The granite walls of Egdon Heath Penal Settlement are visible, when there is no mist, from the main road, and it is not uncommon for cars to stop there a few moments while the occupants stand up and stare happily about them. They are looking for convicts, and as often as not they are rewarded by seeing move across the heath before them a black group of men chained together and uniformly dressed, with a mounted and armed warder riding at their side. They give an appearance of industry which on investigation is quite illusionary, for so much of the day at Egdon is taken up with marching to and from the quarries, in issuing and counting tools, in guarding and chaining and releasing the workmen, that there is very little work done. But there is usually something to be seen from the road, enough, anyway, to be imagined from the very aspect of the building to send the trippers off to their teas with their consciences agreeably unquiet at the memory of small dishonesties in railway trains, inaccurate income tax returns, and the hundred and one minor infractions of law that are inevitable in civilized life.
Paul arrived from Blackstone late one afternoon in early autumn with two warders and six other long‑sentence prisoners. The journey had been spent in an ordinary third‑class railway carriage, where the two warders smoked black tobacco in cheap little wooden pipes and were inclined towards conversation.
'You'll find a lot of improvements since you were here last, said one of them. 'There's two coloured‑glass windows in the chapel presented by the last Governor's widow. Lovely they are, St Peter and St Paul in prison being released by an angel. Some of the Low Church prisoners don't like them, though.
'We had a lecture last week, too, but it wasn't very popular ‑ "The Work of the League of Nations", given by a young chap of the name of Potts. Still, it makes a change. I hear you've been having a lot of changes at Blackstone.
'I should just about think we have, said one of the convicts, and proceeded to give a somewhat exaggerated account of the death of Mr Prendergast.
Presently one of the warders, observing that Paul seemed shy of joining in the conversation, handed him a daily paper. 'Like to look at this, sonny? he said. 'It's the last you'll see for some time.
There was very little in it to interest Paul, whose only information from the outside world during the last six weeks had come from Sir Wilfred Lucas‑Dockery's weekly bulletins (for one of the first discoveries of his captivity was that interest in 'news' does not spring from genuine curiosity, but from the desire for completeness. During his long years of freedom he had scarcely allowed a day to pass without reading fairly fully from at least two newspapers, always pressing on with a series of events which never came to an end. Once the series was broken he had little desire to resume it), but he was deeply moved to discover on one of the middle plates an obscure but recognizable photograph of Margot and Peter. 'The Honourable Mrs Beste‑Chetwynde, it said below, 'and her son, Peter, who succeeds his uncle as Earl of Pastmaster. In the next column was an announcement of the death of Lord Pastmaster and a brief survey of his uneventful life. At the end it said, 'It is understood that Mrs Beste‑Chetwynde and the young Earl, who have been spending the last few months at their villa in Corfu, will return to England in a few days. Mrs Beste‑Chetwynde has for many years been a prominent hostess in the fashionable world and is regarded as one of the most beautiful women in Society. Her son's succession to the earldom recalls the sensation caused in May of this year by the announcement of her engagement to Mr Paul Pennyfeather and the dramatic arrest of the bridegroom at a leading West End hotel a few hours before the wedding ceremony. The new Lord Pastmaster is sixteen years old, and has up till now been educated privately.
Paul sat back in the carriage for a long time looking at the photograph, while his companions played several hands of poker in reckless disregard of Standing Orders. In his six weeks of solitude and grave consideration he had failed to make up his mind about Margot Beste-Chetwynde; it was torn and distracted by two conflicting methods of thought. On one side was the dead weight of precept, inherited from generations of schoolmasters and divines. According to these, the problem was difficult but not insoluble. He had 'done the right thing' in shielding the woman: so much was clear, but Margot had not quite filled the place assigned to her, for in this case she was grossly culpable, and he was shielding her, not from misfortune nor injustice, but from the consequence of her crimes; he felt a flush about his knees as Boy Scout honour whispered that Margot had got him into a row and ought jolly well to own up and face the music. As he sat over his post‑bags he had wrestled with this argument without achieving any satisfactory result except a growing conviction that there was something radically inapplicable about this whole code of ready‑made honour that is the still small voice, trained to command, of the Englishman all the world over. On the other hand was the undeniable cogency of Peter Beste‑Chetwynde's. 'You can't see Mamma in prison, can you? The more Paul considered this, the more he perceived it to be the statement of a natural law. He appreciated the assumption of comprehension with which Peter had delivered it. As he studied Margot's photograph, dubiously transmitted as it was, he was strengthened in his belief that there was, in fact, and should be, one law for her and another for himself, and that the raw little exertions of nineteenth‑century Radicals were essentially base and trivial and misdirected. It was not simply that Margot had been very rich or that he had been in love with her. It was just that he saw the impossibility of Margot in prison; the bare connexion of vocables associating the ideas was obscene. Margot dressed in prison uniform, hustled down corridors by wardresses all like the younger Miss Fagan ‑ visited by philanthropic old ladies with devotional pamphlets, set to work in the laundry washing the other prisoners' clothes ‑ these things were impossible, and if the preposterous processes of law had condemned her, then the woman that they actually caught and pinned down would not have been Margot, but some quite other person of the same name and somewhat similar appearance. It was impossible to imprison the Margot who had committed the crime. If some one had to suffer that the public might be discouraged from providing poor Mrs Grimes with the only employment for which civilization had prepared her, then it had better be Paul than that other woman with Margot's name, for anyone who has been to an English public school will always feel comparatively at home in prison. It is the people brought up in the gay intimacy of the slums, Paul learned, who find prison so soul‑destroying.
How lovely Margot was, Paul reflected, even in this absurd photograph, this grey‑and‑black smudge of ink! Even the most hardened criminal there ‑ he was serving his third sentence for blackmail ‑ laid down his cards for a moment and remarked upon how the whole carriage seemed to be flooded with the deletable savour of the Champs-Élysées in early June. 'Funny, he said. 'I thought I smelt scent. And that set them off talking about women.
* * *
Paul found another old friend at Egdon Heath Prison: a short, thick‑set, cheerful figure who stumped along in front of him on the way to chapel, making a good deal of noise with an artificial leg. 'Here we are again, old boy! he remarked during one of the responses. 'I'm in the soup as per usual.
'Didn't you like the job? Paul asked.
'Top hole, said Grimes, 'but the hell of a thing happened. Tell you later.
That morning, complete with pickaxes, field‑telephone, and two armed and mounted warders, Paul and a little squad of fellow‑criminals were led to the quarries. Grimes was in the party.
'I've been here a fortnight, said Grimes as soon as they got an opportunity of talking, 'and it seems too long already. I've always been a sociable chap, and I don't like it. Three years is too long, old boy. Still, we'll have God's own beano when I get out. I've been thinking about that day and night.
'I suppose it was bigamy? said Paul.
'The same. I ought to have stayed abroad. I was arrested as soon as I landed. You see, Mrs Grimes turned up at the shop, so off Grimes went. There are various sorts of hell, but that young woman can beat up a pretty lively one of her own.
A warder passed them by, and they moved apart, banging industriously at the sandstone cliff before them.
'I'm not sure it wasn't worth it, though, said Grimes, 'to see poor old Flossie in the box and my sometime father‑in‑law. I hear the old man's shut down the school. Grimes gave the place a bad name. See anything of old Prendy ever?
'He was murdered the other day.
'Poor old Prendy! He wasn't cut out for the happy life, was he? D'you know, I think I shall give up schoolmastering for good when I get out. It doesn't lead anywhere.
'It seems to have led us both to the same place.
'Yes, Rather a coincidence, isn't it? Damn, here's that policeman again.
Soon they were marched back to the prison. Except for the work in the quarries, life at Egdon was almost the same as at Blackstone.
'Slops outside, chapel, privacy.
After a week, however, Paul became conscious of an alien influence at work. His first intimation of this came from the Chaplain.
'Your library books, he said one day, popping cheerfully in Paul's cell and handing him two new novels, still in their wrappers, and bearing inside them the label of a Piccadilly bookseller. 'If you don't like them I have several for you to choose from. He showed him rather coyly the pile of gaily‑bound volumes he carried under his arm. 'I thought you'd like the new Virginia Woolf. It's only been out two days.
'Thank you, sir, said Paul politely. Clearly the library of his new prison was run on a much more enterprising and extravagant plan than at Blackstone.
'Or there's this book on Theatrical Design, said the Chaplain, showing him a large illustrated volume that could hardly have cost less than three guineas. 'Perhaps we might stretch a point and give you that as well as your "education work".
'Thank you, sir, said Paul.
'Let me know if you want a change, said the Chaplain. 'And, by the way, you're allowed to write a letter now, you know. If, by any chance, you're writing to Mrs Beste-Chetwynde, do mention that you think the library good. She's presenting a new pulpit to the chapel in carved alabaster, he added irrelevantly, and popped out again to give Grimes a copy of Smiles's Self‑Help, out of which some unreceptive reader in the remote past had torn the last hundred and eight pages.
'People may think as they like about well‑thumbed favourites, thought Paul, 'but there is something incomparably thrilling in first opening a brand‑new book. Why should the Chaplain want me to mention the library to Margot? he wondered.
That evening at supper Paul noticed without surprise that there were several small pieces of coal in his dripping: that kind of thing did happen now and then; but he was somewhat disconcerted, when he attempted to scrape them out, to find that they were quite soft. Prison food was often rather odd; it was a mistake to complain; but still… He examined his dripping more closely. It had a pinkish tinge that should not have been there and was unusually firm and sticky under his knife. He tasted it dubiously. It was pâté de foie gras.
From then onwards there was seldom a day on which some small meteorite of this kind did not mysteriously fall from the outside world. One day he returned from the heath to find his cell heavy with scent in the half-dark, for the lights were rarely lit until some time after sundown and the window was very small. His table was filled with a large bunch of winter roses, which had cost three shillings each that morning in Bond Street. (Prisoners at Egdon are allowed to keep flowers in their cells, and often risk severe reprimand by stooping to pick pimpernels and periwinkles on their way from work.)
On another occasion the prison‑doctor, trotting on his daily round of inspection, paused at Paul's cell, examined his name on the card hanging inside his door, looked hard at him and said, 'You need a tonic. He trotted on without more ado, but next day a huge medicine‑bottle was placed in Paul's cell. 'You're to take two glasses with each meal, said the warder, 'and I hopes you like it. Paul could not quite decide whether the warder's tone was friendly or not, but he liked the medicine, for it was brown sherry.
On another occasion great indignation was aroused in the cell next door to him, whose occupant ‑ an aged burglar ‑ was inadvertently given Paul's ration of caviare. He was speedily appeased by the substitution for it of an unusually large lump of cold bacon, but not before the warder in charge had suffered considerable alarm at the possibility of a complaint to the Governor.
'I'm not one to make a fuss really, said the old burglar, 'but I will be treated fair. Why, you only had to look at the stuff they give to me to see that it was bad, let alone taste it. And on bacon night, too! You take my tip, he said to Paul as they found themselves alone in the quarries one day, 'and keep your eyes open. You're a new one, and they might easily try and put a thing like that over on you. Don't eat it; that's putting you in the wrong. Keep it and show it to the Governor. They ain't got no right to try on a thing like that, and they knows it.
Presently a letter came from Margot. It was not a long one.
Dear Paul, it said,
It is so difficult writing to you because, you know, I never can write letters, and it's so particularly hard with you because thc policemen read it and cross it all out if they don't like it, and I can't really think of anything they will like. Peter and I are back at King's Thursday. It was divine at Corfu, except for an English Doctor who was a bore and would call so often. Do you know, I don't really like this house terribly, and I am having it redone. Do you mind? Peter has become an earl ‑ did you know? ‑ and is rather sweet about it, and very self‑conscious, which you wouldn't expect, really, would you, knowing Peter? I'm going to come and see you some time ‑ may I? ‑ when I can get away, but Bobby P.'s death has made such a lot of things to see to. I do hope you're getting enough food and books and things, or will they cross that out? Love, Margot. I was cut by Lady Circumference, my dear, at Newmarket, a real point‑blank Tranby Croft cut. Poor Maltravers says if I'm not careful I shall find myself socially ostracized. Don't you think that will be marvellous? I may be wrong, but, d'you know, I rather believe poor little Alastair Trumpington's going to fall in love with me. What shall I do?
* * *
Eventually Margot came herself.
It was the first time they had met since the morning in June when she had sent him off to rescue her distressed protégées in Marseilles. The meeting took place in a small room set aside for visitors. Margot sat at one end of the table, Paul at the other, with a warder between them.
'I must ask you both to put your hands on the table in front of you, said the warder.
'Like Up Jenkins, said Margot faintly, laying her exquisitely manicured hands with the gloves beside her bag. Paul for the first time noticed how coarse and ill‑kept his hands had become. For a moment neither spoke.
'Do I look awful? Paul said at last. 'I haven't seen a looking‑glass for some time.
'Well, perhaps just a little mal soigné, darling. Don't they let you shave at all?
'No discussion of the prison regime is permitted. Prisoners are allowed to make a plain statement of their state of health but must on no account make complaints or comments upon their general condition.
'O dear! said Margot; 'this is going to be very difficult. What are we to say to each other? I'm almost sorry I came. You are glad I came, aren't you?
'Don't mind me, mum, if you wants to talk personal, said the warder kindly. 'I only has to stop conspiracy. Nothing I hears ever goes any farther, and I hears a good deal, I can tell you. They carry on awful, some of the women, what with crying and fainting and hysterics generally. Why, one of them, he said with relish, 'had an epileptic fit not long ago.
'I think it's more than likely I shall have a fit, said Margot. 'I've never felt so shy in my life. Paul, do say something, please.
'How's Alastair? said Paul.
'Rather sweet, really. He's always at King's Thursday now. I like him.
Another pause.
'Do you know, said Margot, 'it's an odd thing, but I do believe that after all these years I'm beginning to be regarded as no longer a respectable woman. I told you when I wrote, didn't I, that Lady Circumference cut me the other day? Of course she's just a thoroughly bad-mannered old woman, but there have been a whole lot of things rather like that lately. Don't you think it's rather awful?
'You won't mind much, will you? said Paul. 'They're awful old bores, anyway.
'Yes, but I don't like them dropping me. Of course, I don't mind, really, but I think it's just a pity, particularly for Peter. It's not just Lady Circumference, but Lady Vanburgh and Fanny Simpleforth and the Stayles and all those people. It's a pity it should happen just when Peter's beginning to be a little class-conscious, anyway. It'll give him all the wrong ideas, don't you think?
'How's business? asked Paul abruptly.
'Paul, you mustn't be nasty to me, said Margot in a low voice. 'I don't think you'd say that if you knew quite how I was feeling.
'I'm sorry, Margot. As a matter of fact, I just wanted to know.
'I'm selling out. A Swiss firm was making things difficult. But I don't think that business has anything to do with the ‑ the ostracism, as Maltravers would say. I believe it's all because I'm beginning to grow old.
'I never heard anything so ridiculous. Why, all those people are about eighty, and anyway, you aren't at all.
'I was afraid you wouldn't understand, said Margot, and there was another pause.
'Ten minutes more, said the warder.
'Things haven't turned out quite as we expected them to, have they? said Margot.
They talked about some parties Margot had been to and the books Paul was reading. At last Margot said: 'Paul, I'm going. I simply can't stand another moment of this.
'It was nice of you to come, said Paul.
'I've decided something rather important, said Margot, 'just this minute. I am going to be married quite soon to Maltraven. I'm sorry, but I am.
'I suppose it's because I look so awful? said Paul.
'No, it's just everything. It's that, too, in a way, but not the way you mean, Paul. It's simply something that's going to happen. Do you understand at all, dear? It may help you, too, in a way, but I don't want you to think that that's the reason, either. It's just how things are going to happen. Oh dear! How difficult it is to say anything.
'If you should want to kiss good‑bye, said the gaoler, 'not being husband and wife, it's not usual. Still, I don't mind stretching a point for once…
'Oh, God! said Margot, and left the room without looking back.
Paul returned to his cell. His supper had already been served out to him, a small pie from which protruded the feet of two pigeons; there was even a table‑napkin wrapped round it. But Paul had very little appetite, for he was greatly pained at how little he was pained by the events of the afternoon.