If only the dead could find out when To come back and be forgiven!
Owen Meredith.
"Are your minds set upon righteousness, O ye congregation?" inquired Mr. Roche in skeptical tones.
 
It was Sunday morning, and all prisoners having the white Church of England ticket on their doors had been rounded up for the chapel. Not that that was any hardship, for they liked the service; it was commendably short, there were plenty of hymns, and even the lessons, as read by Dr. Scott in his voice of gold, were really quite amusing, especially the chroniques scandaleuses of the Old Testament. By contrast with the bareness of their cells they liked, too, the satins and the embroideries, the lights and the flowers and the incense on which the little doctor squandered most of his pocket-money. He was a believer in the beauty of holiness; he had transformed the bare little barn of a place into a gem. Only the jeweled cross and candlesticks, source of covetous desires in such members of the congregation as did not happen to be set upon righteousness, had been a thank-offering from another donor.
 
"Psalm 126, the first verse. 'When the Lord turned again the captivity of Zion—'"
 
By way of prelude to this boldly hopeful text, Mr. Roche had just announced the fall of Antwerp. Scott did not love the new chaplain, but he could not deny that he preached well, or that he got hold of the men. The atmosphere of the chapel was not as a rule what one might call devotional, but this morning there was a fullness in the responses and a[Pg 282] clean-cut hush during the sermon which rather touchingly reflected the general state of feeling. It was hard in 1914 to be a prisoner, since even criminals may love their country. Several of Scott's patients had proclaimed their intention of enlisting the moment they were free. As months, or even years, had to elapse before that happy time, these protestations were cheap and safe. Others, who said less, perhaps felt more. Scott had been sorry for many, leashed in by their punishment; for none more than B14.
 
"Con—found—their—pol—itics,
Frus—trate—their—knav—ish tricks—"
The National Anthem having been roared out from throats kept artificially silent during the week, chapel was dismissed, and it was the immediate duty of the medical officer to take the casual sick. Scott made a rush to his house for a glance at The Observer, which did not reach Westby till midday, and was back in the casualty room by a quarter to twelve. He stood at a desk, with Mackenzie, as chief warder, beside him, and a table covered with pills, potions, and ointments ready to hand. One by one, as their names were called, the patients came up for treatment.
 
"Mason A29, sir."
 
Mason advanced, a doleful wisp of a man. "Well, Mason, what's the matter with you?"
 
"Oh, if you please, sir, I've got such a dreadful cold in my head!" A fruity and exhaustive sniff lent point to the complaint.
 
"A cold in the head, have you? Give me your hand. Now let's see your tongue. H'm! Dose of No. 7."
 
No. 7 was poured out, Mason choked over it, and was passed out by the opposite door. "Next," said Scott.
 
"Gardiner B14, sir."
 
This was unexpected. Gardiner B14 stood cheerfully submissive, nursing his hand, which was wrapped in his clean Sunday handkerchief.
 
"Hullo, you in the wars again? What's the matter now, hey?"
 
[Pg 283]
 
"Bad thumb, sir," said Gardiner, gingerly unrolling it. Yes, his hand had broken out again. "I shall have to lance this," snapped Scott, and did so, with inward ruth. After twenty years of practice, he still hated inflicting pain. "What have you been doing to yourself? Why didn't you come to me before?"
 
"Well, sir, I never thought twice about it till this morning. I knocked it on a nail; I thought it would get all right."
 
"Get all right? Get all wrong! Your blood must be in a shocking state. Ever have anything of this sort before you came here?"
 
"N-no, I don't know that I have. I expect perhaps it's the confinement; I'm not used to it, you know."
 
"H'm! well, your time's up next month, isn't it? and then you'll be free to get some war work, which is what you're fidgeting after, aren't you? Take care of that hand, and don't go jabbing nails into it, unless you want to lose it altogether. Two thousand men of the Naval Division have crossed the Dutch frontier and will have to be interned. Next."
 
B14, with the faint suggestion of a smile, went the way of A29, and Scott looked after him with a sigh and the faint suggestion of a frown. Ever since his night in the padded cell it had been the same; Gardiner was polite, and even friendly, but he kept his distance. With no one is a reserved man more reserved than with the person before whom he has once been helplessly open. "I've lost him for good," Scott said to himself; and another sigh came, for he had not many friends. But he was right, it was irrevocable; Gardiner had definitively snapped the thread.
 
Sunday is a day of rest. Prisoners attend chapel twice, they have two separate hours of exercise, morning and afternoon; at half-past four they go to their cells for supper, and are then locked up for the night. In winter, all lights are put out. In summer, many read in bed. But on the brightest of June mornings Gardiner's cell was barely light enough for that; and by five o'clock in October it was as black as a cave. He had finished his supper, and was [Pg 284]screwing up his patience to endure the interminable night, when his door opened to admit that very welcome sight, a visitor—Mr. Roche the chaplain.
 
"I meant to get round before, but I haven't had a moment; I've been up to my eyes in business the whole day. But I thought I might just catch you before bed-time. How are you, eh?"
 
"Very well, thank you, sir. Very glad to see you." Gardiner's manner was an odd blend of orthodox respect and unorthodox friendliness. It had its counterpart in Roche's own: he could not quite shake off the condescension of the chaplain, yet he did not take possession of the prisoner's stool and leave him to stand. The consequence was that both kept their feet.
 
"To tell the truth, Gardiner, I've come to say good-by. I shan't have another chance; I'm off first thing to-morrow."
 
"Off on leave, sir?"
 
"Off for good. I'm leaving the prison. It's been in the air for some time, but it was only finally arranged last night. I've said nothing about it, because I didn't want a fuss; but I could not leave without seeing you."
 
"Thanks," said Gardiner, smiling. "You'll be missed. I'm glad my time's nearly up. Are you going to another prison, or is it an ordinary parish job?"
 
"Neither. I am joining up."
 
"Chaplain to the forces?"
 
"Better than that. I enlist." Gardiner's face, in the first moment of surprise, was more expressive than he could have wished. Roche, with his odd touch of the theatrical, laid a hand on his shoulder. "You envy me?" he asked, his voice thrilling and deepening. "Never mind, my poor fellow, your turn will come. Another month and you too will be free to do your bit with the best of us. In the service of your country there is no respect of persons—"
 
The hand was vigorously shaken off, and Gardiner stepped back. "I'll be shot if I'm going to let you patronize me! If you think that because you happen to be the Honorable and Reverend Dalrymple-Roche, and I'm B14—Why, I[Pg 285] was round the world and back again before you were out of your schoolroom!" He burst out laughing.
 
"Gardiner—"
 
"No, no, wait a bit; let me finish what I've got to say, now I've begun. I've had it on my mind for some time; I meant to save it up for when I got out, but as it seems I shan't have the chance then I'll do it now. You've been very decent to me, and you've kept me going through a rather beastly time, and I don't forget that, and I don't want to let it all lapse, and I rather think you don't either; but I won't be patronized. I may be in prison, but I've done nothing I'm ashamed of, and I do not consider myself disgraced. Got that?" The words were not bluff, they were plain truth; very telling was his vigorous independence. "Well, then, if I pay you deference here it's because discipline has to be maintained, and incidentally because I should get it hot if I didn't. For that reason, and for no other; certainly not because I feel deferential. Deferential! You wait till you've cut your wisdom teeth, my son, before you start preaching to me. There; I've done. You can report me if you like—sir."
 
Roche had colored up; he looked very haughty and very angry. "I think you forget yourself," he began, and then his mobile face changed. "I beg your pardon, Gardiner; you are perfectly right. I have no business to patronize you. I don't mean to do it; but it's the more or less official manner, and one slips into it—to tell the truth, that's one reason why I want to get away."
 
"Oh, that's all right, lots of parsons have a turn for magniloquence," said Gardiner, with a laugh, "and if you do it again I shall tell you again, that's all. You inevitably will. And so you mean to enlist? Ho ho!" His smile broadened as he ran his eye over Roche's handsome figure. He did not say, "You won't like that, my friend," but he thought it.
 
"The French priests take their places in the ranks," said Roche, "why not we? I put that to my bishop. He refused to release me. One must act on one's own conscience[Pg 286] in these matters. I am a priest, it is my duty to lead men; when peace comes, how can I expect them to follow me, if during the war I have been skulking behind my cloth here in England? I would not follow such a man. If the clergy shirk now, they will be digging the Church's grave."
 
"Very sound sentiments. I have an old daddy, and if he were thirty years younger—thank goodness he isn't, for he'd certainly get shot. Well, I congratulate you. Mind my finger, I'm still rather frail." Roche had wrung his hand with more fervor than discretion. "Funny beggar you are!" Gardiner added, with the laugh in his eyes that was often there when he talked to Roche. "You won't get shot. Bet you what you like you come out with the V.C.!"
 
"Priests don't bet."
 
"Privates do, though. Not that you'll stay a private. You'll be offered a commission—"
 
"I shan't accept it," Roche declared.
 
"More fool you, then, for you're just the sort they want. You lucky beggar—oh, you lucky beggar!"
 
The hunger of envy peeped out. Roche, at times self-absorbed and blind, had at other times an Irish quickness of perception.
 
"Gardiner—I'm sorry! Perhaps after all, if a competent surgeon sees your hand, instead of that wretched little sawbones—"
 
"Oh, that's all right, I shall get my whack by and by, even if I can't go into the trenches. Which reminds me: you won't forget to put through that little bit of business I asked you about, will you? (There's old Busy Bee locking up for the night, you'll have to clear out in two twos.) Just a word of introduction to Lord Ronayne, that's all I want. You see a criminal just out of jail does need some sort of sponsor." Gardiner's grin was quite free from bitterness.
 
"I won't forget," said Roche hurriedly, "I hadn't forgotten. I can answer for my father. Good-by, Gardiner—God bless you!"
 
Again he wrung the prisoner's hand, and again left him[Pg 287] laughing and swearing and shaking his fingers—a characteristic farewell.
 
Chim-chime. Chim-chime. Chim-chime. A quarter to five. St. Agnes' clock was striking as Roche came out into the lilac and gold of the October sunset, which lightened and broadened down the clean deserted streets, and glittered like tongues of fire in all the western windows. The trees in the square were brilliant, gold lace over iron filigree. Beyond them three tall chimneys stood, slender, black, and tapering against the cornflower-blue of distant hills. A train, just arrived in the station, was veiling itself in snowy mist, sun-smitten; and as Roche turned into the High Street St. Agnes' bells began to play The King of Love, merry and clear, a sweet little rocking tune in triplets. How bright the town was, and how peaceful in its Sunday rest! Not a soul was about, except the half-dozen travelers from the train; one of these, a tall man in the then unfamiliar uniform of the Royal Flying Corps, stopped to ask Roche the way to the prison.
 
In B14's cell it was already night. There was no sunshine here, not even light enough for him to throw his shoe at the blackbeetle which had crawled up the hot-water pipes, and was running about on the concrete floor. Gardiner lay on his back, hands clasped behind his head, staring at the gray oblong of his window, and wondering how he was going to get through the thirteen hour............