He thought of nothing else for the rest of the day; he dreamed of it at night. Next morning hope alternately rose and fell in his heart, refusing to die throughout the day's routine. He continually built pictures of the journey he might take. So far, the effect of prison had been to make him like a child again. Time had ceased to exist; he took no count of days, but the news of the change made him wonder how long he had been at Wormwood Scrubbs. A week, a month, a year?——
It was curious how little he had thought of those he loved. At first, when he had been taken away from the Old Bailey, he had been temporarily overcome by remorse. The night after the trial he had suffered agonies. Yet curiously enough after that night, thoughts of the outside world and those he knew in it had not troubled him much. He had been a coward in so much as he had been afraid to think of his father or his sister—or Ruby.
For he could not speak of them. He could not speak of them to a living soul. He could not write to them. If a letter had been permitted it would have been read and censored. So, not daring to write, he dared not think. Nature had been kind, and for weeks his brain had been anæsthetised by the deadly routine, the bare walls of his prison, the sudden and terrible change of environment.
This happens to some natures. Thoughts are checked, memory sleeps, but there always comes a rude awakening. To other men it is the first few weeks of imprisonment that are the most terrible. A few never survive; their minds are wrecked, morally and spiritually they are ruined; then their suffering comes to an end.
Rupert's awakening came one grey morning when at daybreak he found himself with half a dozen of his fellow convicts paraded in the yard, and, after a breakfast more generous than usual, marched outside the walls of Wormwood Scrubbs and conveyed in a van to an unknown destination—which proved to be Waterloo Station.
The thrill of joy he experienced when he found himself standing on the platform surrounded by familiar sights, hearing familiar sounds, his nostrils inhaling familiar smells, was almost instantly followed by a sickening sense of fear. Fear of the unknown!
He glanced at the men by his side all wearing the convict dress—the badge of shame. It suddenly struck him how funny they looked. He wondered if he cut as ridiculous a figure. Perhaps there might be some one on the platform whom he knew, some one who would recognise him.
He stared with hungry eyes at the few people who passed. Forgetting what he was, he yearned to see a familiar face. And presently he realised that he and the other convicts were being stared at by men who were free.
One man made a ribald jest. Others laughed. A few men looked with dull curiosity. A woman shuddered and turned away.
Rupert bit his lip. It was not nice. Especially when he realised the handcuffs. He squared his shoulders and held up his head. He was not ashamed. There was nothing to be ashamed of.