CHAPTER XXIII
IN KENDAL GAOL
Bishop, in his corner of the chaise, made his burly person as small as he could. He tried his best to hide his brown tops and square-toed boots. In her corner Henrietta sat upright, staring rigidly before her. For just one moment, as she passed from the house to the carriage, under a score of staring eyes, a scarlet flush had risen to her very hair, and she had shrunk back. But the colour had faded as quickly as it had risen; she had restrained herself, and taken her seat. And now the screes of Bow Fell, flecked with snow, were not more cold and hard than her face as she gazed at the postilion's moving back and saw it not. She knew that she was down now without hope of rising; that, the prison doors once closed on her, their shadow would rest on her always. And her heart was numbed by despair. The burning sense of injustice, of unfairness, which sears and hardens the human heart more quickly and more completely than any other emotion, would awaken presently. But for the time she sat stunned and hopeless; dazed and confounded by the astonishing thing which had happened to her. To be sent to prison! To be sent to herd-she remembered his very words-with such vile creatures as prisons hold! To be at the beck and call of such a man as this who sat beside her. To have to obey; and to belong no longer to herself, but to others! As she thought of all this, and of the ordeal before her, fraught with humiliations yet unknown, a hunted look grew in her eyes, and for a few minutes she glanced wildly first out of this window, then out of that. To prison! She was going to prison!
Fortunately her native courage came to her aid in her extremity. And Bishop, who was not blind to her emotion, spoke.
"Don't you be over-frightened, miss," he said soothingly. "There's naught to be scared about. I'll speak to them, and they'll treat you well. Not that a gaol is a comfortable place," he continued, remembering his duty to his employer; "and if you could see your way to speaking-even now, miss-I'd take it on me to turn the horses."
"I have nothing to say," she answered, with a shudder and an effort-for her throat was dry. But the mere act of speaking broke the spell and relieved her of some of her fears.
"It's the little boy I'm thinking of," Bishop continued in a tone of apology. "Captain Clyne thinks the world of him. The world of him! But, lord, miss!" abruptly changing his tone, as his eyes alighted on her wrist, "what have you done to your arm?"
She hid her wrist quickly, and with her face averted said that it was nothing, nothing.
Bishop shook his head sagely.
"I doubt you bruised it getting out of the window," he said. "Well, well, miss; live and learn. Another time you'll be wiser, I hope; and not do such things."
She did not answer, and the chaise passing by Plumgarth began to descend into the wide stony valley. Below them the white-washed walls and slated roofs and mills of Kendal could be seen clustering about the Castle Bow and the old grey ruin that rises above the Ken river. On either hand bleak hills, seamed with grey walls, made up a landscape that rose without beauty to a lowering sky. There were few trees, no hedges; and somewhere the cracked bell of a drugget factory or a dye-works was clanging out a monotonous summons. To Henrietta's eye-fresh from the lake-side verdure-and still more to her heart, the northern landscape struck cold and cheerless. It had given her but a sorry welcome had she been on her way to seek the hospitality of the inn. How much poorer was its welcome when she had no prospect before her but the scant comfort and unknown hardships of a gaol!
The chaise did not enter the town, but a furlong short of it turned aside and made for a group of windowless buildings, which crowned a small eminence a bow-shot from the houses. As the horses drew the chaise up the ascent to a heavy stone doorway, Henrietta had time to see that the entrance was mean, if strong, and the place as unpretending as it was dull. Nevertheless, her heart beat almost to suffocation, as she stepped out at a word from Bishop, who had alighted at once and knocked at the iron-studded door. With small delay a grating was opened, a pale face, marked by high, hollow temples, looked out; and some three or four sentences were exchanged. Then the door was unlocked and thrown open. Bishop signed to her to enter first and she did so-after an imperceptible pause. She found herself in a small well-like yard, with the door and window of the prison-lodge on her left and dead walls on the other sides.
Two children were playing on the steps of the lodge, and some linen, dubiously drying in the cold winter air, hung on a line stretched from the window to a holdfast in the opposite wall. Unfortunately, the yard had been recently washed, and still ran with water; so that these homely uses, and even the bench and pump which stood in a corner, failed to impart much cheerfulness to its aspect. Had Henrietta's heart been capable of sinking lower it had certainly done so.
The children stared open-mouthed at her: but not with half as much astonishment as the man in shirt sleeves who had admitted her. "Eh, sir, but you've brought the cage a fine bird," he said at last. "Your servant, miss. Well, well, well!" with surprise. And he scratched his head and grinned openly. "Debtors' side, I suppose?"
"Remand," Bishop answered with a wink and a meaning shake of the head. "Here's the warrant. All's right." And then to Henrietta-"If you'll sit down on that bench, miss, I'll fix things up for you."
The girl, her face a little paler than usual, sat down as she was bidden, and looked about her. This was not her notion of a prison; for here were neither gyves nor dungeons, but just a slatternly, damp yard-as like as could be to some small backyard in the out-offices of her brother's house. Nevertheless, the gyves might be waiting for her out of sight; and with or without them, the place was horribly depressing that winter afternoon. The sky was grey above, the walls were grey, the pavement grey. She was almost glad when Bishop and the man in shirt-sleeves emerged from the lodge followed by a tall, hard-featured woman in a dirty mob-cap. The woman's arms were bare to the elbow, and she carried a jingling bunch of keys. She eyed Henrietta with dull dislike.
"That is settled, then," Bishop said, a little overdoing the cheerfulness at which he aimed. "Mother Weighton will see to you, and 'twill be all right. There are four on the debtors' side, and you'll be best in the women-felons', she thinks, since it's empty, and you'll have it all to yourself."
Henrietta heaved a deep sigh of relief. "I shall be alone, then?" she said. "Oh, thank you."
"Ay, you'll be alone," the woman answered, staring at her. "Very much alone! But I'm not sure you'll thank me, by-and-by. You madams are pretty loud for company, I've always found, when you've had your own a bit." Then, "You don't mind being locked up in a yard by yourself?" she continued, with a close look at the girl's face and long grey riding-dress.
"Oh no, I shall be grateful to you," Henrietta said eagerly, "if you will let me be alone."
"Ah, well, we'll see how you like it," the woman retorted. "Here, Ben," to her husband, "I suppose she is too much of a fine lady to carry her band-box-yet awhile. Do you bring it."
"I am sure," Bishop said, "the young lady will be grateful for any kindness, Mrs. Weighton. I will wait till you've lodged her comfortably. God bless my soul," he continued, screwing up his features, as he affected to look about him, "I don't know that one's not as well in as out!"
"Well, there's no writs nor burglars!" the jailor answered with a grin. "And the young folks, male nor female, don't get into trouble through staying out o' nights. Now, then, missis," to his wife, "no need to be all day over it."
The woman unlocked a low door in the wall opposite the lodge, but at the inner end of the yard; and she signed to Henrietta to enter before her. The girl did so, and found herself in a flagged yard about thirty feet square. On her right were four mean-looking doors having above each a grated aperture. Henrietta eyed these and her heart sank. They were only too like the dungeons she had foreseen! But the jailor's wife turned to the opposite side of the yard where were two doors with small glazed windows over them. The two sides that remained consisted of high walls, surmounted by iron spikes.
"We'll put you in a day-room as they're all empty," the woman grumbled. She meant not ill, but she had the unfortunate knack of making all her concessions with a bad grace.
Thereupon she unlocked one of the doors, and disclosed a small whitewashed room, cold, but passably clean. A rough bench and table occupied the middle of the floor, and in a corner stood a clumsy spinning-wheel. The floor was of stone, but there was a makeshift fireplace, dulled by rust and dirt.
"Get in a bedstead, Ben," she continued. "I suppose," looking abruptly at Henrietta, "you are not used to chaff, young woman?"
The girl stared.
"I don't understand, I am afraid," she faltered.
"You are used to feathers, I dare say?" with a sneer.
"Oh, for a bed?"
"What else?" impatiently. "Good lord, haven't you your senses? You can have your choice. It's eight-pence for chaff, and a shilling for feathers."
"I don't mind paying while I've money," Henrietta said humbly. "If you'll please to charge me what is right."
"Well, it's cheap enough, lord knows; for since the changes there's no garnish this side. And for the third of the earnings that's left to us, I'd not give fippence a week for all!"
The man had dragged in, while she talked, a kind of wooden trough for the bed, and set it in a corner. He had then departed for firing, and returned with a shovelful of burning coals, for the room was as cold as the grave.
"There's a pump in the yard," the woman said, "and a can and basin, but you must serve yourself. And there's a pitcher for drinking. And you can have from the cook-shop what you like to order in. You'll have to keep your place clean; but as long as you behave yourself, we'll treat you according. Only let us have no scratching and screaming!" she continued. "Tempers don't pay here, I'll warn you. And for swoonings we just turn the tap on! So do you take notice." And with a satisfied look round, "For the rest, there's many a young woman that's not gone wrong that's not so comfortable as you, my girl. And I'd have you know it."
Henrietta coloured painfully.
"I shall do very well," she said meekly. "But I've not done anything wrong."
"Ay, ay," the woman answered unconcernedly, "they all say that! That's of course. But I can't stay talking here. What'd you like for your supper? A pint of stout, and a plate of a-la-mode? Or a chop?"
Henrietta reduced the order to tea and a white loaf and butter-if it could be got-and asked meekly if she might have something to read.
The Kendal Chronicle was promised. "You'll have your meal at five," Mother Weighton continued. "And your light must be out at eight, and you'll have to 'tend service in chapel on Sunday. By rule your door should be locked at five; but as you're alone, and the lock's on the yard, I'll say naught about that. You can have the run of the yard as a favour and till another comes in."
Then with a final look round she went out, her pattens clinked across the court, and Henrietta heard the key turned in the outer door.
She stood a moment pressing her hands to her eyes, and trying to control herself. At length she uncovered her eyes, and she looked again round the whitewashed cell. Yes, it was real. The flagged floor, the bench, the table, the odd-looking bed in its wooden trough-all were real, hard, bare. And the solitude and the dreary silence, and the light that was beginning to fade! The place was far from her crude notion of a prison; but in its cold, naked severity it was as far outside her previous experience. She was in prison, and this was her cell, that was her prison-yard. And she was alone, quite, quite alone.
A sob rose in her throat, and then she laughed a little hysterically, as she remembered their way with those who fainted. And sitting limply down, she warmed herself at the fire, and dried two or three tears. She looked about her again, eyed again the whitewashed walls, and listened. The silence was complete; it almost frightened her. And her door had no fastening on the inside. That fact moved her in the end to rise, and go out and explore the yard, that she might make sure before the light failed that no one was locked in with her, that no one lurked behind the closed cell doors.
The task was not long. She tried the five doors, and found them all locked; she knocked softly on them, and got no answer. The pump, the iron basin, a well scrubbed bench, a couple of besoms, and a bucket, she had soon reviewed all that the yard held. There was a trap or Judas-hole in the outer door, and another, which troubled her, in the door of her cell. But on the whole the survey left her reassured and more at ease; the place, though cold, bare, and silent, was her own. And when her tea and a dip-candle appeared at five she was able to show the jailor's wife a cheerful face.
The woman had heard more of her story by this time, and eyed her with greater interest, and less rudely.
"You'll not be afraid to be alone?" she said. "You've no need to be. You're safe enough here."
"I'm not afraid," Henrietta answered meekly. "But-couldn't I have a fastening on my door, please?"
"On the inside? Lord, no! But I can lock you in if you like," with a grin.
"Oh no! I did not mean that!"
"Well, then you must just push the table against the door. It's against rules," with a wink, "but I shan't be here to see." And pulling her woollen shawl more closely about her, she continued to stare at the girl. Presently, "Lord's sakes!" she said, "it's a queer world! I suppose you never was in a jail before? Never saw the inside of one, perhaps?"
"No."
"It's something political, I'm told," snuffing the candle with her fingers, and resuming her inquisitive stare.
Henrietta nodded.
"With a man in it, of course! Drat the men! They do a plaguey deal of mischief! Many's the decent lass that's been transported because of them!"
Henrietta's smile faded suddenly.
"I hope it's not as bad as that," she said.
"Well, I don't know," scrutinising the girl's face. "It's for you to say. The officer that brought you-quite the gentleman too-told us it was something to do with a murder. But you know best."
"I hope not!"
"Well, I hope not too! For if it be, it'll be mighty unpleasant for you. It's not three years since a lad I knew myself was sent across seas for just being out at night with a rabbit-net. So it's easy done and soon over! And too late crying when the milk's spilt." And once more snuffing the candle and telling Henrietta to leave her door open until she had crossed the yard, she took herself off. Once more, but now with a sick qualm, the girl heard the key turned on her.
"Transportation!" She did not know precisely what it meant; but she knew that it meant something very dreadful. "Transportation! Oh, it is impossible!" she murmured, "impossible! I have done nothing!"
Yet the word frightened her, the shadow of the thing haunted her. These locks and bars, this solitude, this cold routine, was it possible that once in their clutch the victim slid on, helpless and numbed-to something worse? To-day, deaf to her protests, they had sent her here-sent her by a force which seemed outside themselves. And no one had intervened in her favour. No one had stepped forward to save her or speak for her. Would the same thing befall her again? Would they try her in the same impersonal fashion-as if she were a thing, a chattel, – and find her guilty, condemn her, and hand her over to brutal officials, and-she rose from her bench, shuddering, unable to bear the prospect. She had begun the descent, must she sink to the bottom? Was it inevitable? Could she no longer help herself? Sick, shivering with sudden fear she walked the floor.
"Oh, it is impossible!" she cried, battling against her terror, and trying to reassure herself. "It is impossible!" And for the time she succeeded by a great effort in throwing off the nightmare.
No one came near her again that evening. And quite early the dip burned low, and worn out and tired she went to bed, only partially undressing herself. The bedding, though rough and horribly coarse, was clean, and, little as she expected it, she fell asleep quickly in the strange stillness of the prison.
She slept until an hour or two before dawn. Then she awoke and sat up with a child's cry in her ears. The impression was so real, so vivid that the bare walls of the cell seemed to ring with the plaintive voice. Quaking and perspiring she listened. She was sure that it was no dream; the voice had been too real, too clear; and she wondered in a panic what it could be. It was only slowly that she remembered where she was and recognised that no child's cry could reach her there. Nor was it until after a long interval that she lay down again.
Even then she was not alone. The image of a little child, lonely, friendless, and terrified, stayed with her, crouched by her pillow, sat weeping in the dark corners of the cell, haunted her. She tried to shake off the delusion, but the attempt was in vain. Conscience, that in the dark hours before the dawn subjects all to his sceptre, began to torment her. Had she acted rightly? Ought she to have put the child first and her romantic notions second? And if any ill happened to it-and it was a delicate, puny thing-would it lie at her door?
Remorse began to rack her. She wondered that she had not thought more of the child, been wrung with pity for it, sympathised more deeply with its fears and its misery. What, beside its plight, was hers? What, beside its terrors, were her fears? Thus tormenting herself she lay for some time, and was glad when the light stole in and she could rise, cold as it was, and set her bed and her cell in order. By the time this was done, and she had paced for half an hour up and down to warm herself, a girl of eight, the jailor's child, came with a shovel of embers and helped her to light the fire-staring much at her the while.
"Mother said I could help you make your bed," she began.
Henrietta, with a smile said that she had made it already.
"Mother thought you'd be too fine to make it," still staring.
"Well, you see I am not."
"I am glad of that," the child answered candidly. "For mother said you'd have to come to it and to worse, if you were transported, miss."
Henrietta winced afresh, and looked at the imp less kindly.
"But I'm not going to be transported," she said positively. "You're talking nonsense."
"There's never been any one transported from here."
"No?" with relief. "Then why should I be?"
"But there was a man hanged three years ago. It was for stealing a lamb. They didn't let me see it."
"And very right, too."
"But mother's promised" – with triumph-"that if you're transported I shall see it!" After which there was silence while the child stared. At last, "Are you ready for your breakfast now?"
"Yes," said poor Henrietta. "But I am not very hungry-you can tell your mother."
CHAPTER XXIV
THE RÔLE CONTINUED
Mr. Sutton slept as ill on the night of his resignation as he had ever slept in his life. And many times as he tossed and turned on his bed he repented at leisure the step which he had taken in haste. Acting upon no previous determination, he had sacrificed in the heat of temper his whole professional future. He had staked his all; and he had done no good even to the cause he had at heart. The act would not bear thinking upon; certainly it would not bear the cold light of early reflection. And many, many times as he sighed upon his uneasy pillow did he wish, as so many have wished before and since, that he could put back the clock. Had he left the room five minutes earlier, had he held his tongue, however ungraciously, had he thought before he spoke, he had done as much for Henrietta and he had done no harm to himself. And he had been as free as he was now, to seek his end by other means.
For he had naught to do now but seek that end. He had not Mr. Pitt's nose in vain: he was nothing if he was not stubborn. And while Henrietta might easily have had a more discreet, she could hardly have had a more persevering, friend. Amid the wreck of his own fortunes, with his professional future laid in ruins about him, he clung steadfastly to the notion of righting her, and found in that and in the letter in his book, his only stay. At as early an hour as he considered decent, he would apply to Mr. Hornyold, lay the evidence before the Justice, and press for the girl's release.
Unfortunately, he lay so long revolving the matter that at daybreak he fell asleep. The house was busy and no one gave a thought to him, and ten had struck before he came down and shamefacedly asked for his breakfast. Mrs. Gilson put it before him, but with a word of girding at his laziness; which the good woman could not stomach, when half the countryside were on foot searching for the boy, and when the unhappy father, after a night in the saddle, had left in a postchaise to follow up a clue at Keswick. Blameworthy or not, Mr. Sutton found the delay fatal. When he called on Mr. Hornyold, the Justice was not at home. He had left the house and would not return until the following day.
Sutton might have anticipated this check, but he had not; and he walked back to the inn, plunged to the very lips in despondency. The activity of the people about him, their eagerness in the search, their enthusiasm, all reflected on him and sank him in his own esteem. Yet if he would, he could not share in these things or in these feelings. He stood outside them; his sympathies were fixed, obstinately fixed, elsewhere. And, alas, in the only direction in which he desired to proceed, and in which he discerned a possible issue, he was brought to a full stop.
He was in the mood to feel small troubles sorely, and as he neared the inn he saw that Mrs. Gilson was standing at the door. It vexed him, for he felt that he cut a poor figure in the landlady's eyes. He knew that he seemed to her a sorry thing, slinking idly about the house, while others wrought and did. He feared her sharp tongue and vulgar tropes, and he made up his mind to pass by the house as if he did not see her. He was in the act of doing this, awkwardly and consciously, with his eyes averted-when she called to him.
"If you're looking for Squire Clyne," she said, in very much the tone he expected, "he's gone these three hours past and some to that!"
"I was not," he said.
"Oh!" she answered with sarcasm, "I suppose you are looking for the boy. You will not find him, I'm afraid, on the King's highroad!"
"I was not looking for him," he answered churlishly.
"More shame to you!" Mrs. Gilson cried, with a spark in her eye. "More shame to you! For you should be!"
He flamed up at that, after the passionate manner of such men when roused. He stopped and faced her, trembling a little.
"And to whom is it a shame," he cried, "that wicked, foul injustice is done? To whom is it a shame that the innocent are sent to herd with the guilty? To whom is it a shame-woman! – that when there is good, clear evidence put before their eyes, it is not read? Nor used? The boy?" vehemently, "the boy? Is he the only one to be considered, and sought and saved? Is his case worse than hers? I too say shame!"
Mrs. Gilson stared. "Lord save the man!" she cried, as much astonished as if a sheep had turned on her, "with his shames and his whoms! He's as full of words as a Wensleydale of mites! I don't know what you are in the pulpit, your reverence, but on foot and in the road, Mr. Brougham was naught to you!"
"He'd not the reason," the chaplain answered bitterly. And brought down by her remark-for his passion was of the shortest-he turned, and was moving away, morose and despondent, when the landlady called after him a second time, but in a more friendly tone. Perhaps curiosity, perhaps some new perception of the man moved her.
"See here, your reverence," she said. "If you've a mind to show me this fine evidence of yours, I'm not for saying I'll not read it. Lord knows it's ill work going about like a hen with an egg she can't lay. So if you've a mind to get it off your mind, I'll send for my glasses, and be done with it."
"Will you?" he replied, his face flushing with the hope of making a convert. "Will you? Then there, ma'am, there it is! It's the letter that villain sent to her to draw her to meet him that night. If you can't see from that what terms they were on, and that she had no choice but to meet him, I-but read it! Read it!"
She called for her glasses and having placed them on her nose, set the nose at such an angle that she could look down it at the page. This was Mrs. Gilson's habit when about to read. But when all was arranged her face fell. "Oh dear!" she said, "it's all bits and scraps, like a broken curd! Lord save the man, I can't read this. I canna make top nor tail of it! Here, let me take it inside. Truth is, I'm no scholar in the open air."
The chaplain, trembling with eagerness, set straight three or four bits of paper which he had deranged in opening the book. Then, not trusting it out of his own hands, he bore the book reverently into the landlady's snuggery, and set it on the table. Mrs. Gilson rearranged her nose and glasses, and after gazing helplessly for a few moments at the broken screed, caught some thread of sense, clung to it desperately, and presently began to murmur disjointed sentences in the tone of one who thought aloud.
"Um-um-um-um!"
Had the chaplain been told a fortnight before that he would wait with bated breath for an old woman's opinion of a document, he would have laughed at the notion. But so it was; and when a ray of comprehension broke the frowning perplexity of Mrs. Gilson's face, and she muttered, "Lord ha' mercy! The villain!" still more when an April cloud of mingled anger and pity softened her massive features-the chaplain's relief was itself a picture.
"A plague on the rascal!" the good woman cried. "He's put it so as to melt a stone, let alone a silly child like that! I don't know that if he'd put it so to me, when I was a lass, I'd have told on him. I don't think I would!"
"It's plain that she'd no understanding with him!" Mr. Sutton cried eagerly. "You can see that, ma'am!"
"Well, I think I can. The villain!"
"It's quite clear that she had broken with him!"
"It does look so, poor lamb!"
"Poor lamb indeed!" Mr. Sutton replied with feeling. "Poor lamb indeed!"
"Yet you'll remember," Mrs. Gilson answered-she was nothing if not level-headed-"he'd the lad to think of! He'd his boy to think of! I am sure my heart bled for him when he went out this morning. I doubt he'd not slept a wink, and-"
"Do you think she slept either?" the chaplain asked, something bitterly; and his eyes glowed in his pale face. "Do you consider how young she is and gently bred, ma'am? And where they've sent her, and to what?"
"Umph!" the landlady replied, and she rubbed her ponderous cheek with the bowl of a punch-ladle, and looked, frowning, at the letter. The operation, it was plain, clarified her thoughts; and Mr. Sutton's instinct told him to be mute. For a long minute the distant clatter of Modest Ann's tongue, and the clink of pattens in the yard, were the only sounds that broke the lemon-laden silence of the room. Perhaps it was the glint of the fire on the rows of polished glass, perhaps the sight of her own well-cushioned chair, perhaps only a memory of Henrietta's fair young face and piled-up hair that wrought upon the landlady. But whatever the cause she groaned. And then, "He ought to see this!" she said. "He surely ought! And dang me, he shall, if he leaves the house to-night! After all, two wrongs don't make a right. He's to Keswick this morning, but an hour after noon he'll be back to learn if there's news. It's only here he can get news, and if he has not found the lad he'll be back! And I'll put it on his plate-"
"God bless you!" cried Mr. Sutton.
"Ay, but I'm not saying he'll do anything," the landlady answered tartly. "If all's true the young madam has not behaved so well that she'll be the worse for smarting a bit!"
"She'll be much obliged to you," said the chaplain humbly.
"No, she'll not!" Mrs. Gilson retorted. "Nor to you, don't you think it! She's a Tartar or I'm mistaken. You'll be obliged, you mean!" And she looked at the parson over her glasses as if she were appraising him in a new character.
"I've been to Mr. Hornyold," he said, "but he was out and will not be back until to-morrow."
"Ay, he's more in his boots than on his knees most days," the landlady answered. "But what I've said, I'll do, that's flat. And here's the coach, so it's twelve noon."
She tugged at the cord of the yard bell, and its loud jangle in a twinkling roused the house to activity and the stables to frenzy. The fresh team were led jingling and prancing out of the yard, the ostlers running beside them. Modest Ann and her underling hastened to show themselves on the steps of the inn, and Mrs. Gilson herself passed into the passage ready to welcome any visitor of consequence.
Mr. Bishop and two Lancashire officers who had been pushing the quest in the Furness district descended from the outside of the coach. But they brought no news; and Sutton, as soon as he learned this, did not linger with them. The landlady's offer could not have any immediate result, since Clyne was not expected to return before two; and the chaplain, to kill time, went out at the back, and climbed the hill. He walked until he was tired, and then he turned, and at two made his way back to the inn, only to learn that Clyne had not yet arrived. None the less, the short day already showed signs of drawing in. There was snow in the sky. It hung heavy above Langdale Pikes and over the long ragged screes of Bow Fell. White cushions of cloud were piled one on the other to the northward, and earth and sky were alike depressing. Weary and despondent, Sutton wandered into the house, and sitting down before the first fire he found, he fell fast asleep.