He went out, locking the door with a solemn click; and Cowperwood stood there, a little more depressed than he had been, because of this latest intelligence.
Only two weeks, and then he would be transferred from this kindly old man's care to another's, whom he did not know and with whom he might not fare so well.
"If ever you want me for anything—if ye're sick or sumpin' like that," Chapin now returned to say, after he had walked a few paces away, "we have a signal here of our own.
Just hang your towel out through these here bars.
I'll see it, and I'll stop and find out what yuh want, when I'm passin'."
Cowperwood, whose spirits had sunk, revived for the moment.
"Yes, sir," he replied; "thank you, Mr. Chapin."
The old man walked away, and Cowperwood heard his steps dying down the cement-paved hall.
He stood and listened, his ears being greeted occasionally by a distant cough, a faint scraping of some one's feet, the hum or whir of a machine, or the iron scratch of a key in a lock.
None of the noises was loud. Rather they were all faint and far away.
He went over and looked at the bed, which was not very clean and without linen, and anything but wide or soft, and felt it curiously.
So here was where he was to sleep from now on—he who so craved and appreciated luxury and refinement.
If Aileen or some of his rich friends should see him here.
Worse, he was sickened by the thought of possible vermin.
How could he tell? How would he do?
The one chair was abominable.
The skylight was weak.
He tried to think of himself as becoming accustomed to the situation, but he re-discovered the offal pot in one corner, and that discouraged him.
It was possible that rats might come up here—it looked that way.
No pictures, no books, no scene, no person, no space to walk—just the four bare walls and silence, which he would be shut into at night by the thick door.
What a horrible fate!
He sat down and contemplated his situation.
So here he was at last in the Eastern Penitentiary, and doomed, according to the judgment of the politicians (Butler among others), to remain here four long years and longer.
Stener, it suddenly occurred to him, was probably being put through the same process he had just gone through.
Poor old Stener!
What a fool he had made of himself.
But because of his foolishness he deserved all he was now getting.
But the difference between himself and Stener was that they would let Stener out.
It was possible that already they were easing his punishment in some way that he, Cowperwood, did not know.
He put his hand to his chin, thinking—his business, his house, his friends, his family, Aileen.
He felt for his watch, but remembered that they had taken that.
There was no way of telling the time.
Neither had he any notebook, pen, or pencil with which to amuse or interest himself.
Besides he had had nothing to eat since morning.
Still, that mattered little.
What did matter was that he was shut up here away from the world, quite alone, quite lonely, without knowing what time it was, and that he could not attend to any of the things he ought to be attending to—his business affairs, his future.
True, Steger would probably come to see him after a while.
That would help a little.
But even so—think of his position, his prospects up to the day of the fire and his state now.
He sat looking at his shoes; his suit.
God!
He got up and walked to and fro, to and fro, but his own steps and movements sounded so loud.
He walked to the cell door and looked out through the thick bars, but there was nothing to see—nothing save a portion of two cell doors opposite, something like his own.
He came back and sat in his single chair, meditating, but, getting weary of that finally, stretched himself on the dirty prison bed to try it.
It was not uncomfortable entirely.
He got up after a while, however, and sat, then walked, then sat.
What a narrow place to walk, he thought.
This was horrible—something like a living tomb.
And to think he should be here now, day after day and day after day, until—until what?
Until the Governor pardoned him or his time was up, or his fortune eaten away—or—