‘No, dear, not yet.’
I was about to speak, to say that I believed my going to the house where my father and mother had lived—to the house that was full of old associations, where I had thought to dwell with Tom when we were married—would soothe and do me good. I was about to tell her this, but could not for giving way; and, hiding my face in my hands, I bowed my head upon the table, neither of them speaking nor attempting in any way to arrest the passion of tears.
I felt better after this dreadful outbreak; it seemed to have cleansed my brain and to give room for my heart to beat and for my spirits to stir in. I looked at the good things upon the table, the eggs and bacon, the ham and the rest, and said:
‘How do they feed prisoners in jail?’
‘Now, don’t trouble about that, Marian,’ said my uncle. ‘Captain Butler has been a sailor, and he has been bred up on food compared to which the worst fare in the worst jail in England is delicious.’
‘What will they do with him?’
‘Until they despatch him across the seas they’ll keep him in prison at Newgate, perhaps, or they’ll send him to Millbank or to the Hulks. No man can tell.’
‘Don’t fret yourself now with these inquiries, Marian,’ said my aunt.
‘How do they treat convicts in jail, uncle?’
‘Very well, indeed. Better than the majority of them deserve. They feed them, clothe them, and teach them trades to enable them to live honestly by-and-by.’