WITHIN THE PRECINCTS
I had resolved on, yet dreaded, this expedition, knowing that to see
even the outside of the place where Ronnie was imprisoned would fill
me with sickening horror; but the longer I deferred the excursion the
more reluctant I should be to face it. I reasoned down my antipathy
and shrinking, and urged myself not to be a fool. Was I not living in
Bangalore solely to be near Ronnie? And I wished him to know what would
surely comfort him: that I was within reach.
It was a delightfully fresh morning as I started forth and took a short
cut over the maidan. In the distance I noticed a regiment on parade and
a number of people riding. As I made my way across the track a girl
passed me, galloping along with a radiant face. How she was enjoying
herself! Six weeks ago and I had been as she! but now, I seemed to have
lost my identity.
Leaving the maidan behind me, I turned into the Petta Road and, at the
end of a short walk, found myself outside the precincts of the jail.
After considerable delay I was admitted by a warder, ushered into a
large, bare, whitewashed room, and invited to state my business.
“I wish to see the superintendent,” I murmured.
“The superintendent is engaged, but perhaps the deputy will give you an
interview.”
“Very well,” I assented, “but if it were possible I should feel obliged
if the superintendent could see me even for a moment.”
After waiting for about half an hour I was escorted to an office, in
the middle of which was a large table, and sitting at it a stout,
elderly, dark man in a sort of blue serge undress, with letters on his
collar. He looked up interrogatively as I entered, and said:
“About the vegetables, I presume, madam?” (All Indian jails supply
these.)
“No,” I replied in a faint and tremulous key. “I have called to inquire
about my brother, Captain Lingard?”
The superintendent hastily pushed back his chair and rose; he appeared
too astonished to articulate, and gazed at me in a sort of dull
amazement.
“I am staying in Bangalore in order to be near him,” I continued.
“With friends?” he asked at last.
“Oh no, just lodging with a woman in the Infantry Lines, Mrs. de
Castro.”
“Yes, I know, her nephew has a post here. You are not staying for any
time, I presume?”
“Yes, I am.”
“But what about your relatives in England--will they think it suitable?”
I made no reply. I had come to ask questions, not to supply information.
“About my brother--how is he?”
“Ah, it’s a sad business--such a nice young fellow!”
“Is he at all--at all--reconciled?” I faltered.
“No, he is taking it terribly hard--does not eat, does not speak, and
they say he does not sleep. He has lost seven pounds in weight; if he
goes on like this we must put him in hospital.”
“What does he have to eat?” I inquired.
The official turned about, took down a card from the wall and, without
a word, handed it to me for reference. Glancing over it I read: “Every
European prisoner is provided with a tin plate, mug and spoon. The
following is the daily dietary, prescribed for a European prisoner on
hard labour.”
“_Hard labour!_” I read aloud, and looked at the official
interrogatively, who nodded in reply.
The list further continued: “Bread 24 oz., rice 8 oz., beef or fish
10 oz., vegetables 8 oz., tea 1/4 oz., sugar 1/2 oz., salt 3/4 oz.,
condiments ditto, milk 4 oz.”
“Quite a liberal diet,” remarked the superintendent, as I returned the
card.
“And is my brother really doing hard labour?”
“Oh, yes; he is a fine muscular young fellow, the exercise will be good
for him. Just at the moment he is pounding coco-nuts with a wooden
mallet. After a time, if he conducts himself well, he will be made a
convict warder.”
“What is that?”
“He is given authority over the other prisoners, and does no work
himself. He preserves discipline, is among the convicts day and night,
and has charge of his own ward. Of course he receives no pay and wears
the prison dress; eats the same food, and is subject to discipline
himself. Being an educated man, your brother, if he behaves well, is
bound to get a billet either as warder, or to keep the jail books, or
superintend the carpenters’ shops.”
“How soon will he get one of these posts?” I inquired.
“Not for some time, I’m afraid.”
“When may I see him?”
“In about ten weeks. Every three months prisoners are allowed to
receive visitors.”
“Ten weeks!” I repeated. “Oh, do let me have one word with him _now_;
do, I implore you.”
“My dear young lady, I dare not break the rules,” he protested, “though
I pity you from the bottom of my heart.”
“But think of him, cut off from everything--everything he has been used
to, absolutely friendless, and cast among natives and criminals. He
has no idea that I am in Bangalore. Surely I may send him one line to
comfort him?”
“No, no, no, that would be against all rules.”
“It’s like beating with bare hands on a stone wall,” I cried in
despair. “It makes me frantic to realise that I am within a few yards
of my brother, and may not see him!”
“Well, if it comes to that, I might stretch a point,” said the
superintendent. “He may not see you, but if you think you can bear it,
I might let you have a peep at _him_.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you a thousand times.”
“All right then, if you will not be upset, I’ll take you up to a place
where you can get a glimpse of the yard.”
As he concluded, the kindly superintendent rose, opened a door, and
ushered me along some bare stone passages. Then we passed through
a large room, where convicts were working at hand looms, weaving
various beautiful Indian carpets. They seemed to be really interested
and engrossed in their work, which looked exceedingly intricate and
tedious. My escort halted before one loom where two men were working,
and pointed out a lovely blue and cream carpet, about half completed.
“This has been commissioned by an English countess,” he explained. “It
has taken six months’ work, so far; most of the carpets on the looms
are already sold; this is a particularly fine specimen, and we are very
proud of it.”
He said something to the workers in their own language, and they
received his comments with wide and appreciative grins.
But I had come to see Ronnie--not carpets--and I think my companion
instinctively felt that I had no wish to linger; so he soon escorted
me out of the department into another section. As we proceeded, he
informed me that at the moment they had five hundred inmates in the
prison, mostly men, who did all the domestic and garden work, besides
weaving carpets and making tents and gunny bags.
“This is the central jail,” he added, “the only one in the province;
the rest are merely district jails and lock-ups. You would be surprised
at the number of old people that are confined in India. They are
sworn in by their families, in place of younger men, who are the real
criminals, and they are fairly well provided for for the rest of their
lives.”
To which statement--mentioned in the most casual manner--I listened
with indignant horror.
I was also not a little moved by the number of convicts we encountered
as we went along the stone passages. Every one of them wore irons
on his legs, which clanked as he walked. Both prisoners and warders
glanced at me furtively as I passed. Lady customers were no doubt
occasionally to be seen in the carpet department, but _I_ was in the
division reserved for hard labour criminals and the most desperate
characters. At last we reached a flight of steep steps, and climbed
into a little room overlooking a yard, which was enclosed with high
spiked walls. Here a number of prisoners were thumping coco-nuts with
wooden mallets, “to make coir,” as my companion explained to me. They
wore cotton coats, drawers, and caps stamped with that significant mark
the broad arrow, and every man was fettered from ankle to knee. As my
eyes roved anxiously among the crowd I realised that they were all
natives of the country except one--one with a rigid white face, who was
pounding away with a sort of mechanical ferocity.
At first I did not recognise him, and thought with a little dart of
relief, “Here at least is a companion for Ronnie;” and then I realised
that it was Ronnie himself! Changed, oh, incredibly changed, in two
short weeks! I was so horrified and so suddenly unstrung that, almost
in spite of myself, I screamed out “Ronnie!” I saw him look up, but I
think the steady thumping of the wooden mallets had deadened my cry. My
companion, who was extremely angry, seized me by the arm and drew me
forcibly out of the room.
“There you see, that is what I get for my kindness!” he said
indignantly. “It will be a lesson.”
“Oh, forgive me, _do_ forgive me,” I sobbed. “I couldn’t help it.” And
then I leant against the wall and wept. I think this was almost the
bitterest moment of my whole life. There was my brother, the image of
despair, working out his sentence within those tall ugly walls, cut
off from everything he had ever cared for. I believe my tears somewhat
appeased the superintendent.
“Don’t take on, don’t take on. Come away down to my room,” he said,
“and pull yourself together a bit.”
As soon as we had reached this haven, he offered me a chair and sent
for a glass of water, and when I was more composed he said:
“I was afraid you might be upset.”
“Of course I am, my brother looks as if he were dying.”
“He looks badly, I grant you--they all do at first--I mean the
Europeans. It isn’t often we have them--not for years. A private was
hanged ages ago, for shooting his comrade in the barrack room. I
remember as if it was yesterday, the escort marching him up from cells
just after daybreak one December morning, and the band playing the Dead
March in ‘Saul.’”
I shuddered involuntarily.
“This is only a second class jail,” he resumed. “Serious cases are
sent elsewhere. Your brother was moved down here for two reasons; the
authorities did not wish to have him so near the regimental lines as
Secunderabad jail. Every time a Tommy went by ‘Windsor Castle’ he would
think ‘One of our captains is lying in there.’ Another thing, the
Bangalore climate is less trying; we have no real hot weather, and of
course there are no punkahs in jails. It’s just a year ago since I saw
Captain Lingard playing here in the polo tournament. There wasn’t one
to touch him! He seemed to have complete command of his ponies, and
his strokes were a wonder. I little thought that his next visit to the
station would be to _me_.”
“No; who could have dreamt of such a thing? It all seems like a hideous
nightmare.”
“Look here, Miss Lingard, as far as I can I will help your brother,
but to show partiality to one man because he is of my own race would
upset all discipline, and lose me influence and authority. As it is, I
have an unruly crowd to deal with; we’ve had more than one unpleasant
outbreak. I believe there is one thing I can do for you--I will
overstep my rules for once, and will give your brother a message.”
“Will you? That really _is_ kind.”
“Well, what shall I say?”
“Give him my love, and tell him that I am in Bangalore, and hope to
see him on the first visiting day. Tell him that I am living with a
respectable old widow, and that he is never, never out of my thoughts.
Ask him to try and look at the bright side of things and to think of
the future, when we shall be together, and all this trouble will have
passed over like a thunderstorm. May I send him books?”
“No, but he can have the use of the prison library, such as it is.”
“Should I be allowed to present books to the prison library? As you so
seldom have a European here, your stock must be rather low.”
“That is so,” he admitted. “I don’t do much reading myself, but I
think the books there are nearly all missionary stuff, sent in from
somebody’s sale. You might be allowed to present a few, and you could
forward them through me. You must cheer up a bit,” he added; “after
all, the two years will soon run round.”
“Two years of a living death,” I protested; “what an awful punishment
for a momentary madness! My brother was dreadfully in debt, the money
tempted him; he meant of course to replace it, but there was no time.
It has been paid back now.”
“Yes; I understand that it was gambling brought Captain Lingard to
this. It has landed a good many natives here--chiefly Burmese and
Malays. The Burman is an inveterate gambler, so are Chinamen. Most of
our local cases are village brawls, theft and murder. Well now,” he
said, rising, “I must ask you to excuse me; this is my very busy time.
Would you like me to send for a gharry?”
I had intended to walk back, but I now felt so utterly shattered
that this feat would be impossible, so I thankfully accepted the
superintendent’s offer, and was presently being bowled away to Infantry
Lines.
All that day I lay on my bed prostrate, for I now acutely realised the
weight of Ronnie’s sentence. Would he ever survive to complete it?
Could that convict with the fixed white face and the sunken staring
eyes be my handsome, cheery brother?
I think Mrs. de Castro understood that I had recently received a
terrible shock. She brought me her recipe for all trouble--a cup of the
most excellent coffee--as well as a bottle of eau-de-Cologne with which
to bathe my throbbing head. Kip also was tenderly attentive. He knew
that I was in some sore grief; his eloquent eyes spoke volumes, and he
licked my hand from time to time, doing all in his power to offer me
his dumb sympathy.
No doubt it was the reaction from all I had gone through, culminating
in my visit to the jail and sight of Ronnie as a convict, but after
this expedition I broke down. I did not actually become a bedridden
invalid, but I seemed to have lost all energy. I could not eat, I slept
badly, and I was subject to exhaustive fits of crying. Mrs. de Castro
was seriously concerned, and endeavoured to feed me, dose me, and scold
me into a more cheerful frame of mind. She explained, with much wisdom,
that I could do no good to my brother by starving and fretting and
ruining my health.
One morning she threw two letters on my writing-table and said:
“These have just come by the dâk, and I expect _they’ll_ cheer you a
bit!”
I glanced at them, and saw they had been readdressed by Mrs. Lakin. The
first I seized upon and opened was from Brian, which said:
“MY DARLING EVA,--By bad luck I missed writing to you last week, but
it happened to be the day of my father’s operation; my mother was
dreadfully anxious and upset, and I forgot the Indian mail. My poor
little girl, all this trouble about your brother has been a terrible
affair for you, but I do not see why it should be the means of
breaking off our engagement, nor will _I_ ever consent to it. As Mrs.
Falkland you will have done with the name and association of Lingard,
and even if people remembered that your brother had been tried and
convicted, instead of being censorious they would be sincerely sorry
for you. I am, as you expected, also sorry for your brother. When I
was out at Secunderabad I could not help seeing the way things were
going, and once or twice I tried to give him a hint, but it was no
use. I also had an idea of talking to you on the subject, but on
second thoughts I decided it was better not to disturb you, and I
did not expect matters would have come to a crisis so soon. I also
consoled myself with the saying that ‘half the troubles in this world
are those that never happen.’ This trouble unfortunately _has_ come
off! I think you are foolish in remaining out in India--whereabouts
you do not say. Just at first I know that your brother will not be
allowed to see a visitor, so your presence in the country won’t be
much good to him. No doubt he will be promoted into a post where he
need not mix with the worst class of criminals. I wish it were in
my power to do something to alleviate his horrible condition, or to
reduce the term, but no doubt his own conduct and character will
effect that. My poor little girl, I cannot tell you how acutely I feel
for you; I know that this trouble is heart-breaking. I will write next
mail, and I implore you when you receive this to cable your address,
and send me a letter to say that second thoughts are best, and you are
returning home to
“Your always devoted,
“BRIAN.”
This letter I read over three times before I opened the next. It gave
me courage and a momentary gleam of happiness; nevertheless, I was
determined to remain in Bangalore and stick to Ronnie. Supposing I were
to go home as Brian suggested, and abandon Ronnie to his fate; in spite
of my fiancé’s comforting words I believed that all my acquaintances
would look upon me coldly and obviously strive to keep the subjects of
brothers, convicts and jail out of their conversation.
My next letter was from Aunt Mina:
“DEAR EVA,--Your uncle has deputed me to answer your letter, and I
commence it by saying that although we have a knave in the family, we
see no reason to tolerate a _fool_. Your brother, who has blackened
the Lingard name, disgraced us and you, is the knave, but you,
who have rushed after him, leaving the shelter of your friends at
Secunderabad, are acting like a fool. You must return home _at once_.
Your uncle, who stands in the place of a parent to you, desires me
to say that there is to be no question of this. We expect you to
start within a week from the date on which you receive this letter.
You will, of course, come to Torrington and make your home here. We
understand that you have paid up the money of the canteen fund. Your
uncle had intended to do this. He desires me to say that a cheque for
your passage home will be lodged; you are to return by the P. & O.,
and will be met at Southampton. Should you refuse to obey, and set
your face against our plans, the hundred a year allowance will cease;
not only this, but your future proceedings will be of no further
interest to this family and we shall look upon you as much dead to us
as is your brother. I know you are always inclined to be headstrong,
and to wild and impulsive actions, but on this occasion I sincerely
hope your recent experience will have taught you _humility_ and
common sense. We are inclined to fear that _you_ may have contributed
to Ronnie’s disaster. A girl of your age, with no experience of India,
possibly spent extravagantly and incurred large bills. Apparently
it is only since _you_ have lived with Ronnie that he has come to
grief. Of course our conjectures may be mistaken--I am sure I hope
so. This terrible family scandal has tried us greatly. The case was
in every newspaper, with a _portrait_; and at present--speaking for
myself--I do not care to go about and meet my neighbours. However,
dear Mrs. Paget-Taylor is, as usual, a wonderful consoler and a tower
of strength. By this day month, at the latest, we shall look for your
arrival. I see that the _Malwa_ sails on the 27th.
“Your affectionate aunt,
“WILHELMINA LINGARD.”
I did not read _this_ letter over three times, but giving way to one of
my childish passions I tore it into little bits, and then, while the
fit was still upon me, sat down and dashed off what I have no doubt was
considered a most intemperate reply. I refused absolutely to return to
England, and said that I was satisfied to take my place beside Ronnie
and be repudiated by the family; their money I did not want--and I
remained faithfully, Eva Lingard.
Thus I was now cut off from my few relations, and had, with my own
hands, barred the doors of Torrington.