Part 49 (1/2)
When the reverberation of the words had ceased, a little silence ensued.
The ear listened vainly for the slightest sound. In the silence the implacability of granite walls and iron reticulations reigned over the accursed vision, stultifying the soul.
”Are these cells occupied?” asked Alicia timidly.
”Not yet, Mrs. Hesketh. It's too soon. A few are.”
Hilda thought:
”He may be here,--behind one of those doors.” Her heart was liquid with compa.s.sion and revolt. ”No,” she a.s.sured herself. ”They must have taken him away already. It's impossible he should be here. He's innocent.”
”Perhaps you would like to see one of the cells?” the official suggested.
A warder appeared, and, with the inescapable jangle of keys, opened a door. The party entered the cell, ladies first, then the official and his new acquaintances; then Edwin, trailing. The cell was long and narrow, fairly lofty, bluish-white colour, very dimly lighted by a tiny grimed window high up in a wall of extreme thickness. The bed lay next the long wall; except the bed, a stool, a shelf, and some utensils, there was nothing to furnish the horrible nakedness of the cell. One of the visitors picked up an old book from the shelf. It was a Greek Testament. The party seemed astonished at this evidence of culture among prisoners, of the height from which a criminal may have fallen.
The official smiled.
”They often ask for such things on purpose,” said he. ”They think it's effective. They're very nave, you know, at bottom.”
”This very cell may be his cell,” thought Hilda. ”He may have been here all these months, years, knowing he was innocent. He may have thought about me in this cell.” She glanced cautiously at Edwin, but Edwin would not catch her eye.
They left. On the way to the workshops, they had a glimpse of the old parts of the prison, used during the Napoleonic wars, incredibly dark, frowsy, like catacombs.
”We don't use this part--unless we're very full up,” said the official, and he contrasted it with the bright, s.p.a.cious, healthy excellences of the hall which they had just quitted, to prove that civilisation never stood still.
And then suddenly, at the end of a pa.s.sage, a door opened and they were in the tailors' shop, a large irregular apartment full of a strong stench and of squatted and grotesque human beings. The human beings, for the most part, were clothed in a peculiar brown stuff, covered with broad arrows. The dress consisted of a short jacket, baggy knickerbockers, black stockings, and coloured shoes. Their hair was cut so short that they had the appearance of being bald, and their great ears protruded at a startling angle from the sides of those smooth heads. They were of every age, yet they all looked alike, ridiculous, pantomimic, appalling. Some gazed with indifference at the visitors; others seemed oblivious of the entry. They all st.i.tched on their haunches, in the stench, under the surveillance of eight armed warders in blue.
”How many?” asked the official mechanically.
”Forty-nine, sir,” said a warder.
And Hilda searched their loathsome and vapid faces for the face of George Cannon. He was not there. She trembled,--whether with relief or with disappointment she knew not. She was agonised, but in her torture she exulted that she had come.
No comment had been made in the workshop, the official having hinted that silence was usual on such occasions. But in a kind of antechamber--one of those amorphous s.p.a.ces, serving no purpose and resembling nothing, which are sometimes to be found between definable rooms and corridors in a vast building imperfectly planned--the party halted in the midst of a discussion as to discipline. The male visitors, except Edwin, showed marked intelligence and detachment; they seemed to understand immediately how it was that forty-nine ruffians could be trusted to squat on their thighs and st.i.tch industriously and use scissors and other weapons for hours without being chained to the ground; they certainly knew something of the handling of men. The official, triumphant, stated that every prisoner had the right of personal appeal to the Governor every day.
”They come with their stories of grievances,” said he, tolerant and derisive.
”Which often aren't true?”
”Which are never true,” said the official quietly. ”Never! They are always lies--always! ... Shows the material we have to deal with!” He gave a short laugh.
”Really!” said one of the men, rather pleased and excited by this report of universal lying.
”I suppose,” Edwin blurted out, ”you can tell for certain when they aren't speaking the truth?”
Everybody looked at him surprised, as though the dumb had spoken. The official's glance showed some suspicion of sarcasm and a tendency to resent it.
”We can,” he answered shortly, commanding his features to a faint smile.
”And now I wonder what Mrs. Rotherwas will be saying if I don't restore you to her.” It was agreed that regard must be had for Mrs. Rotherwas's hospitable arrangements, though the prison was really very interesting and would repay study.
They entered a wide corridor--one of two that met at right-angles in the amorphous s.p.a.ce--leading in the direction of the chief entrance. From the end of this corridor a file of convicts was approaching in charge of two warders with guns. The official offered no remark, but held on.