superstitious imagination?' It wasn't a superstitious imagination,' the doctor affirmed, shaking his head. 'At least, I don't think so. I saw the light myself.'
Rampole said, slowly, 'And tonight your Martin Starberth spends an hour in the Governor's Room.'
'Yes. If he doesn't funk it. He's always been a nervous chap, one of the dreamy kind, and he was always a little ticklish about the prison. The last time he was in Chatterham was about a year ago, when he came home for the reading of Timothy's will. One of the specifications of the inheritance, of course, was that he should pass the customary `ordeal.' Then he left his sister and his cousin Herbert in charge of the Hall, and returned to America. He's in England only for the the merry festivities.'
Rampole shook his head.
'You've told me a lot about it,' he said; 'all but the origin. What I don't see is the reason behind these traditions.'
Dr. Fell took off his eyeglasses and put on a pair of owlish reading-spectacles. For a moment he bent over the sheets of paper on his desk, his hands at his temples. -
'I have here copies of the official journals, made from day to day like a ship's log, of Anthony Starberth, Esquire, Governor of Chatterham Prison 1797–1820, and of Martin Starberth, Esquire, Governor 1821–1837. The originals are kept at the Hall; old Timothy gave me permission to copy them. They ought to be published in book form, one day, as a sidelight on the penal methods of that day.' He remained for a time with his head down, drawing slowly on his pipe and — staring with brooding eyes at the inkwell. 'Previous to the latter part of the eighteenth century, you see, there were very few detention prisons in Europe. Criminals were either hanged outright, or branded and mutilated and turned loose, or deported to the colonies. There were exceptions, like the debtors, but in general no distinction was made between those who had been tried and those who were awaiting trial; they were flung in willy-nilly, under a vicious system.
'A man named John Howard started an agitation for detention prisons. Chatterham prison was begun even before Milbank, which is generally supposed to be the oldest. It was built by the convicts who were to occupy it, of stone quarried from the Starberth lands, under the muskets of a redcoat troop commissioned by George III for that purpose. The cat was freely used, and sluggards were hung up by their thumbs or otherwise tortured. Every stone, you see, has meant blood.'
As he paused, old words came unbidden to Rampole's mind, and he repeated them: ' There was a great crying in the land…'
'Yes. A great and bitter one. The governorship, of course, was given to Anthony Starberth. His family had been active in such interests for a long time; Anthony's father, I believe, had been deputy sheriff of Lincoln Bourough. It has been recorded,' said Dr. Fell, a long sniff rumbling up in his nose, 'that every day during the building, light or dark, sun or sleet, Anthony would come riding out on a dappled mare to oversee the work. The convicts grew to know him, and to hate him. They would always see him sitting on his horse, up against the sky and the black line of the marshes, in his three-cornered hat and his blue camlet cloak.
'Anthony had one eye put out in a duel. He was a bit of a dandy, though very miserly except where his person was concerned; he was stingy and cruel; he wrote bad verses by the hour, and hated his family for ridiculing them. I believe he used to say they would pay for making fun of his verses.
'They finished the prison in 1797, and Anthony moved in. He was the one who instituted the rule that the eldest son must look at what he'd left in the safe of the Governor's Room. His governorship, I needn't tell you, was a trifle worse than hellish; I'm deliberately toning down the whole recital. His one eye and his grin…. it was a good job,' Dr. Fell said, putting his palm down flat on the papers as though he were trying to blot out the writing?'it was a good job, my boy, that he made his arrangements for death when he did.'
'What happened to him?'
'Gideon!' cried a reproachful voice, followed by a fusillade of knocks on the study door which made Rampole jump. 'Gideon! Tea!'
'Eh?' said Dr. Fell, looking up blankly.
Mrs. Fell stated a grievance. 'Tea, Gideon! And I wish you'd let that horrible beer alone, though goodness knows the butter-cakes are bad enough, and it's so stuffy in there, and I see the rector and Miss Starberth coming up the road as it is.' There was the sound of a deep breath being drawn, whereupon Mrs. Fell summed it up saying, 'Tea!'
The doctor rose with a sigh, and they heard her fluttering down the passage, repeating, 'Bother, bother, bother!' like the exhaust of an automobile.
'We'll save it,' said Dr. Fell.
Dorothy Starberth was coming up the lane, moving with her free stride beside a large and bald-headed man who was fanning himself with his hat. Rampole felt a momentary qualm. Easy! — Don't act like a kid, now! He could hear her light, mocking voice. She was wearing a yellow jumper with a high neck, and some sort of brown skirt and coat into whose pockets her hands were thrust. The sun glimmered on her rich black hair, caught carelessly round her head; and as she turned her head from side to side you could see a clear profile, somehow as poised as a bird's wing. Then they were coming across the lawn, and the dark-blue eyes were fixed on him under long lashes…
'I think you know Miss Starberth,' Dr. Fell was saying. 'Mr. Saunders, this is Mr. Rampole, from America. He's staying with us.'
Rampole found his hand grasped with the vigour of muscular Christianity by the large and bald-headed man. Mr. Thomas Saunders was smiling professionally, his shaven jowls gleaming; he was one of those clergymen whom people praise by saying that they are not at all like clergymen. His forehead was steaming, but his bland blue eyes were as alert as a scoutmaster's. Mr. Saunders was forty years old, and looked much younger. He served his creed, you felt, as clearly and unthinkingly as he had served Eton (or Harrow, or Winchester, or whatever it was) on the playing-fields. Round his pink skull a fringe of fair hair fluffed like a tonsure, and he wore an enormous watch- chain.
'I am delighted to make your acquaintance, sir,' the rector boomed, heartily. 'I — ah — was pleased to know many of your countrymen during the war. Cousins over the sea, you know; cousins over the sea!'
He laughed, lightly and professionally. This air of professional smoothness and ease irritated the American; he murmured something and turned towards Dorothy Starberth….
'How do you do?' she said, extending a cool hand. 'It's jolly seeing you again! — How did you leave our mutual friends, the Harrises?'
Rampole was about to demand, 'Who?' when he caught the expectant innocence of her glance and the half- smile which animated it.
'Ah, the Harrises,' he said. 'Splendid, thank you, splendid.' With a startling burst of inspiration he added. 'Muriel is cutting a tooth.'
As nobody seemed impressed by this intelligence, and he was a trifle nervous about the ring of authenticity he had put into it, he was about to add further intimate details of the Harris household when Mrs. Fell suddenly shot out of the front door in another of her cuckoo-like appearances, to take charge of them all. She made a variety of unintelligible remarks which seemed to be chiefly concerned with beer, butter-cakes, and the dear thoughtfulness of the rector; and had he quite recovered from being drenched by that horrible water-sprinkler; and was he sure he hadn't got pneumonia? Mr. Saunders coughed experimentally, and said he hadn't.
'Dear me… bother!' said Mrs. Fell, walking into some plants. 'So near-sighted, blind as a bat, dear Mr. Saunders… And my dear,' whirling on the girl, 'where is your brother? You said he'd be here.'
Momentarily the shade was back on Dorothy Starberth's face, as Rampole had seen it last night. She hesitated, putting a hand to her wrist as though she would like to look at her watch; but taking it away instantly.
'Oh, he'll be here,' she said. 'He’s in the village-buying some things. He'll be along directly.'
The tea table was set out in the garden behind the house; it was shaded by a large lime tree, and a singing stream ran a few yards away. Rampole and the girl lagged behind the other three on the way.
'Baby Eadwig,' said Rampole, 'is down with mumps?'
'Smallpox. Ugh, you beast! I thought you were going to give me away. And in a community like this-I say, how did they know we'd met?'
'Some old fool of a lawyer saw us talking on the platform. But I thought you were going to give me away.'
At this extraordinary coincidence they both turned to look at each other, and he saw her eyes shining again.
