harming, however, had been of a peculiar sort. They hadn’t been able to make it out as murder, only as assault. She had heard, indeed, as the charge against Dawes was all trumped-up nonsense, all put together by a clever barrister . . .
‘But there,’ she added with a snort, ‘you do hear that, at Millbank.’
I said that I supposed you did. We had begun to walk again along the passage, and as we rounded the angle of it I saw the girl—Dawes—herself. She was seated, as before, with the sun upon her, but this time her eyes were lowered to her lap, where she was teasing a single thread from a tangle of wool.
I looked at Miss Craven. I said, ‘Might I, do you think—?’
The sun grew brighter as I stepped into the cell, and after the shadowy monotony of the passage-way its whitewashed walls were dazzling, and made me put my fingers to my brow, and blink. It took me a moment, then, to realise that Dawes had not stood and curtseyed, as all the other women had; nor had she set her work aside, nor did she smile, or speak. She only raised her eyes to gaze at me in a kind of patient curiosity—her fingers all the time plucking slowly at the ball of yarn, as if the coarse wool was a rosary and she was telling off the beads.
When Miss Craven had fastened the gate on us and moved away I said, ‘Your name is Dawes, I think. How do you do, Dawes?’
She did not answer, only stared at me. Her features are not quite so regular as I thought them last week, but have a slight want of symmetry—a little tilt—about the brows and lips. One notices the faces of the women of the gaol, because the gowns are so dull and so regular, and the caps so close-fitting. One notices the faces, and the hands. Dawes’s hands are slender, but rough and red. Her nails are split, and have spots of white upon them.
Still she did not speak. Her pose was so still, her gaze so unflinching, I wondered for a moment if she might not after all be simple, or dumb. I said I hoped she would be glad to talk with me a little; that I had come to Millbank to make friends of all the women . . .
My voice sounded loud to me. I imagined it carrying across the silent ward, saw the prisoners pausing in their work, lifting their heads, perhaps smiling. I think I turned from her, to her window, and gestured to the light that glanced from her white bonnet and from the crooked star upon her sleeve. I said, ‘You like to have the sun upon you.’—‘I may work,’ she answered quickly then, ‘and feel the sunlight too, I hope? I may have my bit of sunshine? God knows, there is little enough of it!’
There was a passion to her voice that made me blink, then hesitate. I looked about me. Her walls were not so dazzling now, and even as I looked I seemed to see the patch of light in which she sat grow smaller, the cell grow greyer and more chill. The sun, of course, was edging on its cruel way, away past Millbank’s towers. She must watch it do so, fixed and mute as the post on a sun-dial, earlier and earlier each day as the year moves on. One whole half of the gaol, indeed, from January to December must be dark as the far portion of the moon.
I felt awkward, realising this, standing before her while she sat still pulling at her wool. I moved to her folded hammock and placed my hand upon it. She said then, that if I was only handling that for curiosity’s sake, she would rather I handled something else, perhaps her trencher or her mug. They must keep the bed and blankets in prison folds. She said she wouldn’t like to have to fold them all again, after I had left her.
I drew my hand away at once. ‘Of course,’ I said again. And: ‘I am sorry.’ She lowered her eyes to her wooden needles. When I asked, what was she working at? she showed me, listlessly, the putty-coloured knitting in her lap. ‘Stockings for soldiers,’ she said. Her accent is good. When she stumbled over a word—which she did, sometimes, yet not quite as often as Ellen Power or Cook—I
‘But there,’ she added with a snort, ‘you do hear that, at Millbank.’
I said that I supposed you did. We had begun to walk again along the passage, and as we rounded the angle of it I saw the girl—Dawes—herself. She was seated, as before, with the sun upon her, but this time her eyes were lowered to her lap, where she was teasing a single thread from a tangle of wool.
I looked at Miss Craven. I said, ‘Might I, do you think—?’
The sun grew brighter as I stepped into the cell, and after the shadowy monotony of the passage-way its whitewashed walls were dazzling, and made me put my fingers to my brow, and blink. It took me a moment, then, to realise that Dawes had not stood and curtseyed, as all the other women had; nor had she set her work aside, nor did she smile, or speak. She only raised her eyes to gaze at me in a kind of patient curiosity—her fingers all the time plucking slowly at the ball of yarn, as if the coarse wool was a rosary and she was telling off the beads.
When Miss Craven had fastened the gate on us and moved away I said, ‘Your name is Dawes, I think. How do you do, Dawes?’
She did not answer, only stared at me. Her features are not quite so regular as I thought them last week, but have a slight want of symmetry—a little tilt—about the brows and lips. One notices the faces of the women of the gaol, because the gowns are so dull and so regular, and the caps so close-fitting. One notices the faces, and the hands. Dawes’s hands are slender, but rough and red. Her nails are split, and have spots of white upon them.
Still she did not speak. Her pose was so still, her gaze so unflinching, I wondered for a moment if she might not after all be simple, or dumb. I said I hoped she would be glad to talk with me a little; that I had come to Millbank to make friends of all the women . . .
My voice sounded loud to me. I imagined it carrying across the silent ward, saw the prisoners pausing in their work, lifting their heads, perhaps smiling. I think I turned from her, to her window, and gestured to the light that glanced from her white bonnet and from the crooked star upon her sleeve. I said, ‘You like to have the sun upon you.’—‘I may work,’ she answered quickly then, ‘and feel the sunlight too, I hope? I may have my bit of sunshine? God knows, there is little enough of it!’
There was a passion to her voice that made me blink, then hesitate. I looked about me. Her walls were not so dazzling now, and even as I looked I seemed to see the patch of light in which she sat grow smaller, the cell grow greyer and more chill. The sun, of course, was edging on its cruel way, away past Millbank’s towers. She must watch it do so, fixed and mute as the post on a sun-dial, earlier and earlier each day as the year moves on. One whole half of the gaol, indeed, from January to December must be dark as the far portion of the moon.
I felt awkward, realising this, standing before her while she sat still pulling at her wool. I moved to her folded hammock and placed my hand upon it. She said then, that if I was only handling that for curiosity’s sake, she would rather I handled something else, perhaps her trencher or her mug. They must keep the bed and blankets in prison folds. She said she wouldn’t like to have to fold them all again, after I had left her.
I drew my hand away at once. ‘Of course,’ I said again. And: ‘I am sorry.’ She lowered her eyes to her wooden needles. When I asked, what was she working at? she showed me, listlessly, the putty-coloured knitting in her lap. ‘Stockings for soldiers,’ she said. Her accent is good. When she stumbled over a word—which she did, sometimes, yet not quite as often as Ellen Power or Cook—I
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