CHAPTER XVIII
THE GAOL
ADERHOLD looked forth from a narrow grating, so high-placedthat he must stand a-tiptoe like a child to see at all. Summerwithout,—summer, summer, and the winds of heaven! Within the gaol wassummer close and stagnant. It was difficult for light and air to maketheir way into the space where he was kept. What could come came, butmuch was prevented by the walls and the intention with which they hadbeen built. In that day, in a prison such as this, a noisy medley ofpeople without freedom might be found in the dark and damp centralpassage and larger rooms or in the high-walled and dismal bit of court.All manner of crime and no-crime, soil, mistake, and innocence huddledthere together, poisoning and being poisoned. Time and space receivedof their poison, carried it without these walls with at least as muchease as air and light came in, and distributed it with a blind face andan impartial hand.
But certain prisoners, those that people without the prison thought toopoisonous or were willing vengefully to make suffer, were not allowedthe hallway or the court or speech with fellow misery. These were putinto small, twilight chambers or dungeons.
Aderhold paced twelve feet by six—twelve feet by six. He was shackled,a chain from ankle to ankle, another from wrist to wrist. But theywere not heavy, and there was slack enough, so that one might walk andto some extent use the hands. Twelve feet by six—twelve feet by six.What light fell through the loophole window fell in one thin shaft ofgold-dust. The walls were damp to the touch, and scratched over withnames, ribaldry, and prayers. He himself, with a bit of pointed stonethat he had found, was graving in Latin upon an unmarked breadth.Twelve by six—twelve by six—where the straw pallet was flung, notmore than three feet clear.
He knew well how to avail himself of the escape of the mind and therebyto defeat the hours. He had no books, but memory and imagination wereto him landscape and library, while the searching thought worked hereas elsewhere. Memory and imagination could become his foes; Aderholdhad known that from of old. Oftenest friends and great genii, butsometimes foes with mowing faces and stabbing, icy fingers. Butstrangely to him, in these days, no hostile side appeared; or if itcame, it came in lessened strength; or if its strength was the same,then the opposing forces within him had themselves gathered power toovercome. It seemed to him that of late he had come to a turning; fear,shrinking, and dismay, that had often met him full course in life,often lurked for him at corners he must pass, seemed now themselvessomewhat shrunken and sinewless. He had known that there was furthergrowth within him—oh, further, further!—and that some day he wouldturn and look them in the face and see them for the pygmies thatthey were. It seemed that the dawn of that day had been nearer thanhe knew.... Twelve feet by six—twelve feet by six—with as even andsteady a pace as the irons would allow, and all the time to fancy thathe walked free in Hawthorn Wood. Then, for a change, to draw himselfup and see what might be seen through the slit of window. What mightbe seen was the topmost branch of a tree and a gargoyled angle of thegreat church tower, and above all a scimitar breadth of blue sky.From that to turn and grave at a letter upon the wall; then to walkagain; then to rest upon the straw while the subtile body went free,passed like an emanation through the prison walls and wandered inforeign lands, and where there was neither land nor water underfoot.At times he took under consideration his own present predicament andearthly future. But the sting and terror were gone. That they wereso he thanked his higher self, his widening, deepening, marchingconsciousness.
His present case.... There had been the examination immediately afterhis arrest and commitment to this gaol, the examination when he hadadmitted the apostasy and denied the sorcery. But that had been weeksago, and since then naught. Day after day in this dusk place, and onlythe turnkey had entered.
This gaoler was a battered, sometime soldier, red-faced andwry-mouthed. What romance had been in his life appeared to have come tohim with the dykes and green levels and waters of the Low Countries.Chance leading him one day to the discovery that his prisoner knewZutphen, Utrecht, and Amsterdam, he had henceforth, at each visit,plunged back for one short moment into the good old wars and renewed alurid happiness. The reflex, striking upon Aderhold, lightened his lotas prisoner. The gaoler, after the first few days, exhibited towardhim no personal brutality. Once he made, unexpectedly, the remarkthat he had seen good fighting done by all manner of people, and thatthe Devil must have some virtue in order to make so good a stand. Butthe gaoler’s visits were of the briefest, and he was close-mouthedas to all things save the wars. If he knew when assizes would be, hechose not to impart it. One day only he had been communicative enoughto speak of the commission named by the Privy Council. Who were thecommissioners? He named the members from this side of the county—twoor three of the clergy, several considerable country gentlemen. Fromthe Hawthorn end Squire Carthew and his brother and Master Clement theminister. It had been at work, the commission, meeting and meeting andtaking people up. The matter was become a big matter, making a noisethrough the country. They said the King himself was interested. Abishop was coming—and the Witch Judge.
“The Witch Judge?”
“Aye, the Witch Judge.”
But the gaoler would say no more—Aderhold was not sure that he knewmuch more. He left the cell, and at no other visit would he speak ofanything but the Dutch and the good wars.... What he had said had lefta sharp thorn of anxiety,—not for the prisoner’s self. Aderhold knewperfectly well how palely hope gleamed upon Gilbert Aderhold. He wouldbe done to death. But he knew also, from much observation, how theydragged the net so as to take in unallied forms. He tried to think ofany at Hawthorn or thereabouts who might be endangered. He had beenintimate with no one; none there had been confidant or disciple. Howmany that could save he had had occasion to note in France and Italy.Speech with such an one, acts of mere neighbourliness, the sheerestaccidental crossing of paths—anything served for prosecution andruin.... In the lack of all knowledge he was chiefly anxious about oldDorothy and the boy her nephew, and the youth to whom he had givenbooks. He never thought of Joan as being in peril.
Counting the days, he gathered that assizes could now be no greatway off. Then would he hear and know, be judged and suffer. Afterthat—continuance, persistence, being, yet and for ever, though heknew not the mode nor the manner of experience.... The gold light layacross the cell like a fairy road. He turned upon his side, eased wristand ankle as best he might, and with the chain across his breast fellhalf asleep. Ocean waves seemed to bear him up, a strong warm windto blow upon him, birds to be flying toward him from some beautiful,friendly strand....
The grating of the key roused him. It was not the gaoler’s time of day,but he was here, red-faced and wry-mouthed.
Aderhold rose to his feet. “Are the Judges come?”
The gaoler shook his head. “No, no! They’re trying highway thieves nextcounty. You’re to be lodged t’other side of gaol.”
They went down a winding stair and through a dark and foul passageway,then from one general room to another. The place was here dusk andgloom, here patched with sunny light. It was well peopled with shapesdespairing and complaining, or still and listless, or careless andnoisy. The gaoler and Aderhold crossed a bit of court and came bya small door into a long and narrow room where again there wereprisoners, men and women.
“Stand here,” said the gaoler, “while I get an order.” He moved away toa door in the wall.
The place was warm and dusk, save where from high windows there fella broken and wavering light. There was a dull murmur as of droningbees. Sound, too, from the town square without floated in,—summersounds. A fugitive memory came to Aderhold. It was years ago, and aspring morning, and he was riding across the square with Will theserving-man, Master Hardwick behind in the litter, ahead on his greatroan Harry Carthew. Upon the heels of that retracing came another. Itwas last winter again, and he stood on a doorstep not far from here,and ten feet away Sir Richard from the castle sat his horse and smelledat his silver box of spices.... He came b
ack to the present hour.This place was long, like a corridor; it was curiously gold-brown andred-brown, like a rich painting for light and shadow. He looked acrossand, standing alone against the wall, he saw Joan Heron.... All noisestilled itself, all other shapes passed. It was as though there werespread around them the loneliest desert or sea-strand in all the world.
Joan stood straight against the wall. Her grey dress was torn, her greyeyes had shadows beneath them, she had no colour in cheek or lip, andshe stood indomitable.
Aderhold put his hand before his eyes. “Mistress Friendly Soul,” hesaid, “why are you here?”
“For somewhat the same reason,” she answered, “that you are here.Because it is a crazed world.”
“How long—?”
“A long time.... Nearly four weeks.”
“Is it my misery to have brought you here?”
“No,” said Joan, “cruelty and wrong brought me here.”
“You are charged with—”
“Yes. With witchcraft.”
The gaoler, returning, began furiously to grumble that he would have nospeaking together, and urged Aderhold away. There was naught to do butto obey; he went, but at the door looked back. She was standing withher grey eyes and her sorrowful face set in scorn of this place and ofthe world. The door closed between them.
“No!” said the gaoler. “No questions, for I’ll not answer them. Saynaught and pay naught!—Down this stair. You won’t be so well lodged.”
It mattered not greatly to Gilbert Aderhold how he was lodged. When thegaoler was gone and the grating key removed, and solitude with him inthis dim place, he lay down upon the stone that made its flooring andhid his face. After a time, rising, he walked the dungeon where he wasimmured. He struck his shackled hands against the wall, pressed hisforehead against the stone....
The hours passed, the day passed, another night passed; another dawncame, strengthening outside into burning day. The gaoler appeared fora moment morning and evening, then darkness and silence.... He thoughtthat he must be yet nearer the great church than he had been in hisfirst cell. He could hear the bells, and they clanged more loudly here.
Aderhold, pacing the space not much longer or wider than a grave, heardin their ringing church bells far and near and deep in time. He heardthem ringing over Europe and from century to century. He heard thebells of a countryside that had rung when he was a child and had lovedthem well. He thought of the hosts who had loved the church bells, wholoved them yet; of the sweetness and peace and musical memory theywere to many—to very many; of the thousand associations, hoveringlike overtones, thoughts of old faces, old scenes, old gladnesses. Hesaw old, peaceful faces of men and women who had made their religiona religion of love and had loved the church bells. Waves of fragrantmemories came to Aderhold himself—days of a serious, quiet childhoodwhen he had pondered over Bible stories; when in some leafy gardencorner, or on his bed at night, he had gone in imagination step by stepthrough that drama of Judea, figuring himself as a boy who followed,as, maybe, a younger brother of the beloved John. It came back tohim—as, indeed, it had never left him—the soft and bright and good,the pristine part, the Jesus part, the natural part. _Do unto othersas thou wouldst have others do unto you_—_Love thy neighbour asthyself_—_I say unto you until seventy times seven times_—
The church bells! The church bells! But they had swung him here intothis narrow place and dark, and they would swing him into a darker anda narrower. They had swung Joan Heron there where she stood against thewall.... The many and the many and the many they had rung and swung totorture, infamy, and death! The church bells! They rang in the name ofa gentle heart, but they rang also for the savage and poor guesses,the ferocities, the nomad imagination of an ancient, early people.They rang for Oriental ideas of despot and slave, thrones and princes,glittering reward of eternal, happy indolence, fearful punishment ofeternal physical torment and ignominy! They rang head beneath the foot,and he that raiseth voice against this Order, not his body only, buthis soul and his memory shall be flayed!... Palestine or England, whatdid it matter? Caiaphas or the Christian Church?... The searching,questing spirit that, age by age, lifted from the lower past toward thelight of further knowledge, larger scope—and the past that, age byage, hurled its bolts and let its arrows fly and rang its iron bellsagainst that spirit.... The bells rang and rang. He heard them sweetand softened across the years and knew that many loved them and heldthem holy; he heard them ring, jubilantly, above many a martyr’s stake,massacre, war, and torture chamber, ring the knell of just questioning,ring the burial, for yet longer and yet longer, of the truth of things;and knew that many, and those not the least worthy, must abhor them. Hehad loved them, too, but to-day he loved them not. They clanged witha hoarse old sound of savage gong and drum and tube calling to thesacrifice....
Between morning and midday the door opened and his red-faced,wry-mouthed friend of the Dutch wars appeared. “Two of thecommissioners would talk with you.” They climbed the stairs leadingfrom the darkness, and passed again through that long and narrow room.But though there were prisoners here, Joan Heron was not among them.The gaoler turned to the left and, opening a door, signed to him toenter a fair-sized, well-lighted room where were chairs and a table.The light dazzled him, coming from the almost night underfoot. When hisvision cleared he saw that the two who awaited him were the minister ofHawthorn and Master Harry Carthew.
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