But afterwards, when he came to himself in the dismal "solitary" cell, and still more when he heard his punishment, and knew that he had cut himself off for two endless months from his friends—then the cold reaction set in, and he went down into the depths. The first night was terrible. Panic was again at his throat; it did not succeed in pulling him down, but when the dawn came, and at the cheerful sounds of human life the furies shrank back into their shades, he knew that he had been very near—something. What he feared he did not know, but he did know that if his fear got the mastery, if he lost his self-command, he would not be fit to go to Lettice at the end of his term.
He lay thinking very earnestly, open-eyed. It was perfectly plain what he ought to do: he ought to put down his name to see the doctor, who would give him bromide or something to settle his nerves. And there was more in it than that; he ought to see Scott about another small trouble which had nothing to do with nerves, and which, if he had chosen to put it forward, would have been a mitigating circumstance in the mind of the Governor when he pronounced sentence. Oh, he was a fool—he really was a fool! Why, if he had even chosen to state his grievance about the light he might have got off with quarter penalty, perhaps with none at all. Captain Harding wasn't half a bad old chap, he made allowances for human nature, even in a criminal. But would Gardiner do that? Not he! He had stood sullenly dumb, refusing to defend himself, refusing to answer a single question. It went against the grain with him to explain, to make excuses, even to admit that he was ill. Yet could he stand another night like the last? He would have preferred to; he would have butted his obstinate head into death or even madness, sooner than bend his pride. But there was Lettice to be considered, and all her little fads about standing up to things and not running away.
When Warder Barnes came in the evening to bring his supper of bread and water and collect the mail-bags which he should have sewn (prisoners in the punishment cells do not go out to work), he found the pile untouched. Gardiner had not done one. Barnes pursed up his lips to a whistle.
"Hullo, hullo! now this ain't sense, B14. Why ain't you done your work to-day?"
"Because I haven't," said the prisoner. He was sitting on his stool with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands; he reached out for the water Barnes had brought and drank it at a draught, but otherwise he did not stir.
"That's silly talk," said the warder reprovingly. It was the same little Cockney who had admired what he called B14's ginger; a kindly little soul, as many of the prison attendants are. "You're only makin' trouble for yourself. Ain't you had enough already?" The prisoner made no sign. "Come now! You give me your word as you'll do your job to-morrow, and I'll pass you light this time. Don't want another week of it in 'ere, do you?" Still no answer. "Oh, well, I can't wait all night, if you choose to be refractory you must," said Barnes, rather short, because his kindness had met with no response. He gathered up the untouched bags. "I shall 'ave to report you, that's all."
He was just going out of the door when the prisoner moved.
"I say."
"Well?"