I
1 §
It was disconcerting to the Governor. The man’s smile was so peculiar.
Of course, these educated prisoners--doctors, solicitors, parsons--one
could never say good-bye to them quite without awkwardness; couldn’t
dismiss them with the usual “Shake hands! Hope you’ll keep straight and
have luck.” No! With the finish of his sentence a gentleman resumed
a kind of equality, ceased to be a number, ceased even being a name
without a prefix, to which the law and the newspapers with their
unfailing sense of what was proper at once reduced a prisoner on, or
even before, his conviction. No. 299 was once more Dr. Philip Raider,
in a suit of dark-grey tweeds, lean and limber, with grey hair grown
again in readiness for the outer world, with deep-set, shining eyes,
and that peculiar smile--a difficult subject. The Governor decided
suddenly to say only: “Well, good-bye, Dr. Raider”; and, holding out
his hand, he found it remain in contact with nothing.
So the fellow was going out in defiant mood--was he! The Governor felt
it rather hard after more than two years; and his mind retraced his
recollections of this prisoner. An illegal operation case! Not a good
‘mixer’--not that his prisoners were allowed to mix; still, always
reassuring to know that they would if not strenuously prevented!
Record--Exemplary. Chaplain’s report--Nothing doing (or words to that
effect). Work--Bookbinding. Quite! But--chief memory--that of a long
loose figure loping round at exercise, rather like a wolf. And there
he stood! The tall Governor felt at the moment oddly short. He raised
his hand from its posture of not too splendid isolation, and put the
closure with a gesture. No. 299’s lips moved:
“Is that all?”
Accustomed to being ‘sirred’ to the last, the Governor reddened. But
the accent was so refined that he decided not to mention it.
“Yes, that’s all.”
“Thank you. Good-morning.”
The eyes shone from under the brows, the smile curled the lips under
the long, fine, slightly hooked nose; the man loped easily to the door.
He carried his hands well. He made no noise going out. Damn! The fellow
had looked so exactly as if he had been thinking, ‘You poor devil!’
The Governor gazed round his office. Highly specialised life, no doubt!
The windows had bars; it was here that he saw refractory prisoners
in the morning, early. And, thrusting his hands into his pockets, he
frowned....
Outside, the head warder, straight, blue-clothed, grizzled, walked
ahead, with a bunch of keys.
“All in order,” he said to the blue-clothed janitor. “No. 299--going
out. Anyone waiting for him?”
“No, sir.”
“Right. Open!”
The door clanged under the key.
“Good-day to you,” said the head warder.
The released prisoner turned his smiling face and nodded; turned it to
the janitor, nodded again, and walked out between them, putting on a
grey felt hat. The door clanged under the key.
“Smiling!” remarked the janitor.
“Ah! Cool customer,” said the head warder. “Clever man, though, I’m
told.”
His voice sounded resentful, a little surprised, as if he had missed
the last word by saying it....
Hands in pockets, the released prisoner walked at leisure in the centre
of the pavement. An October day of misty sunshine, and the streets
full of people seeking the midday meal. And if they chanced to glance
at this passer-by their eyes would fly away at once, as a finger flies
from a too hot iron....
2 §
On the platform the prison chaplain, who had a day off and was going up
to town, saw a face under a grey hat which seemed vaguely familiar.
“Yes,” said a voice. “Late--299. Raider.”
The chaplain felt surprise.
“Oh, ah!” he stammered. “You went out to-day, I think. I hope you----”
“Don’t mention it!”
The train came clattering in. The chaplain entered a third-class
compartment; Late--299 followed. The chaplain experienced something of
a shock. Extremely unlike a prisoner! And this prisoner, out of whom
he had, so to speak, had no change whatever these two years past, had
always made him feel uncomfortable. There he sat opposite, turning
his paper, smoking a cigarette, as if on terms of perfect equality.
Lowering his own journal, the chaplain looked out of the window, trying
to select a course of conduct; then, conscious that he was being
stared at, he took a flying look at his _vis-à-vis_. The man’s face
seemed saying: “Feel a bit awkward, don’t you? But don’t worry. I’ve no
ill feeling. You have a devilish poor time.”
Unable to find the proper reply to this look, the chaplain remarked:
“Nice day. Country’s looking beautiful.”
Late--299 turned those shining eyes of his towards the landscape. The
man had a hungry face in spite of his smile; and the chaplain asked:
“Will you have a sandwich?”
“Thanks....”
“Forgive my enquiring,” said the chaplain presently, blowing crumbs off
his knees, “but what will you do now? I hope you’re going to----” How
could he put it? ‘Turn over a new leaf?’ ‘Make good?’ ‘Get going?’ He
could not put it; and instead took the cigarette which Late--299 was
offering him. The man was speaking too; his words seemed to come slowly
through the smoke, as if not yet used to a tongue.
“These last two years have been priceless.”
“Ah!” said the chaplain hopefully.
“I feel right on top.”
The chaplain’s spirit drooped.
“Do you mean,” he said, “that you don’t regret--that you
aren’t--er----?”
“Priceless!”
The man’s face had a lamentable look--steely, strangely smiling. No
humility in it at all. He would find Society did not tolerate such an
attitude. No, indeed! He would soon discover his place.
“I’m afraid,” he said kindly, “that you’ll find Society very
unforgiving. Have you a family?”
“Wife, son, and daughter.”
“How will they receive you?”
“Don’t know, I’m sure.”
“And your friends? I only want to prepare you a little.”
“Fortunately I have private means.”
The chaplain stared. What a piece of luck, or was it--a misfortune?
“If I’d been breakable, your prison would have broken me all right.
Have another cigarette?”
“No, thank you.”
The chaplain felt too sad. He had always said nothing could be done
with them so long as their will-power was unbroken. Distressing to see
a man who had received this great lesson still so stiff-necked; so far
from profiting by it. And, lifting his journal, he tried to read. But
those eyes seemed boring through the print. It was most uncomfortable.
Most!...