Starvecrow Farm Part 40

Thereupon she unlocked one of the doors, and disclosed a small whitewashed room, cold, but pa.s.sably 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 b.u.t.ter--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 rea.s.sured 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 la.s.s 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 rea.s.sure 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 coa.r.s.e, 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."