IN KENDAL GAOL
Bishop, in his corner of the chaise, made his burly person as small as
he could. He tried his best to hide his brown tops and square-toed
boots. In her corner Henrietta sat upright, staring rigidly before her.
For just one moment, as she passed from the house to the carriage,
under a score of staring eyes, a scarlet flush had risen to her very
hair, and she had shrunk back. But the colour had faded as quickly as
it had risen; she had restrained herself, and taken her seat. And now
the screes of Bow Fell, flecked with snow, were not more cold and hard
than her face as she gazed at the postilion’s moving back and saw it
not. She knew that she was down now without hope of rising; that, the
prison doors once closed on her, their shadow would rest on her always.
And her heart was numbed by despair. The burning sense of injustice, of
unfairness, which sears and hardens the human heart more quickly and
more completely than any other emotion, would awaken presently. But for
the time she sat stunned and hopeless; dazed and confounded by the
astonishing thing which had happened to her. To be sent to prison! To
be sent to herd—she remembered his very words—with such vile creatures
as prisons hold! To be at the beck and call of such a man as this who
sat beside her. To have to obey; and to belong no longer to herself,
but to others! As she thought of all this, and of the ordeal before
her, fraught with humiliations yet unknown, a hunted look grew in her
eyes, and for a few minutes she glanced wildly first out of this
window, then out of that. To prison! She was going to prison!
Fortunately her native courage came to her aid in her extremity. And
Bishop, who was not blind to her emotion, spoke.
“Don’t you be over-frightened, miss,” he said soothingly. “There’s
naught to be scared about. I’ll speak to them, and they’ll treat you
well. Not that a gaol is a comfortable place,” he continued,
remembering his duty to his employer; “and if you could see your way to
speaking—even now, miss—I’d take it on me to turn the horses.”
“I have nothing to say,” she answered, with a shudder and an effort—for
her throat was dry. But the mere act of speaking broke the spell and
relieved her of some of her fears.
“It’s the little boy I’m thinking of,” Bishop continued in a tone of
apology. “Captain Clyne thinks the world of him. The world of him! But,
lord, miss!” abruptly changing his tone, as his eyes alighted on her
wrist, “what have you done to your arm?”
She hid her wrist quickly, and with her face averted said that it was
nothing, nothing.
Bishop shook his head sagely.
“I doubt you bruised it getting out of the window,” he said. “Well,
well, miss; live and learn. Another time you’ll be wiser, I hope; and
not do such things.”
She did not answer, and the chaise passing by Plumgarth began to
descend into the wide stony valley. Below them the white-washed walls
and slated roofs and mills of Kendal could be seen clustering about the
Castle Bow and the old grey ruin that rises above the Ken river. On
either hand bleak hills, seamed with grey walls, made up a landscape
that rose without beauty to a lowering sky. There were few trees, no
hedges; and somewhere the cracked bell of a drugget factory or a
dye-works was clanging out a monotonous summons. To Henrietta’s
eye—fresh from the lake-side verdure—and still more to her heart, the
northern landscape struck cold and cheerless. It had given her but a
sorry welcome had she been on her way to seek the hospitality of the
inn. How much poorer was its welcome when she had no prospect before
her but the scant comfort and unknown hardships of a gaol!
The chaise did not enter the town, but a furlong short of it turned
aside and made for a group of windowless buildings, which crowned a
small eminence a bow-shot from the houses. As the horses drew the
chaise up the ascent to a heavy stone doorway, Henrietta had time to
see that the entrance was mean, if strong, and the place as
unpretending as it was dull. Nevertheless, her heart beat almost to
suffocation, as she stepped out at a word from Bishop, who had alighted
at once and knocked at the iron-studded door. With small delay a
grating was opened, a pale face, marked by high, hollow temples, looked
out; and some three or four sentences were exchanged. Then the door was
unlocked and thrown open. Bishop signed to her to enter first and she
did so—after an imperceptible pause. She found herself in a small
well-like yard, with the door and window of the prison-lodge on her
left and dead walls on the other sides.
Two children were playing on the steps of the lodge, and some linen,
dubiously drying in the cold winter air, hung on a line stretched from
the window to a holdfast in the opposite wall. Unfortunately, the yard
had been recently washed, and still ran with water; so that these
homely uses, and even the bench and pump which stood in a corner,
failed to impart much cheerfulness to its aspect. Had Henrietta’s heart
been capable of sinking lower it had certainly done so.
The children stared open-mouthed at her: but not with half as much
astonishment as the man in shirt sleeves who had admitted her. “Eh,
sir, but you’ve brought the cage a fine bird,” he said at last. “Your
servant, miss. Well, well, well!” with surprise. And he scratched his
head and grinned openly. “Debtors’ side, I suppose?”
“Remand,” Bishop answered with a wink and a meaning shake of the head.
“Here’s the warrant. All’s right.” And then to Henrietta—“If you’ll sit
down on that bench, miss, I’ll fix things up for you.”
The girl, her face a little paler than usual, sat down as she was
bidden, and looked about her. This was not her notion of a prison; for
here were neither gyves nor dungeons, but just a slatternly, damp
yard—as like as could be to some small backyard in the out-offices of
her brother’s house. Nevertheless, the gyves might be waiting for her
out of sight; and with or without them, the place was horribly
depressing that winter afternoon. The sky was grey above, the walls
were grey, the pavement grey. She was almost glad when Bishop and the
man in shirt-sleeves emerged from the lodge followed by a tall,
hard-featured woman in a dirty mob-cap. The woman’s arms were bare to
the elbow, and she carried a jingling bunch of keys. She eyed Henrietta
with dull dislike.
“That is settled, then,” Bishop said, a little overdoing the
cheerfulness at which he aimed. “Mother Weighton will see to you, and
’twill be all right. There are four on the debtors’ side, and you’ll be
best in the women-felons’, she thinks, since it’s empty, and you’ll
have it all to yourself.”
Henrietta heaved a deep sigh of relief. “I shall be alone, then?” she
said. “Oh, thank you.”
“Ay, you’ll be alone,” the woman answered, staring at her. “Very much
alone! But I’m not sure you’ll thank me, by-and-by. You madams are
pretty loud for company, I’ve always found, when you’ve had your own a
bit.” Then, “You don’t mind being locked up in a yard by yourself?” she
continued, with a close look at the girl’s face and long grey
riding-dress.
“Oh no, I shall be grateful to you,” Henrietta said eagerly, “if you
will let me be alone.”
“Ah, well, we’ll see how you like it,” the woman retorted. “Here, Ben,”
to her husband, “I suppose she is too much of a fine lady to carry her
band-box—yet awhile. Do you bring it.”
“I am sure,” Bishop said, “the young lady will be grateful for any
kindness, Mrs. Weighton. I will wait till you’ve lodged her
comfortably. God bless my soul,” he continued, screwing up his
features, as he affected to look about him, “I don’t know that one’s
not as well in as out!”
“Well, there’s no writs nor burglars!” the jailor answered with a grin.
“And the young folks, male nor female, don’t get into trouble through
staying out o’ nights. Now, then, missis,” to his wife, “no need to be
all day over it.”
The woman unlocked a low door in the wall opposite the lodge, but at
the inner end of the yard; and she signed to Henrietta to enter before
her. The girl did so, and found herself in a flagged yard about thirty
feet square. On her right were four mean-looking doors having above
each a grated aperture. Henrietta eyed these and her heart sank. They
were only too like the dungeons she had foreseen! But the jailor’s wife
turned to the opposite side of the yard where were two doors with small
glazed windows over them. The two sides that remained consisted of high
walls, surmounted by iron spikes.
“We’ll put you in a day-room as they’re all empty,” the woman grumbled.
She meant not ill, but she had the unfortunate knack of making all her
concessions with a bad grace.
Thereupon she unlocked one of the doors, and disclosed a small
whitewashed room, cold, but passably clean. A rough bench and table
occupied the middle of the floor, and in a corner stood a clumsy
spinning-wheel. The floor was of stone, but there was a makeshift
fireplace, dulled by rust and dirt.
“Get in a bedstead, Ben,” she continued. “I suppose,” looking abruptly
at Henrietta, “you are not used to chaff, young woman?”
The girl stared.
“I don’t understand, I am afraid,” she faltered.
“You are used to feathers, I dare say?” with a sneer.
“Oh, for a bed?”
“What else?” impatiently. “Good lord, haven’t you your senses? You can
have your choice. It’s eight-pence for chaff, and a shilling for
feathers.”
“I don’t mind paying while I’ve money,” Henrietta said humbly. “If
you’ll please to charge me what is right.”
“Well, it’s cheap enough, lord knows; for since the changes there’s no
garnish this side. And for the third of the earnings that’s left to us,
I’d not give fippence a week for all!”
The man had dragged in, while she talked, a kind of wooden trough for
the bed, and set it in a corner. He had then departed for firing, and
returned with a shovelful of burning coals, for the room was as cold as
the grave.
“There’s a pump in the yard,” the woman said, “and a can and basin, but
you must serve yourself. And there’s a pitcher for drinking. And you
can have from the cook-shop what you like to order in. You’ll have to
keep your place clean; but as long as you behave yourself, we’ll treat
you according. Only let us have no scratching and screaming!” she
continued. “Tempers don’t pay here, I’ll warn you. And for swoonings we
just turn the tap on! So do you take notice.” And with a satisfied look
round, “For the rest, there’s many a young woman that’s not gone wrong
that’s not so comfortable as you, my girl. And I’d have you know it.”
Henrietta coloured painfully.
“I shall do very well,” she said meekly. “But I’ve not done anything
wrong.”
“Ay, ay,” the woman answered unconcernedly, “they all say that! That’s
of course. But I can’t stay talking here. What’d you like for your
supper? A pint of stout, and a plate of a-la-mode? Or a chop?”
Henrietta reduced the order to tea and a white loaf and butter—if it
could be got—and asked meekly if she might have something to read.
The _Kendal Chronicle_ was promised. “You’ll have your meal at five,”
Mother Weighton continued. “And your light must be out at eight, and
you’ll have to ’tend service in chapel on Sunday. By rule your door
should be locked at five; but as you’re alone, and the lock’s on the
yard, I’ll say naught about that. You can have the run of the yard as a
favour and till another comes in.”
Then with a final look round she went out, her pattens clinked across
the court, and Henrietta heard the key turned in the outer door.
She stood a moment pressing her hands to her eyes, and trying to
control herself. At length she uncovered her eyes, and she looked again
round the whitewashed cell. Yes, it was real. The flagged floor, the
bench, the table, the odd-looking bed in its wooden trough—all were
real, hard, bare. And the solitude and the dreary silence, and the
light that was beginning to fade! The place was far from her crude
notion of a prison; but in its cold, naked severity it was as far
outside her previous experience. She was in prison, and this was her
cell, that was her prison-yard. And she was alone, quite, quite alone.
A sob rose in her throat, and then she laughed a little hysterically,
as she remembered their way with those who fainted. And sitting limply
down, she warmed herself at the fire, and dried two or three tears. She
looked about her again, eyed again the whitewashed walls, and listened.
The silence was complete; it almost frightened her. And her door had no
fastening on the inside. That fact moved her in the end to rise, and go
out and explore the yard, that she might make sure before the light
failed that no one was locked in with her, that no one lurked behind
the closed cell doors.
The task was not long. She tried the five doors, and found them all
locked; she knocked softly on them, and got no answer. The pump, the
iron basin, a well scrubbed bench, a couple of besoms, and a bucket,
she had soon reviewed all that the yard held. There was a trap or
Judas-hole in the outer door, and another, which troubled her, in the
door of her cell. But on the whole the survey left her reassured and
more at ease; the place, though cold, bare, and silent, was her own.
And when her tea and a dip-candle appeared at five she was able to show
the jailor’s wife a cheerful face.
The woman had heard more of her story by this time, and eyed her with
greater interest, and less rudely.
“You’ll not be afraid to be alone?” she said. “You’ve no need to be.
You’re safe enough here.”
“I’m not afraid,” Henrietta answered meekly. “But—couldn’t I have a
fastening on my door, please?”
“On the inside? Lord, no! But I can lock you in if you like,” with a
grin.
“Oh no! I did not mean that!”
“Well, then you must just push the table against the door. It’s against
rules,” with a wink, “but I shan’t be here to see.” And pulling her
woollen shawl more closely about her, she continued to stare at the
girl. Presently, “Lord’s sakes!” she said, “it’s a queer world! I
suppose you never was in a jail before? Never saw the inside of one,
perhaps?”
“No.”
“It’s something political, I’m told,” snuffing the candle with her
fingers, and resuming her inquisitive stare.
Henrietta nodded.
“With a man in it, of course! Drat the men! They do a plaguey deal of
mischief! Many’s the decent lass that’s been transported because of
them!”
Henrietta’s smile faded suddenly.
“I hope it’s not as bad as that,” she said.
“Well, I don’t know,” scrutinising the girl’s face. “It’s for you to
say. The officer that brought you—quite the gentleman too—told us it
was something to do with a murder. But you know best.”
“I hope not!”
“Well, I hope not too! For if it be, it’ll be mighty unpleasant for
you. It’s not three years since a lad I knew myself was sent across
seas for just being out at night with a rabbit-net. So it’s easy done
and soon over! And too late crying when the milk’s spilt.” And once
more snuffing the candle and telling Henrietta to leave her door open
until she had crossed the yard, she took herself off. Once more, but
now with a sick qualm, the girl heard the key turned on her.
“Transportation!” She did not know precisely what it meant; but she
knew that it meant something very dreadful. “Transportation! Oh, it is
impossible!” she murmured, “impossible! I have done nothing!”
Yet the word frightened her, the shadow of the thing haunted her. These
locks and bars, this solitude, this cold routine, was it possible that
once in their clutch the victim slid on, helpless and numbed—to
something worse? To-day, deaf to her protests, they had sent her
here—sent her by a force which seemed outside themselves. And no one
had intervened in her favour. No one had stepped forward to save her or
speak for her. Would the same thing befall her again? Would they try
her in the same impersonal fashion—as if she were a thing, a
chattel,—and find her guilty, condemn her, and hand her over to brutal
officials, and—she rose from her bench, shuddering, unable to bear the
prospect. She had begun the descent, must she sink to the bottom? Was
it inevitable? Could she no longer help herself? Sick, shivering with
sudden fear she walked the floor.
“Oh, it is impossible!” she cried, battling against her terror, and
trying to reassure herself. “It is impossible!” And for the time she
succeeded by a great effort in throwing off the nightmare.
No one came near her again that evening. And quite early the dip burned
low, and worn out and tired she went to bed, only partially undressing
herself. The bedding, though rough and horribly coarse, was clean, and,
little as she expected it, she fell asleep quickly in the strange
stillness of the prison.
She slept until an hour or two before dawn. Then she awoke and sat up
with a child’s cry in her ears. The impression was so real, so vivid
that the bare walls of the cell seemed to ring with the plaintive
voice. Quaking and perspiring she listened. She was sure that it was no
dream; the voice had been too real, too clear; and she wondered in a
panic what it could be. It was only slowly that she remembered where
she was and recognised that no child’s cry could reach her there. Nor
was it until after a long interval that she lay down again.
Even then she was not alone. The image of a little child, lonely,
friendless, and terrified, stayed with her, crouched by her pillow, sat
weeping in the dark corners of the cell, haunted her. She tried to
shake off the delusion, but the attempt was in vain. Conscience, that
in the dark hours before the dawn subjects all to his sceptre, began to
torment her. Had she acted rightly? Ought she to have put the child
first and her romantic notions second? And if any ill happened to
it—and it was a delicate, puny thing—would it lie at her door?
Remorse began to rack her. She wondered that she had not thought more
of the child, been wrung with pity for it, sympathised more deeply with
its fears and its misery. What, beside its plight, was hers? What,
beside its terrors, were her fears? Thus tormenting herself she lay for
some time, and was glad when the light stole in and she could rise,
cold as it was, and set her bed and her cell in order. By the time this
was done, and she had paced for half an hour up and down to warm
herself, a girl of eight, the jailor’s child, came with a shovel of
embers and helped her to light the fire—staring much at her the while.
“Mother said I could help you make your bed,” she began.
Henrietta, with a smile said that she had made it already.
“Mother thought you’d be too fine to make it,” still staring.
“Well, you see I am not.”
“I am glad of that,” the child answered candidly. “For mother said
you’d have to come to it and to worse, if you were transported, miss.”
Henrietta winced afresh, and looked at the imp less kindly.
“But I’m not going to be transported,” she said positively. “You’re
talking nonsense.”
“There’s never been any one transported from here.”
“No?” with relief. “Then why should I be?”
“But there was a man hanged three years ago. It was for stealing a
lamb. They didn’t let me see it.”
“And very right, too.”
“But mother’s promised”—with triumph—“that if you’re transported I
shall see it!” After which there was silence while the child stared. At
last, “Are you ready for your breakfast now?”
“Yes,” said poor Henrietta. “But I am not very hungry—you can tell your
mother.”