him a slight pang ; for Amy had been his wife's name— Amy Brown, not a romantic name — net the name in which the girl acted, but the name which she told her husban 1 was her real one. In Little Amy, as the child grew to be called, the dramatist found a new source of delight. When he was weary and worn out with the cares and anxieties of his projfession, he would go round to his sister's and romp with Little Amy. And it was at such a time that the regret he felt for the loss of his wife was intensified. Had she been true to him such a child as this might now have been upon his knees— his own, his very own. It was > about a year after Little Amy came into Mr Smich's family circle th^b one day Captain Danvers, His old friend,' drove up to Mr Smith's door in ,a hansom and asked to see the master at onge, " " ;

' He was informed that Mr Smith was at fche house of his sister, Mrs Winslow, and thither the Captain drove at once. He was shown into the drawing-room, and presently Mr Smith came in. 'I'm so glad you've come,' he' said. 'I want to show you the prison baby. Hasn't she arrown ?' ' , The Captain looked at the golden-haired, blue-eyed jtirl, who, holding Mr ' Smith's hand, was just about to toddle, and then he picked the child up and took it on his knee. * What a strange sad story this poor mite's is,' he said. * You can't think how glad I am, Smith, old fellow, that you and your good sister rescued it from its fate and made ' ib as your own child.' 4 Not more glad than I am, old fellow. I love it as if it were my ow"n. ' The Captain pub the child down, and Mr Smith took it upon his knee, smoothing the little golden curls lovingly as he did so. ' Dad, dad,' said the child crowing and laughing as he gavo it a ride to Banbury Cross. 'It calls me dad, you see,' said Mr Smith with a smile. * It's adopted me and no mistake.' ' It's a wise child,' said the Captain. Then he added in a more serious tone of voice, ' I've gob a long story to tell you, old fellow, so just sit there as quiet as you can and lot me get it out. The man who called himself Garth is dead.' 1 What ! did he die in prison V ' Yes, he met with an accident. It is presumed that ho was trying to escape. At any rate he was found one afbernoon after exercise lying on the ground near the wall with a broken back.' ' Poor devil !' 'He knew that he couldn't recover, and before he died he sent for the prison chaplain and made a confession.' * ' Yes, yes !' exclaimed Mr Smith eagerly. 'He told the chaplain the whole story of the crime for which he had been condemned, and as it interests you for the child's sake, I must tqll it from beginning to end. • After relating the events of his career, which had long been a criminal one he told the chaplain that on his return to England he discovered that his daughter, whom he had lost sight of for years, had been earning her own living and was married to a respectable and wealthy man. ' He tracked her down, obtained an interview, and let her know that her father was a notorious swindler and thief. Ho tried to levy blackmail upon the girl, and finding she was terrified, he declared that he would seek an interview with her husband and get money from him. " ' When he knows what his father-in-law is," the wretch said, " he'll stand him a good round annual allowance to keep out of the way, I know." 'The girl was so horrified that she begged her father to give her time to see what could be done. ' Her husband was away. The father came again and again, had long and private interviews with his daughter, and ono night they left the house together. ' The girl left a note lor her husband behind her— leaving him to think ithe worst. Her father had made a proposition to her and she had agreed to it, rather than that her husband should know that she was a thief's daughter and be blackmailed by that thief for the rest of his lifo. 'The man, it seems, wanted an accomplice to help him in a series of great jewel robberies which he had long been contemplating. 'He did not tell the girl this — he only said that if she would come and be his daughter again he would not trouble her husband. ' Mad with horror, her brain half turned, the poor girl consented. 1 The first plot was a successful one. It was the jewel i - obbory in which the assistant was chloroformed and over a thousand pounds' worth of jewels obtained. He says that his daughter had not the slightesb idea what he was going to do. But when he brought her into the room and told her to take the jewels to the light, she was terrified to do anything but obey. Then followed the crime, and both fled. She grew as fearful of arrest as the man, for she feared that if taken her husband might hear of the case and recognise her by the description. ' From that moment she was completely in the man's power, and when he told her to take a separate lodging near him, she did so, and by his command took some of the jewellery to pawn on the day she was arrested. 1 He Fays that at this time she was so beside herself with grief and terror that he could make her do anything by threaten ing that if she did not he would go and make himself known to her husband. • The rest you know. At the trial the poor girl preserved an absolute silence, except to say that she was not the man's wife. Something prompted her to say that.' Mr Smith had listened to the narrative so far in speechless horror. Once he had tried to speak, and the words failed him, bub at last as the Captain paused he found his voice. ' Good God, Danvers,' he cried, ' thi? girl's story is the story of my — of my wife.' ' Yes, the man confessed that hi& daughter was the wife of Mr Dinmore Smith, the dramatist, who had obtained a divorce on the strength of her letter and flight with him, and her continued absence.' ' Stay — let us think it all out. Only give me air, open the windows. Let me see, this crime was committed about a month after my wife left me. ' 'Yes. 1 'It was a month before she was sentensed ' 'Yes.' 'It was about five months after sho had been in — prison that her baby was born V 'Yes.' The distracted man looked from the Captain to the child upon his knee. 1 My little one,' he cried, ' my own child. The prison baby was mme — mine ; and my poor girl lay there dying, and I so near her and never saw her. Great God, it is too terrible !' 'My poor friend, 1 said the Captain, * God's ways are inscrutable. After all it was perhaps for the best when things had gone so far. The crime had been committed, the prison taint was upon her, she could never have come out into the world again the same woman that you knew and loved. She would have felt that this was a great bar between you, and that she must have done you an injury had she returned a convict to be your wife again.' « My poor girl, my poor wronged girl, ' cried the man, his eyee filling with bears. ' At the very time that the law waB releasing me from her, as a guilty woman she was dying- broken-hearted in the prison to which she had gone to save me from shame.' There are some griefs which are too sacred to _ dwell upon. Such a grief was that of the man who heard too late the true story of the wife whom he had believed to be .faithless to him, But all grief a yield in a measure to Time, the great consoler ; and the day came at last when Little Amy's father could sit and think- calmly of the past. And, at that time he wae supremely thankful to-the Providence which bad led

him in such a mysterious way to rescue the prison baby and to learri.to love it as his own child long before he really know that it was so. , , He has placed a beautiful monument to his wife, in , the cemetery, to which he obtained permission to .move her, and there is a lovely garden planted around it. And sometimes, when the day is bright and warm, he takes his little girl with him to the cemetery, and tellß her to lay the sweet posy of flowers, which he had gathered for her in their little garden, upon the marble monument. And then, kissing the little one by the last resting-place of, his lost wife, he takes her hand, and they go quietly home together ; and in the clasp of that little hand he finds at once his consolation for the past and his hope for the future. The End,