"I will make inquiries," I said. "You may take that for a promise. If the
cell proves empty, you stop where you are."
I noticed that he dropped his hands with a lost gesture as I left him. I
was sufficiently moved to accost the warder who awaited me on the spot.
"Johnson," I said, "is that cell--"
"Empty, sir," answered the man sharply and at once.
Before I could respond, F---- came suddenly to the door, which I still
held open.
"You lying cur!" he shouted. "You damned lying cur!"
The warder thrust the man back with violence.
"Now you, 49," he said, "dry up, and none of your sauce!" and he banged
to the door with a sounding slap, and turned to me with a lowering face.
The prisoner inside yelped and stormed at the studded panels.
"That cell's empty, sir," repeated Johnson.
"Will you, as a matter of conscience, let me convince myself? I promised
the man."
"No, I can't."
"You can't?"
"No, sir."
"This is a piece of stupid discourtesy. You can have no reason, of
course?"
"I can't open it--that's all."
"Oh, Johnson! Then I must go to the fountain-head."
"Very well, sir."
Quite baffled by the man's obstinacy, I said no more, but walked off. If
my anger was roused, my curiosity was piqued in proportion.
* * * * *
I had no opportunity of interviewing the Governor all day, but at night I
visited him by invitation to play a game of piquet.
He was a man without "incumbrances"--as a severe conservatism designates
the _lares_ of the cottage--and, at home, lived at his ease and indulged
his amusements without comment.
I found him "tasting" his books, with which the room was well lined, and
drawing with relish at an excellent cigar in the intervals of the
courses.
He nodded to me, and held out an open volume in his left hand.
"Listen to this fellow," he said, tapping the page with his fingers:--
"'The most tolerable sort of Revenge, is for those wrongs which there is
no Law to remedy: But then, let a man take heed, the Revenge be such, as
there is no law to punish: Else, a man's Enemy, is still before hand, and
it is two for one. Some, when they take Revenge, are Desirous the party
should know, whence it cometh. This is the more Generous. For the Delight
seemeth to be, not so much in doing the Hurt, as in making the Party
repent: But Base and Crafty _Cowards are like the Arrow that flyeth in
the Dark. Cosmus, Duke of Florence, had a Desperate Saying against
Perfidious or Neglecting Friends, as if these wrongs were unpardonable.
You shall reade (saith he) that we are commanded to forgive our Enemies:
But you never read, that we are commanded, to forgive our Friends_.'
"Is he not a rare fellow?"
"Who?" said I.
"Francis Bacon, who screwed his wit to his philosophy, like a hammer-head
to its handle, and knocked a nail in at every blow. How many of our
friends round about here would be picking oakum now if they had made a
gospel of that quotation?"
"You mean they take no heed that the Law may punish for that for which it
gives no remedy?"
"Precisely; and specifically as to revenge. The criminal, from the
murderer to the petty pilferer, is actuated solely by the spirit of
vengeance--vengeance blind and speechless--towards a system that forces
him into a position quite outside his natural instincts."
"As to that, we have left Nature in the thicket. It is hopeless hunting
for her now."
"We hear her breathing sometimes, my friend. Otherwise Her Majesty's
prison locks would rust. But, I grant you, we have grown so unfamiliar
with her that we call her simplest manifestations _super_natural
nowadays."
"That reminds me. I visited F---- this afternoon. The man was in a queer
way--not foxing, in my opinion. Hysteria, probably."
"Oh! What was the matter with him?"
"The form it took was some absurd prejudice about the next cell--number
47, He swore it was not empty--was quite upset about it--said there
was some infernal influence at work in his neighbourhood. Nerves, he
finds, I suppose, may revenge themselves on one who has made a habit of
playing tricks with them. To satisfy him, I asked Johnson to open the
door of the next cell--"
"Well?"
"He refused."
"It is closed by my orders."
"That settles it, of course. The manner of Johnson's refusal was a bit
uncivil, but--"
He had been looking at me intently all this time--so intently that I was
conscious of a little embarrassment and confusion. His mouth was set like
a dash between brackets, and his eyes glistened. Now his features
relaxed, and he gave a short high neigh of a laugh.
"My dear fellow, you must make allowances for the rough old lurcher. He
was a soldier. He is all cut and measured out to the regimental pattern.
With him Major Shrike, like the king, can do no wrong. Did I ever tell
you he served under me in India? He did; and, moreover, I saved his life
there."
"In an engagement?"
"Worse--from the bite of a snake. It was a mere question of will. I told
him to wake and walk, and he did. They had thought him already in rigor
mortis; and, as for him--well, his devotion to me since has been single
to the last degree."
"That's as it should be."
"To be sure. And he's quite in my confidence. You must pass over the old
beggar's churlishness."
I laughed an assent. And then an odd thing happened. As I spoke, I had
walked over to a bookcase on the opposite side of the room to that on
which my host stood. Near this bookcase hung a mirror--an oblong affair,
set in brass _repoussé_ work--on the wall; and, happening to glance into
it as I approached, I caught sight of the Major's reflection as he turned
his face to follow my movement.
I say "turned his face"--a formal description only. What met my startled
gaze was an image of some nameless horror--of features grooved, and
battered, and shapeless, as if they had been torn by a wild beast.
I gave a little indrawn gasp and turned about. There stood the Major,
plainly himself, with a pleasant smile on his face.
"What's up?" said he.
He spoke abstractedly, pulling at his cigar; and I answered rudely,
"That's a damned bad looking-glass of yours!"
"I didn't know there was anything wrong with it," he said, still
abstracted and apart. And, indeed, when by sheer mental effort I forced
myself to look again, there stood my companion as he stood in the room.
I gave a tremulous laugh, muttered something or nothing, and fell to
examining the books in the case. But my fingers shook a trifle as I
aimlessly pulled out one volume after another.
"Am I getting fanciful?" I thought--"I whose business it is to give
practical account of every bugbear of the nerves. Bah! My liver must be
out of order. A speck of bile in one's eye may look a flying dragon."
I dismissed the folly from my mind, and set myself resolutely to
inspecting the books marshalled before me. Roving amongst them, I pulled
out, entirely at random, a thin, worn duodecimo, that was thrust well
back at a shelf end, as if it shrank from comparison with its prosperous
and portly neighbours. Nothing but chance impelled me to the choice; and
I don't know to this day what the ragged volume was about. It opened
naturally at a marker that lay in it--a folded slip of paper, yellow with
age; and glancing at this, a printed name caught my eye.
With some stir of curiosity, I spread the slip out. It was a title-page
to a volume, of poems, presumably; and the author was James Shrike.