better is he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.—proverbs.
seven years of prison doctoring had not blunted the first fine temper of leonard scott's sympathy. doctors in general, even in ordinary practice, have to harden themselves or break down; scott stuck to his work year after year, and yet contrived to remain as tender-hearted as a novice at his first death-bed. he was steeped in that fount of love and strength, romance and poetry, known as the catholic faith. not the roman catholic faith, be it observed. nothing annoyed him more than to be called a papist—except to be called a protestant.
he was a dreamer, a saint, a mystic, this dapper little man with the snappy manner and the aggressively white linen; a citizen of the heavenly jerusalem, whose ports of pearl and streets of shining gold were more real to him than the walls of westby jail. saints and martyrs crowded heaven to applaud his progress; warrior angels fought at his right hand; christ himself stooped to him in the mystery of the eucharist. in this faith he was able to go on working hopefully at his hopeless task—for what, after all, was the use of patching up these wretched bodies which in a few weeks must go back to the dirt and the vices that had bred their disease? leonard scott thought it was a great deal of use; he loved his criminals. the sociologist would have seen westby jail as a garbage heap meet for the furnace; the christian idealist went about joyfully picking up pearls.
but a faith which removes mountains may fail to console the man who has to appear in knickerbockers at a dinner-party; and this child of heaven was made very uncomfortable[pg 202] by the addition of gardiner to his happy family of jail-birds. he hated attending as prison doctor on the man whom his evidence had helped to convict, and he did not like gardiner himself. he thought him flippant, a quality which arises punctually to answer expectation. since he did not like him, he felt he ought to cultivate him; your man of conscience always feels his duty to be the thing he doesn't want to do. in this case, however, scott fell short of his duty. he carefully avoided gardiner, and was rather annoyed to find that gardiner seemed equally anxious to avoid him. never did he bother his doctor for pills and potions. yet scott, who kept an uneasy eye upon his embarrassing patient, could see that prison life was not agreeing with his health.
one day he overheard two warders comparing notes about b14. he had been getting into hot water; he had smashed everything in his cell, and finished up by smashing a warder. "my word! he did give us ginger. you never see anything like it!" said warder barnes, with a touch of surprised admiration. "it's what i always 'ave said—them quiet, eddicated ones gives twice as much trouble as the others when they do give trouble," assented warder mason. b14 was now in the punishment cells on a chastening diet of bread and water. scott felt more than ever that he ought to find some pretext for seeing him, but he didn't do so.
going back to prison after his trial seemed to gardiner like entering the black mouth of a tunnel. there were the unescapable walls on either side, and the weight of a mountain overhead, the horror of panic pressing up behind, and the interminable stretch of black blank darkness through which he must grope before he could hope to see, far off, the first faint whiteness of deliverance. yet the first days were not so bad as he had expected. some of the outer light lingered on for a time; lettice's face—she had not looked at him while giving her evidence, but at the end, just as she was leaving the box, she had turned deliberately and smiled at him across the court. that look went with him far into the darkness. it was the nights that were the worst.[pg 203] there were moments, then, when he had to hold off panic by the throat. but he was carefully prudent; he worked with all his might during the eight hours he was at work, and studied with all his might during the sixteen he spent in his cell. that was his last charge to his brother: "you send along some books to the prison library. grammars and texts—i want to learn flemish and dutch, and i could do with some portugoosh as well. i'm getting a bit rusty, and they all come in handy." on these terms he found himself actually better off as a convicted criminal than he had been as a prisoner on remand. regular work and exercise were by no means a bad exchange, even for the high privileges of wearing his own clothes and paying for his own dinner.
march came in with balmy days of relaxing sweetness. the sun at dawn stole into his cell through the ground glass of his window; and by standing on his stool, with his nose pressed as close to the ventilator as it would go, he could even at times smell violets. persistent little friendly flowers, they had found their way into the prison yard and niched themselves between the stones of the wall; and in march every tiny seedling was a knot of blue.
"when the moon their hollows lights,
and they are filled with balms of spring,
and in the glens, on starry nights,
the nightingales divinely sing—
ah! then a longing like despair
is to their inmost caverns sent."
gardiner had lived all his life too close to nature to escape the call of the spring. if his work had been out of doors, in the garden or the farm, he might have come through better; but he was in the printing room; always hot and stuffy with glue, and his exercise was limited to the five minutes' walk to and fro. he lost his sleep, and in the long vigils he was tormented by visions of rochehaut. he saw the great solemn autumnal hills, sallow in the moonlight, the leafless woods, the white crags matted with ivy and with the rusty growth of ferns, the semois in flood, chrome-yellow, surging from side to side of her naked valley. he[pg 204] remembered the large cool rooms of his home, the green light filtering through the jalousies, the white cloth blowing round the legs of the little table under the pines where he took his meals, the sound and smell of the coffee machine, the summer apples which he gathered in the orchard, "faintly red even beneath the crimson skin." like many southerners, gardiner lived very largely on fruit; and one of the minor trials of his prison life was the prison diet, where fruit and vegetables are not. most prisoners suffer from this; he suffered more than most, and could less afford the steady lowering of his health.
it happened one day, owing to some alterations, that gardiner had to change his cell, and was put into the older part of the prison. his new quarters were so dark that the occupant was regularly allowed a light in the daytime. the warder in charge was too busy to see to it at the moment; next day he promised to do so, but forgot, the prisoner meanwhile being left to twiddle his thumbs during the sixteen empty hours he spent each day in his cell. when, for the third time, he put forward his submissive request, warder thomson, a surly fellow, happened to be out of temper, and told him curtly not to bother. to his amazement the well-conducted b14 flew at him like a fury. he slipped out just in time, and blew his whistle for help. b14 meanwhile amused himself by smashing everything smashable in his cell; he kicked his tins into cocked hats, he rent his bed-clothes to ribbons, he tore his books out of their bindings and strewed them about the floor. it was a glorious smash, and it was followed by an even more glorious fight; for directly the door opened he flew again upon the offending warder thomson with the leg of his dismembered stool, and succeeded in breaking his head and knocking out two of his teeth, before he in his turn was "coshed" by an assistant, and finally brought to earth. for the space of ten exciting minutes gardiner enjoyed himself.
but afterwards, when he came to himself in the dismal "solitary" cell, and still more when he heard his punishment, and knew that he had cut himself off for two endless[pg 205] months from his friends—then the cold reaction set in, and he went down into the depths. the first night was terrible. panic was again at his throat; it did not succeed in pulling him down, but when the dawn came, and at the cheerful sounds of human life the furies shrank back into their shades, he knew that he had been very near—something. what he feared he did not know, but he did know that if his fear got the mastery, if he lost his self-command, he would not be fit to go to lettice at the end of his term.
he lay thinking very earnestly, open-eyed. it was perfectly plain what he ought to do: he ought to put down his name to see the doctor, who would give him bromide or something to settle his nerves. and there was more in it than that; he ought to see scott about another small trouble which had nothing to do with nerves, and which, if he had chosen to put it forward, would have been a mitigating circumstance in the mind of the governor when he pronounced sentence. oh, he was a fool—he really was a fool! why, if he had even chosen to state his grievance about the light he might have got off with quarter penalty, perhaps with none at all. captain harding wasn't half a bad old chap, he made allowances for human nature, even in a criminal. but would gardiner do that? not he! he had stood sullenly dumb, refusing to defend himself, refusing to answer a single question. it went against the grain with him to explain, to make excuses, even to admit that he was ill. yet could he stand another night like the last? he would have preferred to; he would have butted his obstinate head into death or even madness, sooner than bend his pride. but there was lettice to be considered, and all her little fads about standing up to things and not running away.
when warder barnes came in the evening to bring his supper of bread and water and collect the mail-bags which he should have sewn (prisoners in the punishment cells do not go out to work), he found the pile untouched. gardiner had not done one. barnes pursed up his lips to a whistle.
"hullo, hullo! now this ain't sense, b14. why ain't you done your work to-day?"
[pg 206]
"because i haven't," said the prisoner. he was sitting on his stool with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands; he reached out for the water barnes had brought and drank it at a draught, but otherwise he did not stir.
"that's silly talk," said the warder reprovingly. it was the same little cockney who had admired what he called b14's ginger; a kindly little soul, as many of the prison attendants are. "you're only makin' trouble for yourself. ain't you had enough already?" the prisoner made no sign. "come now! you give me your word as you'll do your job to-morrow, and i'll pass you light this time. don't want another week of it in 'ere, do you?" still no answer. "oh, well, i can't wait all night, if you choose to be refractory you must," said barnes, rather short, because his kindness had met with no response. he gathered up the untouched bags. "i shall 'ave to report you, that's all."
he was just going out of the door when the prisoner moved.
"i say."
"well?"
"i couldn't do those bags," said gardiner. "my hand's bad."
"your hand bad! what's the matter with it?"
barnes snatched roughly at the half-extended fingers. they were torn out of his grasp. "damn you," said gardiner very quietly. even in the darkness barnes could see his face, scarlet with sudden pain.
"i didn't mean to 'urt you," he said gruffly. "i thought you was malingering. what have you done to your 'and?"
"i don't malinger, and i haven't done anything to my hand," the prisoner retorted. his tone was short; he was still nursing his wrist and biting his lip. "but the fact remains, i can't sew. if you wouldn't mind putting me down to see the doctor, i should be much obliged. there's my ticket."
"let's 'ave a look." gardiner would rather have put his fist, pain and all, into the man's face; he silently extended his palm. "my word! that gives you pen and ink, i lay,"[pg 207] said barnes with critical interest. "i say, i'm sorry i hurt you, b14; i might 'a' known you wasn't one of the 'umbuggin' sort. i'll put you down to see the doctor, never fear."
the door banged with the complacent decision of prison doors, and gardiner was alone. he paid for his susceptibility to pleasure by a corresponding susceptibility to pain; barnes had actually made him feel faint. he tumbled off his stool on to the floor and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. well! he was in for it now. would he be able to keep up the same virtuous docility in his interview with scott? lord only knew! and, thinking of lettice, he smiled. it was she who had dictated every word.
barnes, good little soul, was pricked with compunction for his roughness. partly on this account, and partly because, even to his unprofessional eye, b14's hand appeared to be in a bad way, he made it his business to go to dr. scott as soon as he could; and scott was equally prompt in responding. the rule for the casual sick is that they are collected in a batch from the gangs after the "cease work" bell in the morning, and shepherded to the doctor's office, where he disposes of them in turn: summary jurisdiction, a "tot" of no. dash medicine, to be swallowed on the spot. b14, however, being in punishment, could not go to mahomet, so mahomet had to go to him. half-an-hour after it had closed, gardiner's door reopened to admit the doctor, with barnes in attendance. a doctor never, in any circumstances, sees a prisoner alone.
gardiner, nodding off into an uneasy doze, scrambled to his feet in a hurry.
"you wanted to see me?" said scott in his curtest tone, because he was mortally sorry for his patient. "got a bad hand, have you? let's have a look."
"there wasn't any hurry, sir. i didn't want to bother you—"
"it's my business to come when i'm called, isn't it? i'm here to doctor the lot of you, aren't i? you do as you're told."
with that scott plumped down on the stool, and took[pg 208] the hand in his own. his touch was exquisitely gentle. gardiner rather wished he had grabbed at him like warder barnes; but he stood submissive, and submissively answered questions. "yes, sir, i got it rather badly crushed last summer. yes, it did take a time to heal. no, i don't know that i felt anything particular until this began—that was about ten days ago."
"hurt, eh?" asked scott, with a swift glance up from his dressing.
"a little," gardiner admitted.
"suppuration of the palm is the very—" said scott. "don't you try to humbug me. i know. damaged the bone, that's what you've done, and you aren't by any means out of the wood yet. that'll do for to-night. now let's have a look at you. your general health can't be up to much, or you wouldn't have a mess-up like this. any special symptoms to complain of?"
"i've been rather off my sleep lately."
"you'd need cast-iron nerves to be on it, with your hand in that state. how long has it been going on—the insomnia, i mean?"
"oh, three weeks or so. since the warm weather set in."
"before your hand was bad, eh?"
"i suppose so."
"and the hand itself went wrong before you indulged in the pretty little scrap that's landed you in this pestilential hole?" said scott. it was not a speech he ought to have made to a prisoner; but scott was far from always saying what he ought. besides, he had had a long battle with the authorities about the condition of the old part of the prison in general and of the punishment cells in particular, a battle in which he had been worsted, and which had left a rankling grudge. the governor had called him a meddlesome sentimentalist, which was true; and he had called the governor a pig-headed martinet, which was about equally true.
gardiner assented with a nod. it was all against the grain, every word that he said, and every drop of the suppressed sympathy which he detected lurking under the little doctor's[pg 209] extra aggressive manner. nevertheless with another heroic effort, backed by another thought of lettice, he constrained himself to add: "i think perhaps it's the indoor life, sir. i've been used to be out all day and all night. here i'm in the printing shop; it's an interesting job, and i like it, but i think perhaps i might get on better on the farm."
"you do, do you? what do you suppose you know about it?"
"nothing," said gardiner, "only you asked me."
"h'm!" said the little doctor. "well, i can't do anything more now. i'll see to you properly to-morrow." he picked himself up with his usual fierce alacrity. going out of the door, he turned to add: "i'll send you round a dose in half-an-hour. warder, you see he takes it. young fool, going on for a month till he gets into this state—he'll throw it into the slops, if you give him half a chance!"
with that, exit dr. scott, still grumbling.
gardiner threw himself down on his bare plank bed. "o lord!" he said with half a chuckle and half a groan. "oh, lettice, it's a pity you weren't the fly on the wall, i think you'd have enjoyed the scene. lord, how i do hate that little chap! and yet i don't, you know, i rather like him. i wish he'd prescribe me a cigarette, i bet that would put me to by-by better than all his boluses. i'm glad i said what i did about the farm. if he can only work that, i think, with luck, i may pull through. he's gone away breathing out mercies and indulgences. what an ass i am to dislike saying these things, but i certainly do. oh, lettice, mi prenda, alma de mi vida, luz de mis ojos—won't i make love to you in spanish when my time comes, and won't you be not ductile!—if i do stick it out you ought to feel uncommonly proud of yourself, but you won't. never, never in my life shall i succeed in persuading you that it's all your doing, but it is."
