MAX P EMBERTON
 
 The 
 Fortunate Prisoner 
 
 BY 
 
 MAX PEMBERTON 
 
 Author of "The Diamond Ship," "A Puritan's Wife, 
 "The Gold Wolf," "The Giant's Gate," "Sir Richard 
 Escombe," "The Show Girl," Etc. 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS BY 
 
 MAX COWPER 
 
 G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 
 
 . OF CALIF. LIBRARY, LOii ANGELES
 
 Copyright, /pop, 
 
 BY 
 MAX PEMBERTON. 
 
 'A Fortunate Prisoner.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I John Canning Comes Out of 
 
 Prison 7 
 
 II Abraham Wesson Receives His 
 
 Client . . . . 15 
 
 III A Retrospect and Afterward . 25 
 IV The Little House on Charles 
 
 Street . . . . 31 
 
 V All Sorts and Conditions of Men 37 
 
 VI The Journey into Suffolk . 51 
 
 VII The Beacon . . . .67 
 
 VIII An Island Lover ... 74 
 
 IX Jesse Visits the Castle . . 79 
 
 X Flight Follows Discovery . 88 
 
 XI Jesse Questioned by Her Father 94 
 
 XII Japhon Fearney Asks a Question 108 
 
 XIII A Rendezvous upon the Mainland 
 
 and Afterward . . . 115 
 
 XIV The Coward Makes an Effort . 124 
 
 XV The Fair at the Castle . .131 
 
 XVI Jesse Revisits the Long Gallery . 141 
 
 XVII Wisdom of the Simple . . 153 
 
 XVIII Japhon Resolves upon Silence . 163 
 
 XIX The Resolution is Reconsidered . 176 
 
 XX Jesse Revisits the Castle . . 191 
 
 2131985
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 XXI The First Stone .... 202 
 
 XXII The Effigy . . . . 212 
 
 XXIII A Ship of Shadows . . . 229 
 
 XXIV The Messenger . . . 241 
 
 XXV Japhon Sails for Holland . . 250 
 
 XXVI There is Some Talk of Paris and 
 
 the East .... 263 
 
 XXVII Jesse Hears the Truth . . 278 
 
 XXVIII The Chateau de Nivres . ". 294 
 
 XXIX The Riddle of the Chirade . .315 
 
 XXX The Ship of Fate ... 327 
 
 XXXI Jesse Goes to London . . . 341 
 
 XXXII Abraham Wesson .Returns from 
 
 His Holiday . . . 349 
 XXXIII The Prisoner is to be Called For- 
 tunate . . . . . 358
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Jesse Frontispiece 
 
 Her response was a grave inclination of the head 
 
 and a swift passage to her own door ... 36 
 Stooping, as the sailors closed about him, he caught 
 
 Jesse in his arms and kissed her lips . . . 228 
 Voices came to them as sounds muffled afar. They 
 
 were afraid to speak the very splash of the 
 
 oars echoed weirdly on the still air . . 336
 
 BOOK I 
 THE CONVICT.
 

 
 I 
 
 The Fortunate Prisoner 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 JOHN CANNING COMES OUT OF PRISON 
 
 THE two men left New Scotland Yard together, 
 and coming round by way of Westminster they 
 turned up Whitehall and walked briskly toward 
 Charing Cross. 
 
 Of the two, a passer-by might have named that 
 always cheerful soul, Benjamin Crabbe, as the more 
 desirable acquaintance. His round boyish face did 
 not speak of prison, or its servitude. He carried 
 no burdens of self-reproach upon his memory, nor 
 was his mind troubled by those of conscience. 
 When a judge and a jury had agreed that Benjamin 
 Crabbe's financial operations as practised upon the 
 race-courses of England were worthy of penal 
 servitude, the merry fellow received his sentence, as 
 he now received his freedom, with a smiling face. 
 After all, no honest man had suffered by his 
 roguery; no woman's heart been broken. Benjamin 
 Crabbe could look into the eyes of the world and 
 declare upon his solemn word of honor that this 
 was so.
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 John Canning possessed no such ready claims to 
 casual sympathy as those enjoyed by his happy com- 
 panion. He looked neither to the right hand nor to 
 the left as he walked, but kept his eyes straight be- 
 fore him as though they sought a goal. Thirty- 
 nine years of life had done him much mental and 
 some physical injury. His gait was firm, but his 
 cheeks were hollow; and he made little of that fine 
 figure which had been so conspicuous on the banks 
 of the Cam nineteen long years ago. The face 
 itself deserved a verdict more reserved. It had 
 rarely failed to cast a spell upon both men and 
 women in the old days a bold, classic face with 
 wonderfully clear blue eyes and a Norseman's hair. 
 Here were intellect and ambition clearly marked; 
 swift sound judgment, but pre-eminently shrewd- 
 ness. 
 
 Now, these two had been released from prison 
 upon this morning of May in the year 1907, and 
 for a little way they set out upon the same road. 
 John Canning walked it with long swinging strides 
 as though hastening to a destination; Benjamin 
 Crabbe with quick shuffling steps which seemed to 
 resent his companion's haste. Not until they had 
 come to the corner by Charing Cross did either call 
 a halt, for the shadow of prison still lay upon them 
 and darkened their path. 
 
 "I'll tell you what, Mr. Canning," said Ben 
 8
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Crabbe at last, "if we go on in this way, they'll 
 think we're running from the 'tecs. Ain't you go- 
 ing to have a drink or something? I was thinking 
 of that all last night a glass of beer at Charing 
 Cross and some of my pals to drink it with me. 
 Well, they ain't here, and let 'em go. I shall get on 
 all right without 'em, and you ain't no better off. 
 Suppose we have a glass and forget all about it. 
 This sun makes a man feel like it, now don't it, 
 truly?" 
 
 John Canning came to a sudden halt and seemed 
 to remember his companion's existence for the first 
 time since the gate of New Scotland Yard had 
 closed upon him. 
 
 "Don't get drinking, Benjamin," he rejoined 
 quickly, "you'll be in trouble again if you do. 
 Where's the man you spoke about ? Where's Nance ? 
 Didn't you tell me you expected them?" 
 
 "So I did, and precious little good it done me. 
 Wait till I see the gal and have it out with her. 
 They're all alike, Mr. Canning ; never trust a woman 
 when your back is turned. But a gentleman like 
 you has found that out long ago, I'll be bound. 
 You don't believe over much in the women, now do 
 you, Mr. Canning?" 
 
 "I will tell you to-morrow," said Canning 
 quickly. "Meanwhile I must have a cigar, Ben- 
 jamin, one of the best that London can give me. 
 
 9
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Do you know, it is more than five years since I 
 smoked a cigar, and I have been looking forward 
 to this particular cigar for hundreds of days. Let 
 us go and buy one with the King's money, Ben- 
 jamin." 
 
 He entered a cigar shop just at the corner of 
 Trafalgar Square, leaving Mr. Crabbe to wait for 
 him upon the pavement outside. The fellow had 
 amused him in prison, where they sang in the choir 
 together, but here in Whitehall he was not amused 
 at all. Captivity, which welcomed any friendship, 
 even the meanest a month ago, caused liberty to 
 turn J rom it to-day as from an aggravation of the 
 penalty. John Canning said that he must be alone. 
 
 He offered his companion a cigar and lingered 
 yet a little while to find some decent excuse for get- 
 ting rid of him. To be sure, the lad was sympa- 
 thetic enough and very willing to be of service. A 
 vague idea of an honorable future floated in his 
 mind. And why should it not be shared with this 
 handsome, kindly gentleman who had been his mas- 
 ter even in prison ? 
 
 "I'll tell you what," said Benjamin enthusiastic- 
 ally, "let's go down to Newmarket together and see 
 old Jeff Corder. He ain't particular, Jeff ain't, and 
 wouldn't ask no questions, no, not if you'd been 
 'ung. I shall go down to him, and you'd better 
 come with me. 'Osses ain't got no memory, thank 
 
 10
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 God, and they won't think no worse of me for run- 
 ning across a plowed field with five pound two in 
 my pocket, and 'arf Brighton at my heels. Come 
 along with me, Mr. Canning, and see what old Jeff 
 can do for us. We're on the police list for many a 
 month, and I don't suppose people'll be anxious to 
 see us at mothers' meetings. Why don't you think 
 of it and come down to Newmarket ?" 
 
 John Canning said that he would, though, in 
 truth, he never wished to see Benjamin Crabbe 
 again. He had been grateful to the fellow for many 
 a laugh in prison, but was not grateful to him for 
 such frank expressions here upon the pavement of 
 Trafalgar Square. Happily, the sudden advent of 
 the girl Nance, dressed in the brightest of blue and 
 as radiant in her reception of "Benny," relieved him 
 of an embarrassing ordeal ; and with a brief word to 
 them both he terminated the interview. 
 
 "If ever you are in trouble write to me," he said. 
 "A letter addressed care of my lawyer, Abraham 
 Wesson, in Old Broad Street, will find me always. 
 Don't hesitate to write, Ben. And let me wish you 
 and this young lady the best of luck." 
 
 The girl said, "Thank you kindly, sir;" Benjamin 
 merely exclaimed, "I'll not forget, Mr. Canning," 
 and walked away immediately with his companion 
 in the direction of Pall Mall. 
 
 Interest, claiming them, severed the bonds of a 
 II
 
 mutual obligation in an instant and sent them upon 
 their divergent ways without a thought of the 
 darker days. As for John Canning, the merry faces 
 reproached him; the vulgar expressions disgusted 
 him. For more than four years, passing from 
 prison to prison, he had craved for some human 
 voice to comfort him, some kindly hand to lift him 
 up. To-day, the day of his release, he shunned all 
 voices and would be alone. 
 
 London, the city of his fortunes, affrighted him. 
 What a thunder of sounds! What a kaleidoscope of 
 men and things! And how the city had changed 
 even during the years of his imprisonment. The 
 motor buses seemed very Juggernauts crashing a 
 way through a human jungle. The press of the 
 people and the traffic had increased beyond all 
 knowledge since last he made a part of it. And 
 the fashions in the shops, the dress, the taxicabs, 
 the very names of newspapers of whose existence he 
 had never heard, all these helped the illusion that he 
 had been thrust suddenly into a new city and stood 
 there a stranger and alone. 
 
 Solitude is the fit harbor for shame, and John 
 Canning did not regret the circumstance. He had 
 planned his future while he was in prison; but, 
 oddly enough, had made no allowance for this sense 
 of isolation. People would judge hin? generously, 
 he had thought. A man who floats a public com- 
 
 12
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 pany and gets into difficulties with the law over it 
 is not in the category of the common criminal. Men 
 remember that he was shrewd and far-seeing. Per- 
 haps their human dislike of supreme success makes 
 them grateful to such a man for his fall. John 
 Canning thought that he would find many a friend 
 ready to receive him with open arms upon the day 
 of his release. But when he left New Scotland 
 Yard, from which all prisoners are finally dis- 
 charged, not a soul was there to meet him, no 
 message awaited him, not a single hand had been 
 outstretched. 
 
 The first instants of freedom, supreme in their 
 emotions, permitted him to ignore both the omis- 
 sion and its significance. He had listened to the 
 chatter of an uneducated companion and forgotten 
 for the instant that other voices should have ad- 
 dressed him. Now that he was alone and the traffic 
 roared about him, the truth smote him a sudden 
 blow before which he reeled. Good God! he said, 
 that all should have deserted him ; the friends of his 
 youth and of his manhood, those whose fortunes he 
 had made, whose aims he had helped, whose homes 
 he had founded. His father was a very old man 
 and might know nothing of this day, but Sybil, 
 whose heroism during his trial had been the wonder 
 of the town, whose devotion he would have wagered 
 his very life upon, that she should have sent no 
 
 13
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 message seemed beyond all belief. And yet he 
 could not doubt it; the streets mocked him as he 
 walked. For the first time since they accused him 
 he knew the meaning of shame. 
 
 He was ashamed to be abroad, he who had longed 
 for liberty as a child for the woods. The crime 
 that he had committed now stood out, not as a sin 
 against the law, but against men. That pride in his 
 own success, which had supported him during his 
 trial and sentence and afterward in prison, deserted 
 him in an instant when he knew the truth. The 
 world would not receive him. He was despised and 
 rejected of men. It must be so, no subterfuge 
 could put the thought away. 
 
 He, John Canning, walked on swiftly, no longer 
 remembering his freedom. His steps were those of 
 a fugitive. He would have shrunk from the touch 
 of a human hand as from a blow.
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 ABRAHAM WESSON RECEIVES HIS CLIENT 
 
 ABRAHAM WESSON, the lawyer, occupied a suite 
 of rooms upon the first floor of one of the largest 
 houses in Old Broad Street. He surveyed humanity 
 from a seat in the window, whence he could espy 
 the great human stream below and look almost into 
 the faces of those upon the roofs of the motor 
 omnibuses. 
 
 Abraham Wesson had lived for sixty-two years, 
 and had spent a good forty of them lamenting the 
 Corn Laws and the English gold which had gone 
 to their repeal. This was a favorite topic when he 
 was not discussing his wife's genius for the theatre. 
 Sarah Siddons was no such tragedienne he would 
 tell you. And her son took after her, and could be 
 Lord Chancellor if he would. 
 
 He was a good-hearted man and did not lack 
 sympathy. The "fees" which went to and fro on 
 the pavement below interested him chiefly because 
 of their stupendous ignorance. Why were they not 
 tilling the soil to grow the wheat which America 
 sent to us? In a professionally suicidal aspect he 
 
 15
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 discouraged litigation and would have none of it. 
 The City liked Abraham Wesson because of this, 
 and told you that he was an honest man. 
 
 Forty years ago this ferret-faced little lawyer 
 with the Dundreary whiskers had been a pupil on 
 the farm of old John Canning, who tilled the fertile 
 soil of Suffolk in the parish of Honiton. The 
 farmer had a portrait of Sir Robert in his parlor, 
 and was wont to vent his spleen upon it at inter- 
 vals. The young man learned the truths of an an- 
 cient controversy from such violent lips and carried 
 them to a lawyer's office in London. His abiding 
 joy was still a holiday on the Suffolk heaths. He 
 had loved young John Canning for his father's 
 sake and suffered a cruel blow to his pride when 
 the crash came. 
 
 "He might have been anything," he would say 
 dramatically ; "there was nothing beyond his reach. 
 Gladstone himself hadn't a better head for figures. 
 And he throws it all away on a steamship company 
 which was bringing foreign wheat to England. 
 Show me anything like that and I'll believe you," a 
 vague aphorism, by the way, which Abraham Wes- 
 son employed upon many occasions. 
 
 The morning of May 21, in the year 1907, found 
 the old lawyer in a state of very natural excitement. 
 He had visited young Canning twice while he was 
 at Portland, and would have gone to New Scot- 
 
 16
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 land Yard to meet him but for a sudden call to a 
 consultation which was not to be ignored. Per- 
 haps he wished to spare his client some embarrass- 
 ment, certainly he gave directions to that end when 
 he returned to his office at half-past eleven and 
 summoned his head clerk, Muller, to his private 
 room. 
 
 "I shall want all the papers in the Michael Can- 
 ning matter," he said; "Mr. John will be here al- 
 most immediately and will wish to know every- 
 thing. Please keep the clerks out of the way as 
 much as possible. They will know how to behave. 
 He is a very sensitive man, we must not forget, and 
 one of our best clients." 
 
 The clerk agreed and declared that he would do 
 his best. When John Canning arrived a quarter 
 of an hour later he discovered none but a chubby- 
 faced office boy to meet him, and was ushered at 
 once into the old lawyer's private room. Very 
 methodically Abraham Wesson pulled a chair to the 
 table and dusted it His voice was a little husky. 
 He shook hands with his client as with any pro- 
 fessional acquaintance who had dropped in to con- 
 sult him. 
 
 "Up to time,' 1 he said, with the merest attempt 
 at merriment. "I should have been there, but I 
 had to consult Kramer. Wonderful man Kramer!
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 The judges are afraid of him. Won't you sit 
 down? We shall be quite alone here." 
 
 John Canning lifted his eyes at this, but imme- 
 diately lowered them. Why should he be glad that 
 he was alone with his father's oldest friend? Was 
 not this the truth again? Men were ashamed to be 
 seen with him. 
 
 "Of course I came to you first," he said. 
 
 "Of course you did. Where else should you go? 
 I'd have asked you down home to-night, but my 
 daughter-in-law is there. Inquisitive woman as ever 
 lived, but you'll be better in some private hotel for a 
 day or two, and there's much to settle in London." 
 
 John Canning did not answer. He leaned upon 
 the table and faced the lawyer with that hard glance 
 he had last employed at the Board meeting which 
 declared his failure and his ruin. 
 
 "When did my uncle Michael die?" 
 
 "Two days before Christmas. I told you so in 
 my letter to the pri to to Portland. He was a 
 big, strong man and ought to have lived longer. I 
 remember him well at Honiton. He served bailiff 
 to Lord Sommerton and went to Australia sooner 
 than marry the huntsman's daughter. An obsti- 
 nate man believed in Cobden. Your father 
 wouldn't sit at the same table with him at the last." 
 
 "I have heard him say so. What was his for- 
 tune worth?" 
 
 18
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "We don't know yet. My agent at Sydney has 
 the matter in hand. But you'll never want for 
 bread nor butter either. Put it down at a quarter 
 of a million, and it's not beyond the mark." 
 
 "Shall I have possession soon ?" 
 
 "You'll get it as soon as I do. If you want any 
 money meanwhile, my bank's at your service. Any- 
 thing up to a thousand is lying there for you." 
 
 Canning reflected upon it an instant, and then 
 replied 
 
 "I should like five hundred pounds in notes and 
 gold now, if I can have them." 
 
 The lawyer touched a bell and summoned Muller 
 to the room. Obedient to his instructions, the head 
 clerk remained somewhat in the background and 
 spoke in a whisper. When the check had been drawn 
 and dispatched to the bank they began to speak of 
 other things. 
 
 "You are going down to Suffolk to your father, 
 I suppose?" 
 
 "Possibly, yes. I have no plans. Does my father 
 know that Michael left me this fortune?" 
 
 "I told him so by letter. But he is a very old 
 man, and very old men are not much interested in 
 money. Perhaps you'll be glad to think that his 
 faculties are not quite what they were. He and I 
 have been as brothers, so you mustn't mind my 
 saying it, John." 
 
 19
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "I quite understand it. Let me ask you another 
 question, one that did not occur to me while I was 
 in prison. It concerns myself. What do men think 
 of me, Wesson? What kind of a reception am I 
 likely to meet with at the hands of my old friends?" 
 
 The lawyer locked his fingers together and leaned 
 far back in his leather chair. He was pleased that 
 the question should have been asked. Better the 
 truth than the affront. And he knew that John 
 Canning must meet with many an affront. 
 
 "The City thought you unlucky. When a young 
 man takes to company promoting, he launches his 
 ship on a rocky shore. Your balance sheets were 
 fraudulent according to the law, but they were 
 smart according to the practice. I heard you 
 blamed in many quarters and praised in a few. The 
 world is rather kind to cleverness which fails. If 
 you press me to tell you and who should tell you 
 if not your lawyer? then I say that you must not 
 expect too much in the days just before you. Prison 
 is the one thing society neither forgives nor forgets. 
 It will accept a debauchee, a drunkard, a blas- 
 phemer and a rogue, but it won't accept a man who 
 has been in prison, even if his crime were no greater 
 than assaulting a railway porter. If you were poor, 
 I should be very sorry for you to-day, but you are 
 rich, and will find many to fawn upon you for 
 money's sake. Beware of them, John. Don't for- 
 
 20
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 get that a man may rise on stepping stones, as Ten- 
 nyson told us. You may yet go far if you bide 
 your time. But you'll have to live abroad to do it, 
 and live abroad you will if you are a sensible man. 
 What's England to you or any man who has fallen 
 foul of the laws of England? You'll never rise 
 here. And you have brains which may make you 
 a leader in another country. That's as certain as 
 the pen before me. You have no future in Eng- 
 land, but you might have a great future abroad." 
 
 He spoke with that smug self-assurance which 
 characterizes the family solicitor, but not unkindly. 
 John Canning heard him with ears agog and a 
 quickened pulse. Must this, indeed, be the verdict; 
 this edict of banishment; this abnegation of self; 
 this final and immediate admission that there was 
 no future for him in his own country? He had 
 never thought of it in prison. Vanity did not cease 
 to tell him there that the world praised his clever- 
 ness and would judge him kindly. 
 
 "You think, then," he exclaimed presently, "that 
 decent people will cut me and the others tolerate 
 me because of my fortune? Is it that, Wesson?" 
 
 "It is human nature. Men choose their acquaint- 
 ances nowadays as they choose their pictures. They 
 want something to decorate their rooms ; something 
 which is talked about. Your friends will be those 
 who have something to gain by your friendship. I 
 
 21
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 say so, and I have lived more than sixty years. The 
 English are the hardest nation in the world to the 
 unfortunate. Expect nothing from those you knew 
 five years ago, and you will not be disappointed." 
 
 He had meant to tell John Canning this while he 
 was in prison; but his courage failed him there. A 
 shrewd old man, he foresaw the difficulties, the 
 humiliations, the affronts which would attend any 
 attempt upon his client's part to re-enter the society 
 from which failure had driven him. And he harped 
 upon the point, the more because of the other's 
 silence. 
 
 "You are a rich man and the whole world is be- 
 fore you. Are there no better places than Thread- 
 needle Street ? Think what you might do with your 
 money a yacht, a chateau in France, a home in 
 Italy; shooting, big-game hunting in Africa, a tour 
 round the world. And then you'll settle down and 
 find some pretty girl, and build a home of your own 
 and have children. Is that not better than Thread- 
 needle Street and the stockbrokers? A thousand 
 times, I say. Come to my house when my daugh- 
 ter-in-law is gone, and we'll drink a glass of port 
 over it. And you shall hear my wife. A wonderful 
 woman, John; there isn't such an actress on the 
 English stage." 
 
 In another and lighter mood John Canning might 
 have hinted that the Tragic Muse was not the one 
 
 22
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 he would cultivate under such circumstances; but 
 he knew the old lawyer's weakness and held his 
 tongue. The words had touched him strangely. A 
 home, a wife, children! What had Sybil to say to 
 that ? A hot flush of blood rushed to his face at this 
 memory. He felt that he must terminate the inter- 
 view immediately, but he had no courage to ask 
 news of Sybil. 
 
 "I shall come, of course," he said; "but that will 
 be after I have made my plans. You are very right 
 about the hotel. I shall stop at Berners' in Bond 
 Street to-night, and afterward, perhaps, at the Sa- 
 voy. Address all my letters to Berners' for the 
 moment. If I want money, I shall come to you." 
 
 Wesson retorted with a commonplace. He was 
 surprised at himself for expressing so little of that 
 sympathy he felt for his old friend's son ; but young 
 John Canning was not a man who invited such 
 utterances, although he prompted them. And he 
 would understand the difficulty. With which con- 
 solation the old man shook his client heartily by the 
 hand and bade him God-speed. 
 
 "You can go out by the side door, if you like," 
 he said confidentially; "there'll be no one on the 
 stairs and clerks have tongues." 
 
 John Canning thanked him, but declined the 
 courtesy. Walking with head erect he passed 
 through the outer office, and met unflinchingly the 
 
 23
 
 THB FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 gaze of half a dozen shabby young men, who had 
 just been telling each other that Canning "the con- 
 vict" was with the governor. 
 
 These certainly would have made a hero of him. 
 Perhaps they were astonished that his portrait was 
 not already in Madame Tussaud's. 
 
 24
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 A RETROSPECT AND AFTERWARD 
 
 THERE is music in the voice of a great city for 
 him who has the gift of her harmonies. John Can- 
 ning was proud to account himself one of these in 
 the old days. 
 
 How he had loved London. What an arena for 
 men's ambitions. What a mighty temple of effort 
 and achievement. All that pride might desire and 
 success might win were to be had in London. This 
 he had kept before him during the years; this was 
 the truth he carried to London fifteen years ago 
 when a lad from Cambridge, he had entered a ship- 
 broker's office and sworn to establish his fortunes. 
 
 And he had established them. That restless, 
 omniverous brain made him a marked man from 
 the first. Old Stephen Bond, the shipbroker, was 
 not one to admit a young man's cleverness except 
 upon compulsion, but he recognized at an early mo- 
 ment the ability of this youth whom he had re- 
 ceived into his office upon his son's recommenda- 
 tion. 
 
 John Canning, in truth, had been a lucky fellow 
 
 25
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 from the beginning. It was luck which sent Dr. 
 Hooper of King's College at Cambridge down to 
 hear the Sunday service in Honiton parish church, 
 and there to remark the beauty of the lad's voice; 
 luck which admitted young John to the college 
 choir; luck which permitted him afterward to win 
 a mathematical scholarship in a poor year; luck 
 which named young Henry Bond for his friend at 
 King's, and so obtained him a place in Stephen 
 Bond's office. 
 
 He was such a good-tempered, masterful, charm- 
 ing acquaintance. Every one admitted it. Those 
 who disliked him were the few who had suffered at 
 Cambridge and in London by his successes. He 
 had no real enemy, perhaps. And he certainly be- 
 lieved that he had many friends. 
 
 The aftermath is the story of the tragedy. John 
 Canning succeeded so well in old Stephen Bond's 
 office that he set up presently for himself; pushed 
 ahead as a financier with almost incredible success; 
 took to promoting shipping companies was caught 
 in the great panic of the year 1901, accused of 
 falsifying a balance sheet and sentenced at the Old 
 Bailey to seven years' penal servitude. 
 
 The trial had been a nine days' wonder, and as 
 quickly forgotten. Many said that this would be 
 the end of the new gospel of youth, so loudly 
 preached just then in commercial circles. John 
 
 26
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Canning had not failed because he was dishonest, 
 but by reason of his faith in himself. When things 
 went ill, he had been proud enough to say, "I can 
 put them straight." A lofty contempt for old-fash- 
 ioned restraint and prudence ruined him. He had 
 believed to the last in the stability of the Mediter- 
 ranean and Morocco ports company, and was as- 
 tounded when the cataclysm overwhelmed it. Im- 
 possible that such -a thing could have happened to 
 him! 
 
 London had spoken to him with a dreadful voice 
 upon that day of his arrest, and the sounds often 
 rang in his ears during the long years of his im- 
 prisonment. He had dined at the Savoy Hotel, he 
 remembered, and taken Sybil and her brother to 
 the theatre afterward. A merry supper party kept 
 them up very late, and it had been after one when 
 he returned to his rooms in the Albany then still 
 a famous home of bachelors. Waking late upon 
 the following morning, his valet Gilford informed 
 him that two police officers were in the house. He 
 would never forget the instant humiliation, the sud- 
 den realization of woe and disaster in its ultimate 
 shape. In truth he had hardly listened to the 
 charge, so loudly did the word "ruin" ring in his 
 ears. 
 
 And they had sent him to penal servitude. Per- 
 haps the truth was that the mere incidents of im- 
 
 27
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 prisonment counted very little in his case. Old 
 Stephen Bond had done his best for him; young 
 Henry had been a staunch friend he had heard 
 constantly from Sybil during his trial, been cheered 
 by frequent messages and letters. When the end 
 came, her brother Henry said that they feared for 
 her reason and he added boyishly, "Of course she 
 is frightfully cut up." 
 
 How many years had passed since those words 
 were uttered. Where was Stephen Bond? Was 
 he alive or dead? And Sybil, that stately gracious 
 girl whom he had worshiped while yet a mere lad 
 at Cambridge, and made the idol of his manhood, 
 what of her? He had been a coward not to put the 
 question to old Abraham Wesson. The agony he 
 had suffered in the prison had been the agony of 
 her silence. Had she cast him off utterly? Was 
 there no hope that the years might redeem the past ? 
 He had learned to abandon the dream. None but 
 a fool, he said, would cling tenaciously to such a 
 folly. 
 
 This was the loudest voice of London as she 
 spoke to him upon the day of his freedom. He 
 must learn the truth about Sybil, and learn it as 
 quickly as might be. There was no plan in his 
 mind when he left Abraham Wesson's office; but 
 he had money in his pocket, and in a sense all the 
 world was before him. What his position would 
 
 28
 
 THB FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 have been had he emerged from prison a beggar 
 and friendless, he did not dare to think. But God's 
 providence had spared him this, and he reflected 
 with almost savage irony that he was a richer man 
 by far than many of those who would scorn him. 
 
 This pleasant thought warred with others less 
 pleasant as he walked up Broad Street and made 
 his way toward the west. It was a glorious morn- 
 ing of May, and even the City breathed a sweet air. 
 These had been the scenes of his triumph in the old 
 days. He paused at the corner of Threadneedle 
 Street and looked up at the windows of the office 
 where he had dealt in thousands as others deal in 
 tens. With what a fever of anxiety had he entered 
 that building upon the mornings of these tempestu- 
 ous days. How many had done him homage in 
 that brief season of his prosperity. Would they 
 remember him to-day, might it not be that his very 
 name had been forgotten? 
 
 He crossed the street and sauntered by the door 
 of the Stock Exchange. Many unfamiliar faces 
 passed by, but one at length which was familiar. 
 John Canning recognized in the man the boy Val 
 Percival, who had been at Cambridge with him. He 
 stopped and touched him on the shoulder. 
 
 "Surely it is Percival !" 
 
 "Good God Canning!" 
 
 It was not said unkindly. The manner, the tone 
 29
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 of it marked both astonishment and sympathy 
 but also some embarrassment. Nevertheless, this 
 well-dressed, busy fellow glanced about him as 
 though ashamed to be seen in such company. He 
 was quite unable to talk rationally. John Canning 
 himself flushed crimson. He understood the situa- 
 tion without a word spoken. 
 
 "I thought you would not remember me. Things 
 are very different, Percival." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I'm very sorry is there anything I 
 can do, Canning?" 
 
 "I suppose you have all pronounced sentence on 
 me long ago, but you can tell me something. Is 
 old Stephen Bond still alive?" 
 
 "He died three years ago." 
 
 "And his daughter? You knew her well, I re- 
 member." 
 
 Percival looked askance as he answered the ques- 
 tion. 
 
 "She's living at the old house in Charles Street. 
 Harry has gone to Africa. Didn't you know ?" 
 
 "I know nothing," said Canning quietly. "How 
 should I after five years in Portland." 
 
 The "friend" shrank from the brutality of the 
 confession, and, afraid to say more, he made some 
 excuse and went into the House. But John Can- 
 ning set out immediately to walk to Charles Street, 
 where the whole truth should be told to him. 
 
 30
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE LITTLE HOUSE IN CHARLES STREET 
 
 OLD Stephen Bond had spent forty years of his 
 life at the little house in Charles Street, Berkeley 
 Square ; and prosperity did not move him to a more 
 ambitious home. True, he had a great country seat 
 near Tring, and posed occasionally at the week-end 
 as a country gentleman; but the best of his days 
 were spent in Charles Street, and there he died. 
 
 John Canning knew every room in this little 
 house, and his dreams had repeopled it many a 
 night when he lay in prison and sleep was denied to 
 him. Imagination made much of it; but, in truth, 
 it was no more than a substantial building of red 
 brick with a narrow front upon a narrow roadway 
 and a square hall opening up behind double doors. 
 These latter used to be thrown wide open when 
 Sybil, radiant in a Paris gown, swept down to the 
 brougham which should carry her to Covent Gar- 
 den or the theatres. John Canning, a prisoner, 
 would recall such a scene before others reminiscent 
 of the house. How majestic had been her presence ! 
 With what pride had he accompanied her!
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 And now he stood in Charles Street once again, 
 upon an afternoon of May, when the sun shone 
 gloriously, and even Berkeley Square had its gift 
 of fresh green leaves. About him was the typical 
 life of a London season carriages rolling lazily 
 toward the Park; well-dressed women going to and 
 from the open houses; motors humming by; busy 
 people passing at a brisk walk as though the routine 
 of gaiety dictated hasty steps. He had visited 
 Charles Street a hundred times under such circum- 
 stances; but never with such a sense of doubt and 
 Hesitation. How if Sybil had heard that this was 
 the day of his freedom and were awaiting him? 
 True, no letter had come to the prison ; but prudence 
 would forbid such a message. John Canning stood 
 at the corner of Berkeley Square, afraid to stir a 
 step. He had trusted Sybil before them all, and his 
 faith endured. 
 
 A cheeky butcher-boy, romping with another upon 
 the pavement, asked him what time it was, and he 
 pulled out the great gold watch Stephen Bond gave 
 him many years ago, and answered, "Four o'clock." 
 He had forgotten no detail of Sybil's daily life, and 
 this he remembered would be the hour at which she 
 set off for her daily drive. The thought took him 
 quickly from the square; and he approached the 
 house of his desires and gazed wistfully at its doors. 
 These were both closed and the sun-blinds drawn 
 
 32
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 over the windows but the house was quite un- 
 changed. The very flower boxes were full of the 
 pink tulips she loved. 
 
 A little house of red brick, closed and silent and 
 sleeping in the sunshine! How often in the old 
 days had he not hastened there, upon just such an 
 afternoon as this, or driven up in his phaeton to 
 take Sybil to the Park and afterward to dinner at 
 Ranelagh. Their engagement had never been quite 
 to old Bond's satisfaction, for the shipbroker had 
 conservative notions and disbelieved in all who did 
 not hasten slowly; but Harry, his son, had been 
 staunch to Canning since their Cambridge days, and 
 would hear of no other husband for his sister. The 
 two were much together at that time, and their 
 plans rarely excluded Sybil, who loved all games, 
 and had even stooped, in a frivolous mood, to play 
 cricket with them. 
 
 She was very young then, three years Canning's 
 junior; but she remained the girl in his imagination, 
 and he could not believe that the years had counted 
 in her case. No man recalls the face of a woman he 
 has loved in any other shape than that which youth 
 has moulded for him; and John Canning made no 
 exception. He depicted Sybil as the school-girl, 
 with mischievous hair about her pretty face, and 
 blue eyes full of laughter. A thought of the after- 
 math of womanhood remained distasteful to him. 
 
 33
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 She would drive to the Park presently, he said, 
 and would discover him as he stood and waited for 
 her. A dread of missing his opportunity kept him 
 very close to the house so close that his presence 
 was remarked by a lazy butler standing at a neigh- 
 boring door. This man laughed a little impudently, 
 and would have spoken had he been encouraged. 
 But Canning passed him thrice with a stony stare, 
 and he went in presently and stood at the window of 
 the house, the better to spy upon this stranger. 
 
 There was shame in the consciousness of this, and 
 it brought hot blood to Canning's cheeks. Why did 
 he hesitate to knock at Sybil's door? What cow- 
 ardice kept the truth back from him? He had but 
 to say, "I am John Canning, and I have come to 
 you according to the promise." If she did not wish 
 him to remain, a word would intimate as much, and 
 he would go. Oh, be sure something of the old 
 pride remained and was this man's finest inherit- 
 ance. Broken but not bent, he would yet face the 
 world triumphantly. If he temporized for the mo- 
 ment, five years of prison answered for his weak- 
 ness. He would have gone to any other ; but not to 
 Sybil, who held the supreme gift to bestow or with- 
 hold it as her heart dictated. 
 
 The thought and the espionage had carried him a 
 little way from the house, and when he turned again 
 a motor-car stood at the door a covered carriage, 
 
 34
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 with a driver and footman in livery. This had 
 hardly drawn up when the doors of the house were 
 thrown wide open and Sybil herself appeared, and 
 was at once driven away toward Berkeley Square. 
 To John Canning the accident of her route seemed 
 almost an omen. She had not even glanced in his 
 direction. He was quite sure that she had not seen 
 him. He said it was the old Sybil, however, and 
 that time had dealt generously with her. 
 
 The same grace of carriage, the same proud dig- 
 nity which had characterized the earlier years were 
 to be observed in the woman's swift movements and 
 her attitude toward the servants. Her dress was 
 quiet, and in that excellent taste she had always dis- 
 played. A brief scrutiny might have declared her 
 to be without cares, one who went to her daily 
 pleasures with no thought either of yesterday or to- 
 morrow. John Canning, however, refused to be- 
 lieve it. A pathetic hope still moved him, as no 
 emotion he could remember even in the terrible 
 days. She must know. She could not have for- 
 gotten ! 
 
 He left the street at last, wondering that it was 
 so difficult to go; but he was back again at half- 
 past six, and at a quarter to seven precisely Sybil 
 returned to her house. This time, determining not 
 to leave the issue in doubt, he approached the car- 
 riage boldly and lifted his hat as she stepped out. 
 
 35
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Her response was a grave inclination of the head, 
 and a swift passage to her own door. The man 
 who followed her, a tall, handsome young fellow, 
 stared at Canning a little curiously, and then, after 
 a moment's hesitation, he asked somewhat awk- 
 wardly 
 
 "What do you want; what is it?" 
 
 "I wish to speak to Miss Bond." 
 
 "Miss Miss but that lady is my wife. Why 
 do you wish to speak to her?" 
 
 John Canning could not answer a single word. 
 He turned swiftly on his heel and left the street.
 
 HER RESPONSE WAS A GRAVE INCLINATION OF THK 
 HEAD AND A SWIFT PASSAGE TO HER OWN DOOR 
 
 Page
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN* 
 
 CANNING had been three weeks in London when 
 the droll idea entered his head that he would call 
 upon some of his old friends. 
 
 Hitherto the days had been those of seclusion. 
 He occupied a suite of rooms at Berners' Hotel in 
 Bond Street, and rarely quitted them until after 
 nightfall. Thus, for the time being, he had found 
 a stronghold against the world; but the isolation 
 palled upon him eventually, and he determined to 
 end it. 
 
 Let it be said that he was already, through Abra- 
 ham Wesson's instrumentality, master of the large 
 fortune which his uncle, Michael Canning, had left 
 him during the last year of his imprisonment Such 
 knowledge was his stout ally during those intol- 
 erable days. He came to regard himself as one 
 who stood alone against the world ; and he reflected 
 grimly that many would yet do him lip service if 
 the truth were known. This, however, he de- 
 termined to conceal. There was an added joy in the 
 pretence of poverty; a cynical delight in those pro- 
 
 37
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 fessions of need with which he determined to assail 
 his friends. 
 
 And first, a visit to that good-tempered old gen- 
 tleman, the Vicar of St Colomb's in Piccadilly. 
 Canning had known him very well in the golden 
 days, and subscribed hundreds to his charities. The 
 vicar's comfortable sermons were justly esteemed by 
 his large congregations. Society said that he was 
 an excellent diner-out, but not so gallant as a diner- 
 in. He preached at Westminster Abbey twice a 
 year, and invariably upon some aspect of our com- 
 mon charity. To him, then, went John Canning 
 during the third week of his freedom. 
 
 He saw the vicar in the little study which over- 
 looks the Green Park. Prone to stoutness, some- 
 what uncertain upon his legs, but marvelously 
 benevolent in countenance, the Reverend John Wall- 
 shot received his old friend both stealthily and with 
 caution. When he shut his study door it was with 
 the air of one who would not have the servants 
 overhear a word of the conversation. He motioned 
 Canning to a seat as others bid a prisoner take a 
 chair in the dock. His words were low-toned and 
 full of awe he was obviously afraid that this man 
 was going to ask for something. 
 
 "My dear friend," he said, "I have thought of 
 you very often. And now I see you. Well, well, 
 life is full of contrasts, and no one can be more 
 
 38
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 sensible of them than the vicar of a populous parish. 
 Do you remain in England, may I ask? Is it your 
 intention to stay with us ?" 
 
 Canning answered in plain words. 
 
 "That depends upon my friends I wish to see 
 what they are going to do for me." 
 
 "My dear sir, the world is not very kind to those 
 who have met with such er um misfortunes as 
 you that is which we mutually understand. I 
 should have thought you would have done wiser to 
 go abroad." 
 
 "Then perhaps you can help me to get there, 
 vicar?" 
 
 "Would that I could. The claims which this 
 parish makes upon me are unending. And the 
 Ecclesiastical Commissioners are most unsympa- 
 thetic. Can you believe it, I am at this moment 
 positively compelled to do the work of this great 
 district with three curates. I ask you, is that rea- 
 sonable is it possible? We have a bishop who is 
 never at rest. I can see that he wishes the clergy to 
 imitate him." 
 
 "Then you can do nothing for me?" 
 
 The vicar flushed, but did not relent. 
 
 "There is," he said, turning away his head as he 
 spoke, "a society, I believe, which gives aid to dis- 
 charged er to unfortunate people in your posi- 
 tion. I could write to them on your behalf." 
 
 39
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "Is it a good society, vicar?" 
 
 "One of the best, I am told." 
 
 "Then tell them I will contribute five hundred 
 pounds to their funds. I was going to give the 
 money to you but I see that it will be more use to 
 them. Please send the money in my name. I am 
 sure you will approve of such a form of charity 
 especially as you are unable to do anything for dis- 
 charged prisoners yourself." 
 
 The vicar of St. Colomb's opened his eyes wider 
 than he had opened them for many a day. What 
 he really thought of himself no man will ver 
 know ; but he was clever enough to realize his mis- 
 take and to cover it adroitly. 
 
 "Most generous of you most generous," he re- 
 joined, "so like the John Canning who used to be 
 my right hand. I will send the money, of course. 
 There can be no finer type of charity than that 
 which ministers to the fallen. You feel for them 
 it is very natural as we, your friends, have felt 
 for you." 
 
 Canning smiled, but would not take up the chal- 
 lenge. 
 
 "There is just one question I should like to ask 
 before I go," he said ; "you married Sybil Bond, I 
 believe. How long ago was that?" 
 
 "To the best of my memory nearly three years. 
 
 40
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 She married Captain Endsleigh of the Blues but, 
 of course, you knew and ah, I remember." 
 
 "With a better memory than a woman's. I am 
 obliged to you. If I remain in England, you may 
 hear of me again. But I am coming to your opin- 
 ion. This country is no place for a man who has 
 committed a crime and been punished for it. He 
 owes it to society to die. He owes it to his friends 
 never to remind them that he was and is. You 
 agree with me, vicar your words say that you do." 
 
 The old clergyman shook his head. What a mis- 
 take he had made. And what a fine thing it would 
 have been to have posed before his congregation as 
 the staunch friend of one who could write a check 
 for five hundred pounds for any object which 
 pleased him! 
 
 "We have too little charity!" he exclaimed, ut- 
 tering his favorite platitude. "The world is losing 
 its old faiths, and chivalry is going with them. But 
 I doubt not that a rich man would find friends what- 
 ever his past. We do not ask to-day what a man 
 has done, but what he is going to do. That is the 
 plain truth, Mr. Canning, however much I, a clergy- 
 man, may regret it." 
 
 He said much more in a similar vein, threw out 
 many a hint which might undo this colossal error 
 of sending five hundred pounds to a fund which
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 neither he nor his church wardens administered; 
 but Canning was already tired of him, and with a 
 dry word of thanks he continued his mission, and 
 was shortly closeted with his old friend, Sir Hor- 
 ace Gipps, the banker. This old man was honest to 
 the core. He shook hands with his visitor, but 
 obviously did not wish him to stay. 
 
 "Well, Canning," he said, "glad to see you about 
 again. How long have you been in London?" 
 
 "Three weeks I was released from Portland 
 just three weeks ago." 
 
 "And what business had any one with your brains 
 to be in Portland at all? You know as well as I 
 do that the man who climbs quickly in the City has 
 a long way to fall when the ladder's rotten. You 
 should have listened to the old men. I told you so 
 at the time. I tell you so again to-day." 
 
 "Wise advice, Sir Horace if I were returning 
 *to the City. But I am not. You have no place here 
 for unlucky men. It is true that half of you are 
 much greater rogues than I ever was but the oth- 
 ers are not found out. I shall go to the East. It 
 has no memory." 
 
 "Don't believe it. You will meet some curious 
 Englishman every mile and he'll want to know all 
 about you before he pitches his tent in your camp. 
 The East's no place for your brains. Why not try 
 America? They'd call you smart out there." 
 
 42
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "Will you head a subscription to get me out?" 
 
 "I'll give you just five pounds. That's what I 
 give to every man who wants to make a new start. 
 Five pounds I came to London with that much 
 five-and- forty years ago. Why should any man 
 want more?" 
 
 Canning laughed. 
 
 "I came here," he said, "not to beg, but to open 
 an account with your bank and leave some ten thou- 
 sand with you. But I'll take your five pounds all 
 the same and frame it. You're the first who offered 
 me a shilling." 
 
 Sir Horace looked a little crestfallen. The power 
 of money is as sure with the rich as the poor. What 
 a fool he had been not to ask questions first. 
 
 "Well," he stammered, "money will take you any- 
 where. Put this story round and you may fill the 
 banqueting hall at the Cecil. I should have guessed 
 you were not the man to come begging." 
 
 "A thing few guess. Oblige me by treating the 
 whole affair as a professional confidence. I am 
 going about trying to find a friend. Perhaps I 
 shall yet succeed." 
 
 Sir Horace frankly confessed his doubts. 
 
 "Selfishness is the loudest note in the music of 
 our time," he said; "we preach it all day and every 
 day. Get on, push others aside, make a pile to 
 astonish the universe, give entertainments which 
 
 43
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 will be your glory, subscribe to charities which will 
 emblazon your name in gold there you have it 
 that is the teaching of the twentieth century. But 
 it isn't making men, Canning, and it's working a 
 mischief even among the old ones. Take my ad- 
 vice and keep out of it all. Build up a man's fu- 
 ture. You could do it with your money, and your 
 past will help you." 
 
 Canning said that he would think of it. They 
 talked a little while of the business, of the account, 
 and of things in the City, and when they parted the 
 younger man remembered that he had an appoint- 
 ment to lunch at one o'clock with a good fellow 
 named Ernest Hobby, with whom he used to play 
 golf at Richmond. Hobby was an architect, who 
 had a little house at Wimbledon, and lived an un- 
 eventful life there. Canning could not understand 
 why he had written to him but he thought it 
 might possibly be that he had some news of Michael 
 Canning's money. 
 
 "He will want to borrow fifty pounds," he said, 
 as he retraced his steps from Lombard Street to the 
 Strand ; "well, I had many a good game with him, 
 and after all he is not ashamed to come and lunch 
 with me. I'll lend him the money." 
 
 He was to meet his friend at the Gaiety Restau- 
 rant, and here he found him at a quarter-past one. 
 Hobby had grown a little older, but was otherwise 
 
 44
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 unchanged an open-minded, simple-hearted Eng- 
 lishman of forty, who would just as soon have 
 thought of jumping off London Bridge as of saying 
 the thing which was not. Possibly a more truthful 
 person never existed. He had no tact in the ordi- 
 nary sense of the term. If he thought a thing, he 
 said it, and never troubled himself about the apol- 
 ogy. On this occasion his dress was almost shabby. 
 He wore a suit of indifferent tweeds, and a bowler 
 hat which had seen better days. 
 
 "It's awfully good of you to come," he said to 
 Canning. "I thought it would be too much to ex- 
 pect so soon." 
 
 "Why so soon, Hobby?" 
 
 "Oh, because all your friends will have been 
 dining and lunching you every day. I didn't expect 
 to get a chance just yet." 
 
 "My dear fellow, you don't understand. I have 
 been in prison. Men don't dine and lunch pris- 
 oners. They cross the road to avoid them. That's 
 my experience, I assure you." 
 
 Hobby opened his eyes wide. 
 
 "You don't mean to say that; but not the people 
 who were your friends." 
 
 "Every one of them. You are the first man who 
 has asked me to sit at the same table with him. The 
 rest advise me to go abroad but we won't talk 
 about it. We'll eat instead. Good food is much to 
 
 45
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 a man who has been in penal servitude very much, 
 Hobby, I can assure you." 
 
 Hobby uttered a blunt word of protest. He dis- 
 liked to hear his friend talk in this way. He had 
 such simple notions of right 'and wrong himself 
 that a shabby idea hardly entered his little world of 
 thought. 
 
 "I couldn't have believed it," he said. "Why, 
 half the City does what you did, and they know it. 
 You're lunching with me, Canning don't forget 
 that I asked you, and it's my turn." 
 
 Canning surrendered the bill of fare to him and 
 glanced round the restaurant. He was obviously a 
 stranger to the majority there, but one group in the 
 corner recognized him and were sharing the knowl- 
 edge with the waiter. This worthy carried the news 
 to other tables, so that half the people in the place 
 knew that Canning, the convict, was lunching in the 
 restaurant ; and many a jest they made of it. Hap- 
 pily, the good Hobby knew nothing of this. He was 
 trying to tell Canning how very sorry he was when 
 he heard of Sybil Bond's marriage. 
 
 "It cut me up dreadfully," he said ; "we say that 
 we don't believe in women while we believe in them 
 all the time. She was such a brick during your 
 trial I was in court every day, and I know what 
 happened. And then to go and marry a fellow who 
 had been carrying on with half the women in Lon- 
 
 46
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 don before he knew her. I was very sorry about it, 
 Canning." 
 
 The gaucherie was lamentable, but the good fel- 
 low meant well enough, and Canning had never 
 been the one to resent sympathy, however clumsily 
 expressed. Still, he felt unable to speak of Sybil. 
 He had lived nights of agony, days of shame, since 
 he discovered the truth ; but others must never dis- 
 cover it wholly or share a confidence of his distress. 
 
 "We won't talk of that," he said lightly ; "perhaps 
 it was too much to expect. Doesn't some writing 
 fellow say something about the fox, hyena, croco- 
 dile, and all beasts of craft being distilled to make 
 one woman? The old Jesuits were right after all 
 when they recommended celibacy. They must laugh 
 in their sleeves at the rest of us. Will you very 
 kindly not speak of this again, Hobby? You will 
 oblige me by doing so ?" 
 
 The eyes of the two men met, and the jest carried 
 its own negation. As for Hobby, he felt very fool- 
 ish in having mentioned such a subject at all, and 
 began to speak of himself, a thing he rarely did. 
 
 "Of course I won't," he said quickly, "and I quite 
 understand what you mean. There's something 
 else, however, I must speak about, and it's a com- 
 mission I have what do you think? to build a 
 church in Devon. I shall like that, for I can do 
 good work over it. The man I'm speaking of has 
 
 47
 
 THB FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 been living on Bell Island, out in the Bristol Chan- 
 nel but he's leaving the place and setting up in an 
 old Tudor mansion not far from Bideford. He 
 wants to have a church in his own grounds and his 
 own parson and I'm to draw the plans." 
 
 "I congratulate you. You always liked this kind 
 of thing, didn't you? I remember that churches 
 and Wagner were your staple industries when first 
 I knew you, Hobby." 
 
 Hobby admitted it with a smile. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "good music carries me into an- 
 other world though it's little enough I hear of it." 
 
 "And bad music is similarly moving, though the 
 destination is not the same. What kind of a church 
 are you to build ?" 
 
 "I am to have a free hand. I think I shall choose 
 'late perpendicular.' It's the one style our builders 
 seem successful in nowadays. Mr. Freeman, who 
 used to rent the island, has given me a cottage, and 
 I am to stay near Bideford all the summer. Why 
 don't you come down with me, Canning come as 
 my guest, and stop three months? We can golf at 
 Westward Ho when I'm not drawing, and you can 
 sail over to Bell Island and have some fishing. If 
 I were a rich man, I would buy that place; but you 
 shall see it for yourself if you come, as I hope you 
 will." 
 
 Canning put down his knife and fork and leaned 
 
 48
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 back in his chair. He was greatly moved. Here 
 was a man who offered him a home. The words 
 could mean nothing less a home and friendship 
 and rest, offered to the outcast, from whom others 
 turned as from a leper. He was not a weak man, 
 but the tears sprang to his eyes and he could not 
 utter a word. 
 
 "You see," Hobby went on, "the commission is a 
 good one, and will pay me very well. I shall take 
 the wife and the boy down and we'll have a jolly 
 time. I am sure you would enjoy it, and if you 
 want solitude you will get it over at Bell Island, 
 where even the gulls suffer from the dumps. Why 
 not say yes, at once I am writing to Mr. Freeman 
 to-day, and I could say that I wish to bring a friend 
 with me." 
 
 Canning pushed his plate away and looked his 
 friend fully in the face. 
 
 "When do you go?" he asked. 
 
 "In about ten days' time." 
 
 "Then I will come you are very kind to me, 
 Hobby, and I will come. The date just suits me 
 I wish to see my father in Suffolk and to say good- 
 by to him. Yes, it is very kind of you." 
 
 He could talk of nothing else. They finished 
 their meal still discussing the prospect, and were 
 busy upon it while coffee was served. 
 
 They would go to Devonshire together, and fish 
 
 49
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 and shoot and boat They would also visit Bell 
 Island, which was for sale. The latter intimation 
 affected Canning strangely. He wrote to Abraham 
 Wesson about it directly he returned to his own 
 rooms. 
 
 "Find out all about the property known as Bell 
 Island in the Bristol Channel and write to me at 
 once. I wish also to make a deed of gift of a thou- 
 sand pounds to my friend Ernest Hobby of the 
 Avenue, Wimbledon. Kindly see that this is car- 
 ried through with as much dispatch as may be." 
 
 Old Abraham Wesson shook his head at this. 
 
 "Throwing his money about already," he said. 
 "And buying a rock to begin with. Now, what 
 will he do with that island when he's got it? Ah, 
 I wonder?"
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE JOURNEY INTO SUFFOLK 
 
 WE make a familiar journey with reminiscence 
 for our traveling" companion ; nor are there any 
 other pleasures of the high road which speak with 
 a tongue more eloquent than those of memory. 
 
 John Canning had made the journey from Lon- 
 don to Cambridge many a time when he had been 
 an undergraduate at King's and now he traveled 
 the familiar way once more, and for a little while 
 was able to forget how long it had been since he 
 was able to say, "quorum pars sum." For he was 
 going to his home in Suffolk to his father's house 
 as he had gone many a day in the summer of his 
 youth. 
 
 It had been a pleasant journey then, when the 
 healthy, vigorous lad went home to satisfy a dear 
 mother that Cambridge had not starved him, and 
 to lead the old farmer to wonder if rowing or Greek 
 were the chief study in our English universities. 
 Certainly the boy seemed more proficient in the one 
 than the other; and as for his singing, for which 
 King's had rewarded him with a scholarship, that 
 
 Si
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 the old fellow could not understand at all. No one 
 had ever paid him to sing and yet his rendering of 
 some of Hatton's songs had shaken the village to 
 its depths. But he was proud of his son, neverthe- 
 less, and a word of praise from old farmer Canning 
 meant much, as all the countryside knew. 
 
 And now this son was coming home again, travel- 
 ing the old road, after six long years of darkness 
 and of silence. To John Canning nothing seemed 
 changed in all that picture. Cambridge, as ever, 
 was but a vista of ugly chimneys when viewed 
 across the dirty plain about the station; the Cam, 
 when he crossed it on the road to Ely, seemed alive 
 with the very boats in which he had rowed nine- 
 teen years ago showed the same figures playing 
 the same part in the old water pageant; the same 
 colors; the scarlets and blues and black in which 
 these eternal heroes clothed themselves. Only the 
 soul of the man was different, scarred and seared by 
 the years, bearing its fruits of bitterness and regret. 
 Cambridge, he reflected ironically, would be in no 
 mood to honor him to-day. He realized that he 
 would be ashamed to show his face in the university 
 town, ashamed to be seen in any of those colleges 
 which formerly he had frequented so proudly. 
 
 He had telegraphed for a dogcart to the hotel at 
 Thetford, and this he found awaiting him at the 
 station. New officials there knew nothing of "the 
 
 52
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 convict" or his story. Indeed, they treated him with 
 much deference, and as he drove through the town 
 on the Honiton Road, he met more than one towns- 
 man who had known him and bestowed respectful 
 salutation upon him. 
 
 These, in truth, were difficult to interpret. A 
 locality is very loyal, and it may be that such 
 worthy folk: thought little the worse of one of their 
 own members who had "bested" the Londoners. In 
 any case young John Canning had conferred much 
 notoriety upon the district; and where is the coun- 
 tryman who does not love notoriety or welcome elo- 
 quently the appearance of a "piece in the papers" ? 
 
 And so they touched their hats to old Canning's 
 son, and went to their homes to tell their wives and 
 children that he was out of prison and gone over to 
 Honiton to see his father. The man himself, as- 
 tonished not a little at the reception, drove on mean- 
 while full of thought and of some little hope. 
 
 It was the hour of sunset then. The west showed 
 a glorious heaven of fire, broken to great jagged 
 peaks of golden light and crowned by a mighty 
 tiara which searched the blackness of the cloud be- 
 low as with the glow of flames immeasurable. A 
 delicious scent of the new grass filled all the air. 
 There were lanes of craB-apple trees bowed to their 
 burdens ; a spreading heath, wan and lonely but full 
 of loveliness. All this would be a sea of heather by 
 
 53
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 and by, Canning reflected, though few would launch 
 the boats of a pilgrimage upon it. This vast deso- 
 lation delighted him, for it ministered to his desire 
 to escape from men. Let him build a hut upon this 
 plain, and humanity might go unremembered to the 
 end of his days. 
 
 He reflected upon it, letting the horse go as he 
 would, and surveying all the prospect from the hill 
 which rises above Euston Park and its cascades. 
 His own village lay a little way beyond, and even 
 as he descended the hill he met the local Methodist 
 minister, John Tapp, riding toward Thetford on his 
 bicycle. This worthy fellow had formerly been a 
 carpenter; but he had spent many a long night in 
 school, and could tell you more about Ruskin than 
 some of the commentators. His welcome to "the 
 convict" was frank and immediate. 
 
 "I'm heartily glad to see you, Mr. Canning," he 
 said; "we heard that you were coming, but were 
 not sure about the day. It's to make a long stay 
 this time, I hope you owe that to all of us." 
 
 "I fear not," Canning rejoined ; "I have no plans, 
 but I am afraid Honiton will not be amongst them 
 when they are made. And how is everybody, Mr. 
 Tapp? How is my father?" 
 
 "Poorly very poorly. It's the head which 
 troubles him. He hardly remembers a thing from 
 day to day. But there's one person a father never 
 
 54
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 forgets, and that's his only son. You'll give him 
 great joy to-night, Mr. Canning; you'll make his 
 heart lighter." 
 
 "Do you really believe that, Mr. Tapp?" 
 "I believe it as sure as I believe anything in this 
 world. He'll kill the fatted calf when you come 
 home. And there'll be no brothers to complain 
 about it. You won't find Honiton changed, Mr. 
 Canning. We never change down here. If you 
 brought Oliver Cromwell to life, he'd find his way 
 about Honiton just as he did when he was alive. 
 Of course some of them are fathers and mothers of 
 families who were only children when you were 
 here. But that happens to all of us, and a poor 
 thing for the country if it did not." 
 
 He went on in a lighter mood; but always re- 
 turned to the assurance that the village would wel- 
 come the home-comer and had kept a warm place 
 for him in their hearts. When Canning left him, it 
 was with a promise to visit him on the following 
 day and take tea with Mrs. Tapp; and hurrying on 
 now he entered Honiton just as it was growing 
 dark but not so dark that Martin, the blacksmith, 
 did not wish him a resounding "Good night, sir," 
 nor every little girl drop him a curtsy. Truly did 
 this excellent Tapp seem to be speaking the truth 
 when he hinted that Honiton would not remember. 
 Canning had planned twenty schemes of the knowl- 
 
 55
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 edge when he entered the farm gates at last, and 
 called for Mike to come and take the horse. 
 
 Just an old farmhouse, brick built and strag- 
 gling, with a byre and stable upon the right hand, 
 and an open straw-yard upon the left. People told 
 you that it had been built in Tudor days, and 
 pointed to terra cotta tiles with their Tudor roses 
 still upon them. The beams and panelings were of 
 English oak, brown and knotted and sagging above 
 giant hearths where the logs blazed during the bit- 
 ter winters. A great sitting-room to the right as 
 you entered the house had been old John Canning's 
 haven for ten years now. Here he lived his life, 
 attended nights and mornings by old Betty, the 
 road-maker's wife; but he was alone after sunset, 
 and often slept in the great room with the doors of 
 the house unbarred and open to any stranger who 
 cared to enter them. Here his son found him; here 
 they met after the black years. 
 
 "Father, it is I, John did you not expect me, 
 father? I have just come from London surely 
 they told you?" 
 
 The old man, whose long white hair straggled 
 down upon his bent shoulders, sat in a great arm- 
 chair by the window. Despite the warmth of the 
 day a little fire blazed upon the open hearth, and 
 gave a welcome suggestion of homeliness ; but, save 
 for the figure of the master, the room seemed but 
 
 56
 
 THH FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 little changed since John Canning had left home. 
 The same dominating oak bookcase still boasted its 
 family Bible and copy of Southwell's Book of Mar- 
 tyrs. The press for the linen stood over against the 
 southern wall; there were the alabaster figures un- 
 der glass cases, which his mother had loved. The 
 chief actor in the scene alone bore witness to the 
 passing of the years, for he was now bent down to 
 the earth which should engulf him presently. His 
 life was lived; he hardly recognized his son. 
 
 "Who is it?" he asked, and then, "Is that you, 
 Michael? Why do you stand there what do you 
 say?" 
 
 "It is I, father your son, John. You must 
 know me. Look at me and say it is your son." 
 
 He knelt at his father's side and pressed the 
 trembling hands to his forehead. A child's desire 
 for love and the servitudes of affection overcame 
 him. He was John Canning, the boy, come home 
 from Cambridge and fresh from his mother's em- 
 brace. 
 
 "Father, you know me now?" 
 
 "Ay, ay my son John. They told me you had 
 gone away. Come nearer, lad ay, my son. Well, 
 well, these be strange times surely. Was it from 
 Cambridge, did you say? Ay, and the old mother 
 not here, the old mother gone from us. A true 
 woman that, John and your mother. Did you see 
 
 57
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Michael as you crossed the yard ? My eyes are that 
 poor I can see nothing. Give me my glasses, lad 
 help me to my feet." 
 
 He put out palsied hands and felt all about him as 
 though the touch would help the deficiencies of 
 sight. The misery, the desolation, the silence of the 
 house filled his son with awe. Here his father had 
 endured this living death for more than five years. 
 Was it because of what had been? He did not be- 
 lieve that it was, and yet the dread that it might be 
 remained. 
 
 "Let me give you my arm, father. Do you wish 
 to go out? I will take you. We will go down the 
 village together. You should not be alone. Why 
 do they leave you like this? Where are they all?" 
 
 He spoke at hazard, and obtained an answer 
 without intelligence. The old woman, Betty, ad- 
 vised by the blacksmith that the young master had 
 come home, now appeared at the door of the room 
 and dropped a sweeping curtsy. She was logical 
 enough, for she had just emerged from the ale 
 house where her faculties had been refreshed. 
 
 "They told me Master John had come home," 
 she began, "and that I would not believe. I hope I 
 see Mr. Canning well I hope you find the Squire 
 better, sir? Lord, he have been that poorly this 
 winter time. Such a cough, such trouble in his 
 limbs but he'll be better for seeing Master John 
 
 58
 
 'June!" he cried in amazement.
 
 THE, FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 surely, and I wish you welcome, sir, with all my 
 heart." 
 
 She went on to add that Benson, the innkeeper, 
 had driven to Ingham station with the dogcart, and 
 would return presently with the meat for supper. 
 Her activities were remarkable under this startling 
 provocation of the young Squire's return, and she 
 did not forget her role of gossip. Canning had the 
 five years' news of Honiton as it were in a breath. 
 He was right glad to take his father out for a little 
 air, and to escape the harridan's tongue. 
 
 "Why do you put up with that old woman, 
 father?" he asked, as they went; "why don't you 
 have proper servants? Surely there are many who 
 would be glad to serve the Squire. You must be 
 very uncomfortable with such an attendant as 
 that?" 
 
 "Ay, my lad; but what would I do with serv- 
 ants? I've but a few years before me, and want 
 'em for my own. When you've lived as long as I 
 have, you'll come to say that a man is better alone. 
 Let me go a little slower, John I'm not the man I 
 was, as you can see. Ay, time does march, to be 
 sure, and the quicker he goes the slower we get. Is 
 that the parson yonder or another? I be half blind 
 most days and don't know night from morning. 
 This will be something extra for the village, John 
 my word, how folks will talk!" 
 
 59
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 This latter thought appeared to give him both 
 pride and consolation; and Canning now perceived 
 that some very real emotion had prompted the pil- 
 grimage abroad. This fine old fellow had gloried 
 in his son's success, though it meant nothing to him 
 personally for every penny John had sent to him 
 had been faithfully banked at Thetford, and lay 
 there still as a hidden treasure of which he alone 
 guarded the secret. When the crash came, old 
 farmer Canning but dimly perceived its meaning. 
 The Londoners had been too much for the lad ; but 
 he would yet hold his own. It may be that he felt 
 the shame very keenly his son always suspected 
 that it was so; but here at Honiton, on this night of 
 his return, he could say that his suspicions were ill- 
 founded. Was not his father now showing him 
 proudly to that little world wherein his life had been 
 lived? "My son John, who was such a great man 
 in London." Ah, the pity of it all! 
 
 They traversed the main street and stood a little 
 while before the old church, its early English tower 
 blackly silhouetted against a mellow sky. Here 
 father and son had worshiped together many a 
 Sunday; here old John Canning had led his wife to 
 the altar; here his little baby girl had been buried 
 and often mourned. The church was the centre of 
 the Squire's spiritual world, as the village of his 
 material hopes. He loved to linger in its shadow; 
 
 60
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 liked well to recall the names of dead friends, and 
 to remember the neighborly acts they had done 
 him. To-night, perhaps, his thoughts were more 
 concerned with the living and their eulogies. They 
 also must welcome his son they must know that 
 young John had come back to Honiton, and that 
 the village was honored by his coming. 
 
 And so the tour was made to the cottages, the 
 parsonage, and the inn. When they returned the 
 old fellow was quite exhausted, and spoke but rarely 
 during the simple supper the old woman had pre- 
 pared. Ten o'clock found him in his bedroom, and 
 at half-past his son walked in the gardens of his old 
 home and wondered, as he smoked his last cigar, if 
 he would ever see Honiton or his father again. 
 
 What hope had he here? What content could 
 this kindly absolution bring him? He might re- 
 ward these people richly, and yet reward them to 
 their undoing. His affection for his father could 
 take no overt shape, for he perceived that the day 
 of circumstance had gone by. Better by far leave 
 things as they were, and go out into the world to 
 conquer as he must conquer with the power of 
 money at his command. If he had any consolations 
 of his visit, they were those of his father's pride 
 and love. The old fellow appeared to know noth- 
 ing of the shame John was still his beloved son, 
 and must be feasted and set upon his right hand. 
 
 61
 
 THH FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 This, at least, Canning believed, and in this he re- 
 joiced. Come what might, there remained one to 
 honor him; one roof beneath which he would find 
 a throne. 
 
 He finished his cigar in the silent garden, and 
 returned leisurely toward the house. Honiton was 
 fast asleep by this time, and not a sound broke in 
 upon its rest. His own home, showing lighted win- 
 dows, took a picturesque shape in the darkness, but 
 remained a home of phantoms of the dead who 
 had been his kinsfolk, of the living from whom he 
 was separated by so impassable a gulf. So vivid 
 were the impressions that when he perceived a fig- 
 ure in the dining room before him, he was quite pre- 
 pared to place it also among the phantasmagoria of 
 his brain. Here, however, imagination deluded 
 him, for the figure was that of a living man; of one 
 who acted no longer a part to deceive the villagers, 
 but spoke all his mind in a frenzy of shame and 
 anger which sleep had been unable to control. 
 
 Thus the truth came; thus was deception made 
 known the son standing in the porch, the father 
 believing himself alone in the house as he had been 
 alone so many nights. Vain words of the shame 
 came incoherently now from old Canning's lips, as 
 though the dam of speech had been suddenly re- 
 leased, and all the torrent of the past released. He, 
 
 62
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 John Canning, whom all men had honored, thus to 
 bring a convict into the world. His only son 
 the son whom he had loved, that he should be 
 ashamed of him! Again and again he repeated the 
 frenzied words, tottering to and fro with feeble 
 steps, shielding his eyes with a palsied hand, crying 
 to his dead wife to bear witness an awful accus- 
 ing figure, from whom even the strongest might 
 have shrunk in horror. And the son shrank from 
 it, burying his face in his hands and fleeing the 
 house. Good God! that it should be this that 
 the night should have revealed what the day had 
 hidden ! 
 
 For hours Canning walked the silent lanes pray- 
 ing for the day. This village had become as a place 
 accursed. Plainly he had no longer any hope in 
 England. He thought of all that had happened 
 since the hour of his release the acquisition of for- 
 tune; the contempt and then the fawning apologies 
 of friends and acquaintances; the discovery that 
 the woman he loved had been the first to forget 
 him; the advice of many, "make a new home in a 
 new country." Ambition warred against the truth, 
 spurned it, would have defied it. His old craving 
 for power and dominance troubled him anew with 
 a thousand temptations. 
 
 He would yet win men's homage, compel a worn- 
 
 63
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 an's love, beget children who would honor him. 
 Hie rising sun put a seal upon his resolution. He 
 left Honiton secretly, walking to a remote country 
 station and taking the train thence for London.
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 BOOK II 
 THE ISLAND
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE BEACON 
 
 JESSE of the Pharos had almost come up to the 
 gate of the Castle when she detected the glare of 
 the beacon, over upon the eastward side of the 
 island, and she set off at once to run down toward 
 the sea. 
 
 After all, her errand had been quixotic enough, 
 and she welcomed any excuse to abandon it. For 
 what right had she to be at the Castle at all now 
 that the unknown Englishman had purchased it and 
 was coming over to be the lord of Bell Island and 
 the master of its people ? 
 
 None had questioned her title hitherto, and she 
 had come and gone as she pleased. But these were 
 new days, and must bring submission if not of 
 pride at least of custom. Jesse reflected with a 
 heavy heart that the gates of the Castle would be 
 shut upon her henceforth. Had not the word gone 
 out to the people her father's word, the word of 
 a man whom all obeyed and would obey : "No truck 
 with the stranger closed doors and barred win- 
 dows and silence always" for what right had he 
 
 67
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 upon Bell Island? What title but that of his money, 
 which these simple folk despised? 
 
 She understood the truth but dimly during the 
 first days of its propagation ; but now, at this sum- 
 mons from the sea, she understood it wholly. The 
 glorious night of summer, the lowering clouds, the 
 south wind moaning in the gulf, above all the bea- 
 con's glow shimmering over yonder against the 
 giant cliffs, were not these true harbingers ? A ship 
 had been sighted, she said, and was putting into the 
 harbor. The day of the truth was at hand. To- 
 morrow must bring the strangers in among them. 
 
 She ran with light steps and naked feet, the wind 
 playing havoc with her unkempt hair, and tossing it 
 about her shapely white neck. But twenty years 
 old, she had the limbs of a grown woman, the fine 
 rounded limbs of one who had put no restraints 
 upon nature since the days of her early childhood. 
 A quick, active brain, given to odd contrasts, 
 troubled her with many thoughts, but chiefly those 
 of the scene before her. Who had kindled the 
 beacon, and why? None knew the secrets of deep 
 and shore so well as she. The signal had been 
 made, she said presently, to wreck the Englishman's 
 ship and bring it upon the dreaded Spanish Rock. 
 There could be no other reason. Her father, he 
 whom they called old Japhon of the Pharos, he had 
 spoken and the men had obeyed him. Jesse shiv- 
 
 68
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 ered at the knowledge. Must they not answer for 
 such a deed as this ? 
 
 Answer, but to whom? Did the law of England 
 run, then, in that little island but ten miles from 
 the coast of Devon? Would English ships be sent 
 because an English ship had been lost ? Old Japhon, 
 scarred and fierce and masterful, would have 
 laughed at such a story. Was he not the magis- 
 trate, and did not Roger Bard, his henchman, act 
 for constable? What had Bell Island to do with 
 the law ? Yesterday any man might have answered 
 the question, but to-night some hesitated to answer 
 it. A new master was coming among them com- 
 ing to rule at the old stone house they called in all 
 good faith "the Castle." He would bring the Law 
 to be his servant a story at which rugged heads 
 were shaken and coarse beards were pulled. Let 
 God take the man's ship while it was yet at sea, and 
 that would be the end of it. A fig for the Law, then 
 for what had the Law to do with the Spanish 
 Rock? 
 
 Jesse, be it said, was still among the law-abiding. 
 She did not wish the stranger to come to Bell 
 Island, but would have done nothing to keep him 
 away. A woman's heart rebelled against the treach- 
 ery a woman's curiosity wished the voyager 
 ashore. While with one voice she mourned her de- 
 parting liberty, with another she condemned the 
 
 69
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 ruse which would establish liberty. Were not those 
 wild sons of the sea gathered down yonder like 
 vultures awaiting their prey? Were not they, her 
 friends, about to work a treachery? Skirting the 
 great cliff fearlessly, she looked down into the abyss 
 and spied out their hiding-place. There were five of 
 them, she said, with old Abe Benson at their head. 
 And they had kindled a fire of tar barrels, and 
 watched the flames as the wreckers of old times 
 many a night in the famous days. 
 
 Now, it was a black dark night, and an angry sea 
 racing in the dangerous channel which lies between 
 Bell Island and the shores of Devon. Southward, 
 the Government lighthouse flashed alternate stars 
 of white and crimson, but sent no beam to discover 
 the English ship. Nor could Jesse's keen eyes espy 
 it in the intervals of clouds. Lying there at full 
 length upon the very edge of a monstrous cliff, the 
 beacon burning brightly below her, the weird voices 
 of storm ringing in her ears, she peered into the 
 darkness and asked of it the secrets. Who was this 
 stranger, and why did he come to Bell Island? 
 Would he bring a wife with him, or come alone? 
 The woman put these questions, but Japhon's 
 daughter answered them. Frank Benson had done 
 this thing, she said. No other but Abe Benson's 
 son would have been clever enough to think of it; 
 the son who had whispered wild words of love into 
 
 7
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 her ears not an hour ago, and had persecuted her 
 these many months. Jesse laughed lightly at the 
 memory, and with something of the savage in her 
 tone. Evidently she was not unwilling that men 
 should strive for her, and consent to their endeav- 
 ors now sent her to the shore. 
 
 She would go down and face the wreckers ! The 
 resolution came instantly, and was not to be gain- 
 said. Dangerous as the path might be, difficult the 
 way, she, Jesse, would face the peril that the 
 stranger might come safely to Bell Island. And 
 now she was glad that her feet had been trained to 
 the cliff's path, and that no fashion of civilization 
 encumbered her. Clinging surely to root and shrub, 
 she began to descend the cliff in the darkness. The 
 wind beat upon her, but did not daunt her. She 
 looked straight down at the surging waters and had 
 no fear of them. Yes, she might fall, but that 
 would be but as a dream of her sleep downward 
 in an ecstasy of flight, as a bird that swoops upon 
 its prey. Such wild thoughts were inborn and of 
 her very being. She dwelt upon the situation, and 
 remembered that men would call her brave. 
 
 And so step by step down the cliff side until she 
 leaped upon the plateau, some fifty feet from the 
 waters, and confronted the astonished men. Given 
 to the common superstitions of the island, half 
 ashamed of their occupation, dreading unknown 
 
 71
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 penalties, they sprang up at her coming as at that 
 of an accuser. Frank, Abe Benson's son, alone 
 stood firm. He watched her covertly and with 
 pride. 
 
 "What do you do here what does this mean?" 
 she asked them wildly. Not a man but her un- 
 couth lover could answer her; and he with voice 
 ironical. 
 
 "We are trying to put the stranger's ship on the 
 Spanish Rock. It was your father's orders." 
 
 "My father's! Say that to his face and I'll be- 
 lieve it." 
 
 And then quickly she cried, "Cowards! Do you 
 think that you will go unpunished? I will tell the 
 English stranger myself." 
 
 Some one laughed in the darkness and muttered 
 an aside, to the end that it would be well enough to 
 tell the English stranger when he came ashore. 
 
 The others sat doggedly, watching the deceiving 
 flame. It was just like old Japhon's daughter to 
 come down here and play the part of Mistress Mar 
 All. Yet not a man of them dared to tell her so, 
 although she was already busy upon their handi- 
 work. Yes, "truth," as that drunken fellow Tom 
 Weeds informed the island on the morrow, she beat 
 out the fire with one of their own brands, burning 
 her pretty feet and arms while she did it, and call- 
 ing them cowards all the while. And this was the 
 
 72
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 more unfortunate because, just as the dripping 
 flame went seething into the water, the English 
 yacht was in the very cove's mouth, and would have 
 been on the Spanish Rock before a man could have 
 counted twenty. They heard the captain roar 
 "Luff!" and saw the ship go about. And still they 
 did not speak. 
 
 The maddened girl beat down the flames, but not 
 before they vignetted her face and arms, and so 
 fired them about in the golden light that those at sea 
 had a fine vision to guide them. Another age would 
 have spoken of a miracle and of the seaman's Ma- 
 donna coming to their aid. As the thing went, those 
 on the ship, when they had time to breathe again, 
 asked a common question, "Who is she?" and being 
 answered "Old Japhon's daughter, the man of the 
 Pharos," were as wise as before. 
 
 Though in truth the captain added 
 "She were always mad, little Jesse, but a lady 
 for sure, which nobody will gainsay." 
 
 73
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 AN ISLAND LOVER 
 
 THE men left the cove one by one, silent, but not 
 ashamed. There would be no English ship in the 
 harbor of Bell Island to-night, and God alone could 
 answer for the morrow. Their glances askance at 
 Jesse were not of fear, but of that gaucherie of their 
 manhood which would not reason with a woman, 
 knowing her to be in the right, but rejoicing in their 
 own wrong. Abe Benson's son alone remained, and 
 he went over and sat by Jesse's side upon a ledge of 
 the rock overlooking the racing waters. 
 
 Now here was one of the island's children who 
 had been educated on the mainland over at New- 
 ent in Gloucestershire; a sleek curly-haired young 
 fellow who spent his days hanging about old 
 Japhon's gardens, and his nights writing tragedies 
 which never would be played. To him Jesse was 
 Divinity yet with something sour in the ritual of 
 worship, and a feeling that he would have done bet- 
 ter for himself over in England. A very passionate 
 lover, he would have been a dangerous one for a 
 
 74
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 little more courage and something added to his reso- 
 lution. But Jesse could silence him in an instant 
 when she was of the mind, and once she had struck 
 him a blow he would harbor against the day of 
 his opportunities. For the rest he had not the 
 smallest doubt that he would marry her some day 
 though marriage, to be sure, was less in his mind 
 than possession, for which he planned both day and 
 night. 
 
 This was the lover who now crossed to Jesse's 
 side and sat there for a little while in silence. The 
 darkness upon the sea had been broken for a mo- 
 ment by a blue light on the yacht's deck, and after 
 that by the rockets which the English skipper fired 
 to learn his position. When these had sunk hissing 
 into the sea, and the English ship had been headed 
 northward, Franklin ventured to speak to Jesse. 
 
 "Why did you do it, Jesse? You know your 
 father wished it?" 
 
 "My father! How can you say that, Frank?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't mean that he asked them to do it 
 or anything of that sort. But we know what he 
 wanted. I should have thought you would have 
 been loyal to us. Surely you don't want a stranger 
 lording it up at the Castle ? That won't suit you any 
 more than it will suit us. Bell Island has belonged 
 to our own people for five hundred years. \Vhy 
 should we put up with foreigners?" 
 
 75
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "Because we are too poor to keep them out. Oh, 
 you are all mad. What would have happened if the 
 ship had gone ashore, and the Englishman had been 
 saved? Murderers are you all murderers, Frank?" 
 
 He laughed with some sense of the shame. 
 
 "We should have got them out with the rocket 
 apparatus. Don't say we are monsters, Jesse." 
 
 She looked him full in the face. 
 
 "You would not have stirred a hand to save them. 
 It is a lie, Frank. Why do you tell it to me?" 
 
 "Well, if you won't listen But perhaps you 
 
 know the Englishman. Perhaps you want him here, 
 Jesse? He'll be asking you up to the Castle, and 
 that sort of thing. Oh, yes, I understand it all. 
 Fine goings on, and Jesse at the head of them. 
 Well, I shan't stand that, anyway. I tell you so 
 before the man comes ashore." 
 
 "The man! What right have you to speak of 
 him in that way?" 
 
 "Call him my master, then. Will that please 
 you ? Shall I doff my cap to him, Jesse ? I tell you 
 this, I wouldn't do it if he were the King of Eng- 
 land. Don't you understand what this place means 
 to us all? We're a free people; we have our liber- 
 ties, our religion " 
 
 "Religion oh!" 
 
 She laughed long and drolly, her fine sense of 
 irony responding to the humor. Jesse was mostly 
 
 76
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 self-taught, but the Celt in her revolted at the hy- 
 pocrisy, and lost no opportunity of condemning it. 
 
 "Your religion which would have made murder- 
 ers of you to-night. Oh, preserve that, please. Set 
 a temple on the hill for your religion!" 
 
 "Well, you know what I mean and I'll tell you 
 this: You'd better be careful. The people will 
 stand no nonsense. They have made up their mind 
 that this man Canning shall not live at the Castle, 
 and they won't put up with interference from you. 
 No more will your father, I know. Ask him when 
 you go home to-night. I speak in your interests, 
 Jesse. You know what it would mean to me if any 
 harm came to you." 
 
 "Oh, yes, yes, you would make a play of it and 
 go to London to sell it. Are you still making plays, 
 Frank? Why don't you put your brother Irwin 
 into one? Tell the people how he treated Nance 
 Weede. That's what they like in plays, if the pa- 
 pers are to be believed." 
 
 He shuffled at the rebuke. 
 
 "Irwin's a blackguard. I shouldn't wonder if he 
 got on with your Englishman fine. Mark you, 
 Jesse, if you make a friend of a man like that, no 
 good will come of it. Your father's a big man here, 
 but he would be less than the servants in the Eng- 
 lishman's house. Don't you forget that. No good 
 would come of anything of that sort, and if harm 
 
 77
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 came of it I would kill him so help me, God, I 
 would kill him." 
 
 "My poor, dear Frank, how terrible ! Is this also 
 to be in the play? And you so brave. Are you 
 sure you have the courage to do it, Frank?" 
 
 He stood up and shook his fist at the black face 
 of the sea. 
 
 "I wish to God he had been drowned this night," 
 he cried, and then "What's your interest in him? 
 Oh, a fine gentleman, with a gold chain to put 
 round your neck, and diamonds for your ears! 
 Hussies like such things, and you're going begging 
 for them. I told them it would be so. Do what 
 you like, I said, Jesse Fearney will get the better of 
 you. She wants the Englishman ashore. She's 
 waiting to go up to him whenever he sends for her 
 that's Jesse that's the girl who's been your 
 mistress " 
 
 He was shaking with rage and passion, and al- 
 most incoherent in the quest of insult. But Jesse, 
 rising without a word, began to descend the path to 
 the hamlet, and did not answer him a single word.
 
 THB FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 JESSE VISITS THE CASTLE 
 
 JAPHON of the Pharos lived on the northeastern 
 shore of Bell Island, in an old squat farmhouse, 
 from whose windows you could see the Devon 
 shore. Sixty-two years had he been master of the 
 house, and his father nearly sixty before him. Of 
 French descent, the people of Auvergne had known 
 the family by the name of Fernier but whenever 
 old Japhon had need of a surname, he called himself 
 Fearney, for that was a name Bell Island could un- 
 derstand. 
 
 Let it be said that this need was rare. To all the 
 people he was old Japhon of the Pharos for his 
 house was built where a Roman beacon had stood, 
 and the full style was his by all right of tradition. 
 A vain, crabbed, self-centred old man, he might 
 have been a born Puritan out of East Anglia, and 
 no Celtic man from France. So much, at least, a 
 student would have argued, though the island 
 troubled but little about it. Sufficient for the peo- 
 ple that his word was law, and that he was their 
 lord for lack of any other. 
 
 79
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Jesse, his only child, had lost her mother when 
 she was but eleven years of age. From that time 
 she enjoyed the liberties of Bell Island, mainly as- 
 serted by an aversion from shoes and stockings, 
 and a propensity for riding the family ass astride. 
 Three governesses had come and gone, and left her 
 but little advanced in the desirable arts. She could 
 not play the piano, and stolidly refused to sing a 
 note. A drawing master from Truro declared that 
 her gifts with the pencil were amazing, and should 
 be cultivated a tribute she rewarded by caricature. 
 In this latter gift she excelled, and it was com- 
 toonly said that the islanders were more afraid of 
 her pencil than of old Japhon's tongue. 
 
 In justice it should be written that the old man's 
 seeming indifference had its excuses. Why should 
 he forbid Jesse to roam among the seven-and-fifty 
 people who constituted the population of the island ? 
 Were they not fishermen, or the sons and wives and 
 daughters of fishermen? Was there one among 
 them who would dare to pay anything but respect 
 to Japhon Fearney's daughter? He did not believe 
 it. Let the girl go or come as she pleased Bell 
 Island stood but for the garden of her home. 
 
 Hence Jesse's freedom hence her being abroad 
 after ten o'clock of a summer's night, when the 
 fishermen were gathered together in the Spanish 
 cove and the English ship sought the harbor. In 
 
 80
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 truth, it was nearly eleven when she climbed the 
 steep path to the farmhouse door and passed up to 
 her room by the kitchen stair. To Hannah, the con- 
 fidential maid, she merely whispered a question, and 
 was answered fairly. 
 
 "Yes, master have gone to bed I told him you 
 were in an hour ago." 
 
 So the girl crept up to her room; and moving 
 about it with secret steps, she bethought her of all 
 that had happened this night and must happen to- 
 morrow. A stranger at the Castle, which the true 
 lords of Bell Island, that unhappy family of the 
 Morencys, had so long neglected. All changed, all 
 new in the life of the people. The closed gates re- 
 opened, the dusty rooms swept out perhaps music 
 and laughter where there had been silence and 
 gloom. Jesse would have been no woman had the 
 thought displeased her. Alone here, she despised 
 the cant of loyalty and opposition. What wrong 
 had the Englishman done to these people? Let 
 them cry out when they were hurt. 
 
 She slept upon it, yet slept but ill. The "might 
 be" tortured her with strange doubts. Deep down 
 in her heart was the desire of man's love, the re- 
 bellion against circumstance, the Celtic embers 
 smouldering. Surely she was not born to be the 
 wife of such a man as Frank Benson, a fisherman's 
 son, for all his education? The belief possessed her 
 
 81
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 that she would yet go forth from Bell Island to 
 reign in some distant kingdom. And this was a 
 haunting thought, and it drove her from her bed 
 before the sun was up and sent her, barefooted, 
 and with a heavy knitted shawl about her neck and 
 shoulders, across the turf toward the Castle. She 
 would visit it for the last time. There would be no 
 other opportunity, for the Englishman must land 
 this day. 
 
 Now, the Castle stands facing the southeast a 
 long, low house, turreted and embattled; but all 
 done in the primitive fashion, as any manor house 
 on the mainland; and no more entitled to be called 
 a castle, perhaps, than your suburban villas upon 
 Hampstead Heath. 
 
 True, some of its rooms were grand enough, and 
 more than one of them boasted fine paneling, and 
 ceilings so wrought over with Tudor roses and 
 fleurs-de-lis that even the Philistine might admire 
 them. Some of its furniture was famous, and had 
 come from Paris in the days following upon the 
 Revolution. A music room could show you an an- 
 cient organ with a fine carved case, and a piano of 
 Chopin's time. There were a few books in the 
 library, and some highly colored monkish work be- 
 tween their covers. But all said and done, the place 
 was no more than a big, rambling house, with some 
 pretty terraces overlooking the sea, and a great 
 
 82
 
 THH FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 stone wall to shut out the Danes should excursion 
 bring those very desirable guests to English waters. 
 
 Jesse Fearney knew every stone of this ancient 
 building. Its doors had never been closed to her 
 since the Morencys deserted it. For who should 
 close them? Not Martin, the keeper thereof, or his 
 good wife Sarah, not the agent who lived at Bide- 
 ford and rarely crossed the waters. So she roamed 
 where she pleased; spent long days in the old li- 
 brary ; hunted the armories, laid bare the cupboards. 
 "It be natural to see her here," old Martin said. 
 And truly, that was so. She was just the figure for 
 such a house as that. 
 
 Jesse crossed the open grass land about three 
 o'clock of this summer's morning, and arrived at 
 the Castle gate at four. The sun was just up in the 
 eastern sky then, and a shimmer of light danced 
 upon the hither waters. A glance out to sea showed 
 her no English yacht nor any strange ship. The 
 boats of her own people were but specks upon a 
 hazy horizon the loom of the smoke hovered above 
 the cottages of the cove, and spoke of women al- 
 ready awake and watching there. But the Castle 
 itself had no story to tell her, save that of its new 
 owners' probable return to the English shore; and 
 this consoling her, she dared its silent courtyard and 
 entered the house. 
 
 This would have been a difficult task for any 
 
 83
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 other, but easy for Jesse. Not a watch-dog but 
 knew her step, and squatted fawning at her ap- 
 proach. The great barred windows flashing to the 
 lights of morning, were no harbingers of defeat to 
 her. The bolted doors did not detain her, for she 
 passed them by swiftly; and running round to the 
 old Bell Tower, she pushed open the tiny wicket at 
 its foot, and thus gained the narrow stairway 
 within. Thence a second door admitted her to the 
 Long Gallery that proud apartment which is Bell 
 Island's glory, its one title to magnificence. 
 
 Here Jesse stood a while, breathless and doubt- 
 ing. A sun of morning, winging pale beams 
 through the long windows of the alcoves, searched 
 the gallery to its depths and declared a haunting 
 emptiness, which afflicted her with new thoughts. 
 Never before had she been conscious of such min- 
 gled emotions of awe and solitude. Spirits of the 
 past might have breathed upon her while she stood. 
 She gazed as in a trance at the monstrous portraits 
 of dead Morencys, at the vast oaken coffers, the 
 broad benches, the fantastic tapestries; and each 
 whispered the echo of a story. Dead warriors lived 
 again in that instant, noble women were the figures 
 of the gallery. All the play of courtly comedies, 
 the magnificence, the pageantry of the house warred 
 in imagination upon its abiding emptiness. Swiftly 
 as the visions came, they passed as swiftly to leave 
 
 84
 
 THB FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 the girl panting and afraid she who had never 
 known fear on Bell Island since she was old enough 
 to know anything at all. 
 
 Jesse laughed at herself for this experience, 
 though she liked it but ill. Her conceit of life had 
 been supreme hitherto, but this was a blow upon it. 
 If her dreaming left any clearly defined impression 
 at all, it was that of her own presumption in thus 
 intruding upon so famous a company. Now, for 
 the first time, she understood vaguely what is meant 
 by heritage and the privileges of birth. Was she 
 not but a farmer's daughter, and was not this 
 famous room consecrated to the nobles of old time? 
 A sense of shame and humiliation accompanied the 
 awakening to the truth. The Englishman who had 
 bought the Castle, surely he also had been born to 
 such a heritage. She could imagine no other than 
 a noble reigning upon Bell Island, and she believed 
 that it must be so. A little later on, running to one 
 of the windows of the alcove, she gazed over 
 toward the English coast and wondered if his ship 
 were yet in sight. Of course he would be an aristo- 
 crat, and he would people these silent rooms with 
 the splendid figures which were their due. 
 
 There are no qualities of silence so potent in im- 
 pressions as those of the early morning hours. 
 Jesse had visited the Long Gallery many a day, but 
 never at such an hour as this. Looking out wist-
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 fully over the great rolling downs which lie be- 
 tween the Castle and the sea, she remembered that 
 hers had been the sovereignty, hers the dominion 
 until that eventful day. Men had paid her homage, 
 women their tribute of envy. She had come and 
 gone as she willed. Jesse of the Pharos always, but 
 Jesse the Queen where men's hearts were in the bal- 
 ance. And now the sceptre must be laid down. 
 This Englishman would bring a wife to Bell Island. 
 Henceforth, she, Jesse, would be but farmer Fear- 
 ney's daughter. 
 
 She sighed at the thought, and turned away from 
 the window. Some torn page of a forgotten philos- 
 ophy preached the word that these things must be. 
 Yet a little stubbornly she asked why must they be. 
 What did she lack of wit, of beauty or of youth 
 that the strangers would possess? To be sure, she 
 had no finery to speak of, and the dead beaux would 
 blush to see the shapely bare feet which now trod 
 the gallery. Here humor became her saving grace, 
 and laughing lightly she went over to an old coffer 
 in an embrasure of the window and lifted therefrom 
 an ancient robe. Oh, yes, trust a woman to have 
 discovered this long ago, this precious heritage 
 which the Morencys had guarded so faithfully. Did 
 not the Princess Mary wear that very gown when 
 there was a great ball at the Castle to celebrate 
 Trafalgar day? Jesse knew the story she could 
 
 86
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 also tell you exactly how the dress must be folded, 
 for she had folded it many a time. 
 
 And now she put it on, laughing at herself for 
 the drollery. Little as England had loved France 
 in those famous days, this splendid robe had caught 
 something of the Empire fashion, and fitted the 
 young girl's figure to perfection. Ah, the gold and 
 fine brocade, the soft, shining silk, the jewels 
 broidered into the panels ! True, it had not been de- 
 signed to go with stockingless legs and wild un- 
 kempt black hair tossing rebelliously upon bare 
 shoulders but Jesse could laugh at that as she stood 
 before the old gold- framed mirror and asked herself 
 what sort of a picture the farmer's daughter made. 
 Was it a picture that the Princess Mary of old time 
 would have envied? Vanity perched upon a white 
 shoulder said -that it was. The Englishman also was 
 of that opinion.
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 FLIGHT FOLLOWS DISCOVERY 
 
 JESSE heard the click of the lock with ears trained 
 to all the omens of sound. So great was her dread 
 of discovery, that for an instant she was afraid to 
 turn her head. Who came at such an hour? Not 
 old Martin, she knew his step, not Sarah, his wife, 
 for her shuffle would have discovered her. A 
 stranger then, and undoubtedly from England. And 
 so the fear passed, and shame unutterable took its 
 place. 
 
 Now, John Canning had come ashore last night 
 after all, and slept in the first bedroom old Sarah 
 could prepare for him. His object was chiefly curi- 
 ous. He wished to see this famous Bell Island he 
 had purchased, to learn something of its people, to 
 know whether he would do well to make his habita- 
 tion on its shores. A stormy passage, a little hu- 
 mor upon the fisherman's part (as his skipper as- 
 sured him) were of no account at all. These did 
 not deter him. He slept soundly enough through 
 four good hours, and awoke to this pattering of 
 
 88
 
 pretty feet or should it be, to the habit four years 
 and more of prison had fostered? 
 
 The question concerned him but little. Be sure it 
 concerned Jesse not at all. Sufficient for her to sec 
 in the glass both the object discovered and the fig- 
 ure of the discoverer. A tall man, finely built, but 
 with the seal of care upon his handsome face for 
 his dress little to be said, save that it was Eastern 
 and flowered, and had been vended by a West End 
 hosier as the very latest thing in recherche dressing 
 gowns. To an observer the contrast would have 
 been humorous to the point of absurdity. But these 
 two found it mighty serious the man surely be- 
 lieving that he had discovered a mad girl in the 
 house, and she, that the day of humiliation would 
 never be forgotten. 
 
 He crossed the floor with bare feet, and touched 
 her upon the shoulder. 
 
 "My good girl !" he exclaimed in the best paternal 
 manner, "what on earth does this mean?" 
 
 Jesse took off her broidered robe and, having 
 folded it very carefully, she laid it again in the 
 coffer whence she had taken it. 
 
 "I thought that I was alone," she said at last, but 
 so deliberately and in such a tone that his attention 
 was instantly arrested. 
 
 "Are you one of the servants of the house?" 
 
 "Servants oh!" 
 
 89
 
 THB FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "I beg your pardon I mean are you the house- 
 keeper's daughter? Surely you must tell me why 
 you have the right to be here." 
 
 "I have no right I am the daughter of Japhon 
 Fearney, who keeps the farm. Sometimes I come 
 here when the house is empty." 
 
 She stood in one of the alcoves, gazing wistfully 
 toward her home. The man sat upon an oak bench 
 and watched her critically. The face won less upon 
 his attention than the charm of the voice, and the 
 bewitching pride of the pose. She was like a bird 
 which had been trapped in a room by a foolish 
 flight, and now poised itself in sullen and repentant 
 submission. A touch of the hand to the window 
 and the bird would fly away. John Canning did not 
 feel moved to such an act of humanity. He had no 
 desire whatever to open the door of the cage. 
 
 "I have heard of your father," he said presently ; 
 "you would be Miss Jesse. Report says that both 
 of you are very angry with me. Is that true?" 
 
 She turned upon him, quite fearless now, and 
 looked him straight into the face. 
 
 "We do not want strangers upon the island. It 
 is natural. They know nothing of the people. We 
 have lived here so long that nowhere else could be 
 a home to us. You come here because you have 
 money and want a fine house. You will be the 
 
 90
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 master, and my father will be nobody. You can- 
 not expect him to wish you welcome." 
 
 "Oh, I don't. Is he one of those who lighted a 
 fire on the cliff side to wreck my yacht last night? 
 I hope not." 
 
 She started, and flushed crimson. 
 
 "My father was not among them." 
 
 "I am very glad of that for some of them will 
 certainly go to prison." 
 
 Jesse turned away her head and did not speak. 
 Here was the open challenger this stranger against 
 Bell Island, the glove thrown down instantly, the 
 cynicism of possession so soon displayed. For the 
 time being she disliked the newcomer very much, 
 and passed wholly to the people's side. 
 
 "I will tell them what you say!" she exclaimed 
 almost fiercely; "they will be very much afraid I 
 will tell them that you are sending them to prison." 
 
 He raised his eyebrows, watching her critically. 
 
 "That would be hardly a fair story," he rejoined, 
 "since I have nothing to do with it." 
 
 "Then why do you say so? Why do you speak 
 to me like this?" 
 
 "To warn you lest any friends of yours were 
 foolish enough to be out last night. Let us have no 
 misunderstanding. I don't care twopence about my- 
 self I like an independent people. But there are 
 others less liberal in their views, and the com- 
 
 91
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 mander of the cruiser Marathon is one of them. He 
 was off here in his ship last night; and if I do not 
 misunderstand my own captain, he has sent a wire- 
 less message ashore. So, you see, we begin with 
 trouble upon Bell Island, although I have nothing 
 to do with it." 
 
 Jesse heard him patiently. The feeling that an 
 undercurrent of mockery flowed beneath the smooth 
 speech provoked her to antagonism. He was laugh- 
 ing while he told her that he did not care. 
 
 "My friends will be very much obliged to you/' 
 she said, with a jerk of her shoulder which would 
 have expressed indifference; "of course they were 
 very foolish boys always are." 
 
 "Boys ! Is Abe Benson a boy ?" 
 
 "Oh, then you know ?" 
 
 "I know perfectly the names are all written 
 down for me. I shall keep them as a souvenir of 
 my first visit to this house. They will go very well 
 with that ancient garment in which you did me the 
 honor to receive me. Oh, do not be angry I quite 
 understand." 
 
 She looked at him wonderingly. Was this kind- 
 ness or the jest? Did he really understand her 
 the foolish romanticism, the vain silliness which had 
 provoked the act? or was he but mocking her 
 again? Jesse knew not what to believe. She had 
 never felt so ashamed. 
 
 92
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "I am sorry that I did it," she said quite frankly; 
 "if I had known that you had come " 
 
 "I am glad that you did not. If my visit is to 
 shut this house to you, I will certainly stay away. 
 Tell your people also that I wish to come among 
 them as a friend. Repeat to them what I have 
 said. They must not get into trouble; but, on the 
 other hand, they must learn to act like men. Tell 
 them I will have no more nonsense. Should there 
 be any, they will soon find out who is master." 
 
 She promised to do so, vaguely, as a child who 
 is scolded and must respond in platitudes. The 
 daring of her intrusion now took a share in her 
 thoughts, and moved her to a quick decision to 
 quit a house whose master had the right thus to 
 address her. 
 
 "I shall tell them," she said quietly. "Of course, 
 I myself must not come here again I am sorry 
 to have been found here this morning. Please let 
 me say good-by." 
 
 She moved toward the door at the farther end, 
 but he followed her quickly, and held it open for 
 her to pass. 
 
 "Good-by," he said, holding out his hand, "and 
 do not forget." 
 
 "Oh, I shan't do that," she cried, and so she left 
 him. 
 
 93
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 JESSE IS QUESTIONED BY HER FATHER 
 
 IT was six o'clock of the morning when Jesse 
 quitted the Castle, and nearly a quarter to seven 
 when she arrived at the farm. The promise of 
 dawn had not been fulfilled, and gloomy clouds 
 now gathered in the west to focus a clear gray 
 light upon the green downs, and to show the whole 
 extent of Bell Island as though it were figured upon 
 a draughtsman's plan. A swell of an angry sea 
 still surged in the Channel, while over toward Eng- 
 land, the sun still shone brightly upon the foaming 
 water and the spreading sails of the ships. 
 
 Be it said that the life of the island lay almost 
 wholly upon the shore. Few of the fishermen had 
 any time for husbandry, and such as were disposed 
 to a landsman's occupation farmed no more than 
 a few acres down by the cove where the cottages 
 stood. Old Japhon's farm was of some extent, 
 but lay almost wholly on the northeastern shore; 
 a pasture farm chiefly, but growing sufficient good 
 wheat for the fishermen's daily bread. For the 
 rest the Morencys owned the land or had owned 
 
 94
 
 THH FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 it until a lawyer's deed transferred it to the Eng- 
 lishman, of whose very name the people were 
 ignorant. 
 
 Here was an affair which concerned them but 
 little. They lived on the seashore the sea fed and 
 clothed them. Daring sailors, knowing both the 
 inner channels and the open deep, they cruised 
 afar, following the herring in the summer months to 
 the North of Scotland, and coming down with the 
 shoals even to the bays of Devon. Such occupa- 
 tion made them comparatively rich, and they spent 
 long, bleak winters at their cottage doors, or if not 
 there, then upon the little patches of fertile soil 
 which should give them vegetables during the sum- 
 mer. 
 
 To all such, the man of affairs was Japhon 
 Fearney. He had been the Morencys' agent in the 
 old days he held power from the Government 
 under an old charter to minister, to marry, and to 
 bury. A zealot for a simple type of congregational 
 Christianity, he preached to these people on the Sab- 
 bath and sat in judgment upon them during the 
 week. From him they bought the flour to knead 
 their bread, the wool to make their clothes and, in- 
 deed, they feared him exceedingly, believing him 
 to be greater than the lawyers, whose figures loomed 
 up beyond a far horizon as the very personification 
 of the Evil One. 
 
 95
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 For Japhon Fearney the sale of Bell Island was a 
 tragedy indeed. If tradition were to be believed, 
 his savings were so considerable that he had once 
 made a bid for the property himself ; and, believing 
 that there would be no other purchaser in the field, 
 had quarreled over a matter of some sixteen hun- 
 dred pounds. Now he heard, without any warning, 
 that a stranger had purchased the Castle, and was 
 coming over immediately to take possession. Not 
 only was this a sore blow to his pride, but a sharp 
 rebuke upon his imprudence for, as he told him- 
 self, he had publicly declared the amount of his for- 
 tune by his offer for the property, and could not 
 afterwards deny his possession. Let men ask how 
 Japhon Fearney, the farmer, came to possess more 
 than twenty thousand pounds, and there would be a 
 difficulty in answering them. He had dreaded such 
 inquiries many a day; he dreaded them exceedingly 
 now that John Canning, the Englishman, was com- 
 ing to the Castle. 
 
 This was the Japhon Fearney who met Jesse, his 
 'daughter, as she returned from her escapade, and 
 at once guessed her secret. A burly, formidable, 
 repulsive figure, the old man stood at the little white 
 gate of the farm while the girl crossed the Downs 
 and watched her closely. His daughter, yes ; he was 
 proud of her for that, proud of her pretty face, 
 proud of her pride but being proud he was not the 
 
 96
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 less afraid. Men know well enough when a woman 
 has a mind of her own and young as she was, 
 Japhon Fearney already had experience both of 
 Jesse's obstinacy and of her logic. So he watched 
 her doubtingly as she came to the gate, and lifting 
 his shaggy brows at her approach, he shook his 
 stick threateningly. 
 
 "What takes you from the house, girl? Where 
 have you been ?" 
 
 "I've been to the Castle, father." 
 
 He had expected the answer, and yet it took him 
 aback. Did not report say that John Canning 
 landed from the yacht last night? 
 
 "You've bin up there? What took 'ee, girl? 
 What fool's errand is this?" 
 
 "I go there often, father they did not tell me 
 that the Englishman had arrived." 
 
 "Then ye saw him, girl?" 
 
 "I saw him he spoke to me." 
 
 "Ay, ay, he'd do that quick enough. Were 
 they pleasant words he said ?" 
 
 "He wishes the people to behave themselves. If 
 they do not, they will hear of it." 
 
 "D'ye mean that he says that to me?" 
 
 "To all of us. We are to be his obedient servants. 
 He will stand no nonsense." She uttered the words 
 deliberately looking her father full in the face and 
 following with keen eyes the twitching of that ex- 
 
 97
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 pressive mouth. Her father was angry, surely 
 but one of the lessons of his life had been to con- 
 trol anger, and he did not forget it in this moment. 
 Jesse did not mean to set him against the English- 
 man, but a certain obstinacy of her pride compelled 
 her to do so, and left her glad that she had spoken. 
 
 "He's a brave man, surely. I could give him a 
 life up yonder, if I said the word. Behave myself! 
 Ay, I'll do that ! Let him say the words to my face 
 and he shall have my answer. Is he what they 
 would call a fine man, girl? Has he a head on 
 him?" 
 
 "He is over six feet tall, father, and has jet-black 
 hair. I think he is very strong, but has been ill. 
 His voice is kind, when he chooses. He is a gentle- 
 man, and wears beautiful clothes." 
 
 "Where did you see him, child? How did you 
 come to meet him?" 
 
 "I thought there was no one at the Castle, and I 
 went up to the Long Gallery. He came in before I 
 could leave." 
 
 "Did he forbid you the house ?" 
 
 "Oh, no; he asked me to go back. 'And mind 
 you tell the people,' he said. I promised him I 
 would, and so I begin by telling you." 
 
 It was all very bold and very defiant, nor had 
 Japhon Fearney the wit to read the enigma. Many 
 wild thoughts were in his head, and one of them he 
 
 98
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 expressed as bluntly and with as little regard for 
 Jesse's feelings as was his habit. 
 
 "He'd be pleased to see a girl like you in his 
 house. You were civil enough, I'll be bound. Ay, 
 play your cards wisely, and you may marry him 
 the man that is to be my master. Now, get you into 
 the house and give me my breakfast. There's been 
 fool talk enough. I'll hear no more of it." He 
 held the gate open and she passed through, setting 
 her bare feet flatly upon the gravel path, and hold- 
 ing herself with all the dignity Jesse Fearney could 
 command. 
 
 "You would like Mr. Canning's manners, father; 
 he is a gentleman," she said, and with that for a 
 parting shot she entered the house and began to 
 busy herself about the breakfast table. Here she 
 was clever enough, and although all housework 
 was distasteful to her, she did it in a way that sat- 
 isfied even so churlish a critic as Japhon Fearney. 
 His mood softened as he sat at the lavish board. 
 He began to talk about the Englishman quite af- 
 fably. 
 
 "He came over with the tide last night, I'll be 
 expecting. They tell me 'tis to see he has bought 
 no pig in a poke. We'll have the laugh of him 
 there, Jesse, for it be a hunard to one that such a 
 man will know nothing of the charter. Let him 
 overstep it a foot, and I'll have the law on him. 
 
 99
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 None but a fool would have sent such a message to 
 Japhon Fearney, and as I shall tell him. Now, 
 do you care to give him no right to be uncivil to 
 either of us " 
 
 "I, father! What business is it of mine?" 
 
 "A pretty woman is every lone man's business. 
 They tell me he has no wife." 
 
 "Are you wishing that I should marry him?" 
 
 "I'm wishing that you shall help me to keep him 
 in his place. 'Tis he or I henceforth, and the best- 
 witted one at the top. Now, you do your duty by 
 me, and we'll show what the Fearneys are made of. 
 There's not another man between here and Exeter, 
 I do believe, who'd send me such a message. Bide 
 a bit, and I'll know how to answer it." 
 
 Jesse heard him out, and then smiled at such de- 
 lightful innuendo. How little her father understood 
 her or her sex ; how vague were his own thoughts. 
 Jesse smiled in spite of herself. 
 
 "Then I am to take your answer, father? Is 
 that what you mean ? Is that my part." 
 
 He frowned at her over a capacious plate heavily 
 loaded with beef and potatoes. 
 
 "You are to do what every clever girl knows 
 how to do when she has a mind to humble a man's 
 pride. If you're in doubt, I'll show you the way 
 the first time I meet the man." 
 
 100
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "Then you'll have to begin now, father, for here 
 is Mr. Canning at the door." 
 
 It was a regular bombshell. The old farmer 
 had a mighty napkin tucked about his chin, but he 
 forgot its existence when he stood up hurriedly and 
 peered out of the window at the stranger. There, 
 surely, was the Englishman riding the old chestnut 
 horse that used to carry Edmund Morency about the 
 island, and there was a second stranger upon the 
 "knotty" brown cob, who used to be the pet of 
 Morency's daughters. What a thing to happen! 
 That the man should pay his first visit at such an 
 hour. 
 
 "Do you run up and straighten yourself a bit, 
 girl. Keep those naked feet of yours out of the 
 way. I'll be going out to have a clack with him. 
 Leave us a bit until I have had my way!" 
 
 He waved her off with his hand, and throwing 
 the napkin aside, took up his coat and went quickly 
 toward the gate. John Canning was still fum- 
 bling with the latch as he came up, and so the two 
 faced each other across the whitened railings. A 
 greater contrast could not have been imagined the 
 farmer and the financier, the man of the downs, the 
 man of cities yet both sprung from a rural stock, 
 and neither willing to boast an ancestry. 
 
 "Good morning. You are Japhon Fearney, the 
 magistrate, I believe?" 
 
 101
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "That's so, and you are Mr. Canning from the 
 Castle. Well, I'm glad to see ye. Walk in, please, 
 sir, and bring this gentleman with you. 
 
 He opened the gate, and the two men entered. 
 The rustic's civility claimed Japhon Fearney in 
 that moment. All his courage melted like snow be- 
 fore the soft, warm wind of manner and authority. 
 Besides, he knew that he would be afraid of the 
 Englishman. 
 
 "We'll go in the parlor, sir," he said as they en- 
 tered; "nobody will pry upon us there though, for 
 that matter, I do hear that you have met my daugh- 
 ter already?" 
 
 Canning smiled. 
 
 "Please say that your daughter met me and add 
 that I was very glad to see her." 
 
 "Ay ; but she always had the run of the old house 
 in the Morencys' time, and no one was there to tell 
 her you had come ashore." 
 
 "Although it would seem a great many people 
 were aware of my intention. That's what brings 
 me here this morning so early. I return to Dover 
 directly, and do not propose to settle at the old 
 house for some week or two yet. When I do re- 
 turn, I hope there will be no beacons at the Spanish 
 cove. You will make it your business to see that 
 there are not." 
 
 "I don't understand you. My business ?" 
 1 02
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "Certainly, your business. You are a magistrate, 
 and the proper person. Surely you are not unaware 
 of what took place last night? If you are, I must 
 enlighten you." 
 
 Japhon Fearney had rarely been addressed in this 
 way, and for a moment his natural pugnacity and 
 assertive self-will failed him. None the less he 
 strove gallantly to put a good case forward. 
 
 "They do tell me that a beacon was kindled in 
 the cove. 'Twould be some of the boys larking, I 
 suppose. If there's any law against that, 'tis at 
 your command, Mr. Canning though I must say 
 it would be a poor thing to come among us with a 
 lawyer's brief in your hand. Much better ask the 
 old folk to flog their lads." 
 
 "I'll do it and to begin with the old seaman, 
 Abe Benson. Now, who's to flog him, Mr. Fear- 
 ney?" 
 
 They all laughed heartily, Canning and Hobby 
 in spite of themselves, the old man to cover his con- 
 fusion. 
 
 "Why, surely," he cried, "old Abe be sixty if he's 
 a day. A precious bad son he have, too." 
 
 "Would that be Frank, or the lad they call Ir- 
 win ?" 
 
 "Oh, Frank's well enough, though a head for 
 poetry isn't going to cut much corn come August. 
 The other's the trouble. But for me and Abe, he'd 
 
 103
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 have been in prison last Candlemas. A bad sort of a 
 boy, Mr. Canning, believe me." 
 
 "Then I must make him better. I must help them 
 all, Mr. Fearney. There's a great deal to be done 
 for this place, and I am the man to do it." 
 
 "That's what young Morency always said, until I 
 showed him the charter. 'Don't you talk about such 
 things to me,' I said, 'for there's the law to be 
 spoken of first of all.' The lawyers will have shown 
 you the charter, sir they'd hardly do as badly by 
 you as to keep it from you." 
 
 Canning looked at the old fellow shrewdly. He 
 had heard of this wonderful charter even then in 
 the hands of a famous King's Counsel in London, 
 but hitherto he had paid no attention to it. Now, 
 however, he understood. 
 
 "Well," he said, "I have seen the document you 
 speak of, though its value is not clear to me. Of 
 course I shan't try to cram gold and silver into 
 these people's hands if they're asking for copper. 
 In any case they must begin by behaving themselves, 
 and if you cannot persuade them to do that, I must 
 communicate with the police at Bideford. There 
 is to be no more nonsense, Mr. Fearney. I am 
 master here for the future, and I will have obedi- 
 ence" 
 
 "To be sure I have heard talk like that before. 
 Young Morency was just as wild about it, until we 
 
 104
 
 THE FORTUNATE, PRISONER 
 
 gave him a lesson or two. You'll find a trouble- 
 some lot of lads, sir, and they won't take to the whip 
 kindly. So much I say as a magistrate, who is going 
 to do his duty as between rich and poor, and to do it 
 fearlessly. You mustn't talk to me of masters or 
 servants I know none but the King's subjects." 
 
 "Who, it appears, are engaged just now in trying 
 to put the King's ships on the rocks." 
 
 "The King's ships! That's news to me. What 
 King's ship comes to Bell Island?" 
 
 "Ask the commander of the cruiser Marathon, 
 and he will answer you. I shall make my own re- 
 port. I wish I could say something of your dili- 
 gence in the matter, but that appears to be impos- 
 sible. The Admiralty will hardly be content with 
 your floggings, Mr. Fearney. They will want to 
 know what your constable is doing." 
 
 "I shall tell them, sir. To be sure I have done 
 myself less than justice in this matter, and must 
 ask your patience. It shall not occur again, Mr. 
 Canning I give you my word upon that. Had I 
 known anything of it " 
 
 "Oh, but they say you put them up to it. It's 
 common talk everywhere." 
 
 "Then they lie I'll answer them to their faces, 
 they lie." 
 
 The old man was thoroughly alarmed by this 
 time, and his quivering lips and distended nostrils 
 
 105
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 plainly betrayed his fear. A shrewd judge of men, 
 Canning watched him closely and determined that 
 the lesson was sufficient. He did not wish to make 
 Japhon Fearney his enemy. 
 
 "I am very glad to hear it," he said, "and of 
 course I shall tell the admiral. These people are 
 really most untruthful, and an example should be 
 made of some of them. I leave it to you, Mr. Fear- 
 ney my business takes me to England, and it will 
 be some days before I return. Will you promise 
 me an easy passage next time at least a safe an- 
 chorage?" 
 
 "Most surely I will. And thank you, sir. It will 
 be a kindness to write to the admiral. I've been a 
 magistrate here now nigh thirty years > " 
 
 "And do not wish to see another in your place. I 
 quite understand you you may rely upon me." 
 
 He offered his hand, and the old man shook it 
 heartily. The instinct of self-preservation sent him 
 to the gates with his guests, and he stood there in an 
 attitude of civility while they crossed the down and 
 descended the cliff road to the harbor. Then with 
 bent head he returned to the house to meet Jesse in 
 the porch, and to understand wholly what this day 
 of humiliation meant to him. 
 
 For Jesse had changed her dress while he had 
 been entertaining the Englishman, and she now 
 wore a pretty gown of white muslin, and, mirabile 
 
 106
 
 THH FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 die tit, had drawn stockings of fine silk over her un- 
 tamed ankles a spectacle which moved the old man 
 to an expression of anger defying all reason. 
 
 "Is it for such as yon you bring out your finery?" 
 he cried and then, quivering with rage and hu- 
 miliation and shaking his stick at her, he shouted 
 'Take them off, you hussy. Get out of my sight 
 before I do you an injury." 
 
 She obeyed him meekly but not as a daughter. 
 The spoken word could never be recalled, nor would 
 she forget the insult, whatever might be the atone- 
 ment. 
 
 107
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 JAPHON FEARNEY ASKS A QUESTION. 
 
 A DAY of mist and rain followed upon the morn- 
 ing of John Canning's departure for the mainland. 
 It was five o'clock of the afternoon before the 
 weather cleared at all, or as much as a ray of sun- 
 shine fell upon Bell Island. Shortly after that 
 hour, however, the clouds broke in the west to dis- 
 close the pale gold of the sinking sun and the shim- 
 mering waves of a placid sea. Hardly a breath of 
 air stirred in that heavy atmosphere. The fishing 
 boats, driven out of the harbor by giant sweeps, lay 
 rolling to the swell as they waited for the wind. The 
 great steamers left dense smoke clouds behind them 
 as they steamed west or east, for home or the At- 
 lantic. 
 
 Old Japhon Fearney did not leave .the farm until 
 the clock had struck six. He had not seen Jesse 
 after the violent outbreak of the early morning, 
 nor did he wish for an interview with her. A vain 
 obstinacy still clung to false themes of justifica- 
 tion. He accused her in his heart of disloyalty 
 toward himself and the people of the island but 
 
 108
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 chiefly toward himself. Had she not dressed up to 
 please the Englishman who crossed the channel 
 with a whip in his hand? Were not her prefer- 
 ences already declared in the scorn with which she 
 had received his just rebuke? And all this against 
 her own father, to whom she owed her very title to 
 rule over this primitive community. An ancient 
 platitude reminded him of the fables concerning 
 woman's ingratitude he swore that he would re- 
 member them henceforth. 
 
 So here was this proud old man, angered and 
 humiliated, setting off from the farm about six 
 o'clock of the evening, and making his way quickly 
 toward the northern cove and the sea. His own 
 sailing boats were not housed in the old harbor, 
 but in a little creek of the sea which looked straight 
 up the Bristol Channel, and had water enough for 
 a ten-ton yacht at all the tides. The cove itself 
 lay distant two miles from the ancient port and the 
 fishermen's cottages, and rarely did any of the peo- 
 ple betake themselves there. Japhon Fearney be- 
 lieved himself to be quite alone when he began to 
 descend the narrow wooden stairway which led to 
 the beach, and he was both surprised and chagrined 
 to discover Irwin Benson, old Abe's second son, at 
 the ladder's foot, and to hear the "Good night" with 
 which the lad would have left him. 
 
 Now this youth was a notorious scamp, though 
 109
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 liked well enough by the people, as scamps some- 
 times are. A sheepish, good-looking, idle boy, with 
 wonderfully expressive eyes, he had never had any 
 education to speak of and while he refused, when 
 he could, to take his place in his father's boat, he 
 avoided as cleverly any laborious occupations on 
 land. None knew him better than Japhon Fear- 
 ney; none had spoken so plainly to him or put him 
 more often to public shame. And now were these 
 two face to face at a critical moment in the island 
 story, and it came to the shrewd old magistrate 
 that Irwin Benson had been the informer, and that 
 from his lips John Canning heard the story of the 
 beacon and the names of those who had kindled it. 
 
 "Come you here," he cried sharply and the boy 
 came, creeping softly over the yellow sand and smil- 
 ing at every step. For a little while they stood 
 face to face, Japhon's rugged brows expressing 
 many emotions, the lad's face inscrutable and un- 
 changing. 
 
 "What did you tell the Englishman last night? 
 I'll have no lies. What did you say to him?" 
 
 "I didn't see him, Mr. Fearney. Why do you 
 ask me?" 
 
 "You're a liar, and you know it. You were out 
 with Tom Weede's daughter, and you didn't quit 
 the cottage until after eleven. Where did you go 
 then?" 
 
 no
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "To my bed where else? You ask my father." 
 
 "I asked him d'ye hear that? He says it was 
 one o'clock before you came home." 
 
 A flush passed across the pale face as the words 
 were spoken, but there was no other evidence of 
 discovery. Irwin Benson believed himself to be 
 Japhon Fearney's master, but he had not the words 
 to express his claim. 
 
 "Oh, lots of people are out after twelve o'clock 
 at night," he rejoined, with gathering impudence 
 "you're one of them, Mr. Fearney. I've often seen 
 your boat coming in at two or three of the morn- 
 ing. Why shouldn't I be out if I wish?" 
 
 Japhon's eyes blazed with fury. 
 
 "What are my comings and goings to you, lad? 
 Answer me that" 
 
 "Nothing whatever, Mr. Fearney but you 
 might think a little better of me than to suppose I'd 
 tell the Englishman." 
 
 Japhon strode forward a step, and seized the 
 youth by the collar. 
 
 "What are my comings and goings to you?" he 
 repeated ; "why do you watch me, lad ?" 
 
 "Why, I don't watch you ; but I can't help seeing 
 things. Jo and me talk about it sometimes, but we 
 don't think nothing " 
 
 He halted, amazed at the anger of the twitching 
 face which now confronted him. Japhon Fearney 
 
 ill
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 might have been possessed of a devil as he uttered 
 a loud and almost inhuman cry, and began to beat 
 the lad furiously. Again and again his heavy stick 
 fell upon the helpless shoulders of the pale and 
 shrinking youth. Gulls went whirling away at the 
 unaccustomed sounds even the fishermen at sea 
 heard the doleful cries, and spoke of them upon 
 their return. But it was Jo March, Japhon's boat- 
 man, who intervened at last, coming up at a run 
 from the creek and imploring his master to desist. 
 
 "Oh, sir, sir, for God's sake, have done! What 
 will the people say ?" 
 
 Japhon took a step backward; his hands were 
 quivering, there was froth upon his lips. 
 
 "I'll teach you to play the spy on me," he cried. 
 "Now, go and tell your father what I've done. Say 
 it was for telling lies to the Englishman. He'll 
 give you another dose, and rightly, too. Now be 
 off with yourself before I do you an injury." 
 
 Irwin Benson scrambled to his feet, and went off 
 at a loping trot, not unlike that of a wild animal. 
 The pain he suffered was considerable, but fear the 
 greater incentive, and he did not cease to run until 
 he had gained the shelter of that copse of plane 
 trees which hides the farm from the observation 
 of the village. Here he lay panting like a dog, and 
 quivering with passion. What a fool he had been 
 to speak at all! What a madman to declare himself 
 
 112
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 so prematurely! He knew that 1t was all an idle 
 tale the bravado of suspicion which investigation 
 might humble. And all he had got for his pains 
 was these cuts and bruises which hurt him intoler- 
 ably, and would leave their mark for many a day. 
 
 Custom had made for Irwin Benson a second 
 home of this little wood. Here he dreamed through 
 the sunny hours ; here he lay huddled when the win- 
 ter blasts drove him to shelter. The black story 
 which the village told of Nance Weede and her 
 wrongs had its beginnings in this sheltered copse 
 which the islanders despised. And now, at eventide, 
 the girl Nance came up to the place, as was her 
 habit, and espied Irwin lying there. No longer did 
 she expect him to receive her with burning words 
 of love and reckless kisses; but when she found him 
 weeping, her woman's heart went out to him, and 
 slv stooped and kissed. 
 
 * Why, Irwin dear, whatever is the matter with 
 you?" ' 
 
 "Don't you mess me about ; you go home to your 
 father and tell him that Japhon Fearney wants the 
 law of him." 
 
 "Is it about last night, Irwin? I knew there'd 
 be trouble about that. What's he been saying to 
 you, Irwin? Has he struck you?" 
 
 "Oh, he and I will have that out. Do you go 
 and tell your father as Japhon Fearney will have 
 
 "3
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 the law on all of us, if I don't have it on him first, 
 for what we did at the Spanish Rock. I'll mind my 
 own business <and let him look out when I've fin- 
 ished it." 
 
 "Don't you want me to stop with you to-night, 
 Irwin dear? There's long nights now since you and 
 me were out together." 
 
 "I tell you no. Go to your father, and repeat 
 what I say. Do you want us all in prison ? You're 
 a wonder to talk, Nance, but if it comes to doing me 
 a good turn, there isn't any one slower on the 
 island. Do you think I'm in the mood for foolery 
 to-night? I tell you he's half killed me, and I'll 
 have the law on him yet by God, I will !" 
 
 He turned on his face and began to cry like a 
 child. The girl stood sadly at the wood's edge, 
 gazing out to sea where she could discern the white 
 hull of Japhon Fearney's boat. Then she set off for 
 the village with slow steps. 
 
 How joyfully had she come to this place in the 
 old time ! How much had God willed that she must 
 suffer because of it! 
 
 114
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A RENDEZVOUS UPON THE MAINLAND AND AFTER- 
 WARD 
 
 A DANK breeze began to blow from west by north 
 about eight o'clock of the .evening, and helped 
 Japhon to make a good passage to Barnstaple Bay. 
 He was an accomplished seaman, and the master 
 not only of the half -decked boat, the Pharos, but 
 of a couple of fishing smacks which carried his 
 produce to the mainland and brought out neces- 
 sary merchandise in return. 
 
 Few ships were better known than these in the 
 Bristol Channel, or excited less remark. If people 
 talked at all, it was about the parsimonious habits 
 of the old fellow, who made so many voyages by 
 night that he might not lose a moment of the work- 
 ing day. "There be old Japhon of the Pharos," 
 they would say, and add "Ay, truts 'ee to be up to 
 zummat when other volks be asleep." As to the 
 excisemen, they had given up Japhon long ago. 
 Though Bell Island was a free port by an ancient 
 charter dating from the first of the Charleses, neither 
 its people nor its privileges gave the Customs any
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 trouble. Certainly old Japhon himself would have 
 as soon thought of trying to smuggle brandy or 
 cigars into Barnstaple as of dancing a hornpipe on 
 the river quay. A fine, grave, law-abiding old fel- 
 low who would suspect him? 
 
 So his voyages excited little interest. It is true 
 that he was always invited to make a declaration 
 when he landed, and that his cargoes of produce 
 were subjected to the necessary scrutiny but be- 
 yond this none asked him questions or were curious 
 at his coming and going. A man of substance, the 
 people said, who had frequent dealings with Jape, 
 Angus & Snarth, the merchants of Barnstaple. 
 They envied him the freedom of his life, for in their 
 eyes he was the true master of Bell Island; and 
 when the property was sold, surprise attended the 
 fact that he had not bought it. Now for the first 
 time came the suspicion that Japhon Kearney was 
 not as rich as the people had supposed. "The old 
 'un have put a tidy bit away," the expression used 
 to be but now they added "I'll warrant 'ee don't 
 do better with the land than others who have gone 
 before him." 
 
 Japhon, we say, was an accomplished seaman, 
 and he was rarely accompanied by more than two 
 hands when he crossed to Barnstaple or Bideford. 
 One of these would be the nigger Jo ; the other was 
 a Swede, by name Isaacson, a hardy, clever youth, 
 
 116
 
 THE FORTUNATE: PRISONER 
 
 who had few words of English, and did not often 
 find the occasion to employ them. These two would 
 keep to the boat while their master went up to the 
 merchant's offices or to the inns where other farmers 
 of his acquaintance were staying. He forbade them 
 to go on shore under pain of dismissal, and was 
 never disobeyed. Indeed, his habits of secrecy 
 might have provoked more general remark had they 
 not been attributed to those miserly habits which 
 resented the friendship of men because of the de- 
 mands it might make upon his hospitality. "Old 
 Japhon Fearney be gone up to the Hunted Stag," 
 they would say ; "but 'tis not to ask any one to take 
 a drink with 'ee, I'll be bound." And this was true 
 for his visits were for another purpose altogether. 
 Japhon landed in Barnstaple at a late hour upon 
 this particular occasion, and went openly to the 
 offices of Jape, Angus & Snarth. To the excise- 
 men he was unusually communicative, telling of the 
 Englishman's visit to Bell Island and of the trick 
 they had played upon him. "But," he added saga- 
 ciously, "others might keep their eyes open in that 
 direction, for what does such a man with such a 
 house?" When the question had provoked the 
 proper nods of doubt and affirmation, and the old 
 man had declared that he came ashore "empty," he 
 went straight on from the river quay to the mer- 
 chants' offices in Cross Street. Here, although it 
 
 117
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 was nearly ten o'clock, he found Mr. Angus, the 
 only surviving partner of the firm, awaiting him 
 with some expectancy; and the two men having en- 
 tered the parlor at the back of the offices, and the 
 servant being sent to bed, they entered at once into 
 an animated conversation which had little to do 
 with merchandise and a great deal with prudence. 
 
 Holly Angus was a slim, red-haired young man 
 of thirty years of age. He wore his hair brushed 
 high upon his forehead, and was so exceedingly 
 particular about his dress that even his friends re- 
 garded it as no fit subject for a jest. To-night he 
 wore a smoking suit in a dark shade of blue, and 
 had added the adornment of a crimson rose for his 
 buttonhole. His manner was offhand and a little 
 absent the manner of one who listened to his com- 
 panion but thought of something else. 
 
 "Well!" he exclaimed, as he pushed a chair for- 
 ward ; "so you came after all ?" 
 
 Japhon sat down slowly and put his hat on the 
 table. 
 
 "I thought it better to come," he rejoined; 
 "there's a lot of talk over yonder, and you should 
 hear it." 
 
 "Talk of John Canning, I suppose. There nat- 
 urally would be. Does it concern us in any way?" 
 
 "Not at present ; it may do by and by. I sighted 
 the yacht in the ofHng, but did not speak her. By 
 
 118
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 all talk, these are the days to let her go by but 
 you'll be the best judge of that?" 
 
 He leaned back in his chair, watching the other 
 curiously. Holly Angus had learned his business in 
 London, and Japhon credited him, on that account, 
 with unnatural shrewdness. Indeed, had it been 
 otherwise, he would not have done business with 
 him at all. And to-night he relied altogether upon 
 his acumen. 
 
 "What talk do you refer to?" asked Angus 
 slowly. "Something that I have not heard?" 
 
 "You must have heard it. They know in London 
 that this stuff is coming through some western port, 
 and western ports are where they're seekin' it. We'd 
 be fools not to lie low a while. If you've a fancy 
 for the inside of a jail, I haven't. My tastes are 
 different." 
 
 Holly Angus smiled a slow, soft smile of pity, 
 not unmingled with contempt. 
 
 "You are repeating what I said to you ten days 
 ago," he remarked ; "well, I'm glad to see that you 
 remembered it. Now I'll tell you something more. 
 The report was true enough every word of it. 
 But it's ancient history by this time." 
 
 "Then they have taken the specials off?" 
 
 "They are watching South Wales and the new 
 harbor works at Fishguard. This place told them 
 nothing. They sent a written account of every 
 
 119
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 skipper who trades in and out and gave his history. 
 You were among the number magistrate, and a 
 minister of religion. I hope you like that, Fearney 
 a minister of religion." 
 
 He laughed heartily, lolling back in his chair to 
 watch a smile of annoyance steal over the old man's 
 face, as a flush of dirty water upon an old brown 
 stone. When they had enjoyed their own thoughts 
 for some minutes, Angus stretched out his hand 
 and drew a tray of glasses across to him. 
 
 "Come," he said, "I like prudence, but prudence 
 may sit in the cold while pluck is warming itself 
 at the fire. Let's drink to luck. You say the yacht 
 is in the offing well, speak her as you go home. 
 I'll answer for your safety. You know how many 
 times I've answered for it did I ever play you 
 false?" 
 
 "You never did," cried Japhon emphatically. 
 
 "Then you may believe me to-night. Speak the 
 yacht, and take the parcel. You can land it on 
 Tuesday, when you bring in the hay for Fether- 
 more. Let it be on the fifteenth bundle to come 
 ashore. What's to forbid you? unless you've 
 taken the fancy to turn your back on good money? 
 But I'll answer that you haven't, and the stuff will 
 come ashore. It wouldn't be Japhon Fearney to 
 send it back to Holland." 
 
 120
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 The old man liked the compliment, and drained 
 a glass to it. 
 
 "You'll have your way, as you always do," he 
 said; "well, sink or swim, I'll run it this time. 
 What's to come afterward will be as time makes 
 wise. If this Englishman turns curious, we'll knock 
 off a while. He's a big, masterful sort of man, and 
 not the one to be trifled with. I'll have to watch 
 him closely." 
 
 "For what? What does he know about us? 
 Really, Fearney, you annoy me sometimes. What- 
 ever has a convict to do with Japhon Fearney and 
 the house of Jape, Angus & Snarth ?" 
 
 "A convict! You're joking?" 
 
 "I was never farther from a joke in my life. The 
 man has just served seven years' penal servitude for 
 defrauding the shareholders of a public company. 
 You ought to know it. I am surprised at you." 
 
 Japhon licked his lips for quite a long time. This 
 was his habit when he heard something very much 
 to his liking as though he were turning the excla- 
 mation of pleasure over and over upon his tongue 
 and afraid to part with it. Presently, however, he 
 began to laugh, and continued to do so in little out- 
 bursts, which he tried vainly to control. 
 
 "Repeat that again!" he exclaimed presently; "a 
 convict, the man that's taken the Castle! You 
 tell me he's a convict !" 
 
 121
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "Certainly I do. I'll send you the papers. 
 There's no doubt about it." 
 
 "Who did seven years' penal servitude?" 
 
 "That was his sentence. They speak of him as an 
 exemplary prisoner." 
 
 "He would be! And that was the man who had 
 the impudence to come hectoring me this very 
 mornin'. Well, Mr. Angus, I shall have some- 
 thing to say to him next time, be sure of it. I shall 
 find my tongue." 
 
 "But I wouldn't let it run away with me, Fear- 
 ney. Don't arouse curiosity." 
 
 "Oh, trust me, trust me, I'll keep him in his place. 
 A convict! You do amaze me." 
 
 He repeated it with the monotonous reiteration 
 of a man who has won a great personal triumph; 
 and when he left Holly Angus a quarter of an hour 
 later, he could think of nothing else. The man a 
 convict. This masterful, overbearing lord of Bell 
 Island just no better than a thief or a housebreaker. 
 It amazed him. And he had been thinking that 
 Jesse might marry the fellow and rule up at the 
 great house. Ay, lucky he learned the news in time. 
 His triumph must be inevitable. Nothing could for- 
 bid it. 
 
 And so he made his way down to the river, and 
 the tide serving and the men being awakened, he 
 put out to sea again and presently discerned the 
 
 122
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 flashing light of Bell Island and the stars which 
 marked the fishermen's cottages, a little to the north- 
 ward. There the chapel stood therein he had 
 preached last Sunday from the text "Judge not 
 that ye be not judged." Japhon Fearney remem- 
 bered that as he watched the lights. 
 
 "Judge not that ye be not judged." Was it the 
 word of God or man's desire which chose such a 
 text for him? He was afraid to answer the ques- 
 tion. He preferred to think of other things. 
 
 123
 
 THB FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE COWARD MAKES AN EFFORT 
 
 IRWIN BENSON lay in the thicket until it was full 
 dark, and then he crept down to the shore. It was 
 no uncommon thing for him to put to sea in one of 
 his father's boats, but he rarely ventured at night, 
 or when there was more than a ripple on the water. 
 This night, however, a spirit foreign to his nature 
 helped him. He cared nothing for the blackness of 
 the sky or the promise of tempest, but choosing an 
 ancient boat with a single lug sail, he rowed himself 
 out of the harbor and set a course as though he also 
 were bound for England. 
 
 Here was an odd character, and one difficult to 
 comprehend. Few understood the boy or took heed 
 of his life. All the favors of his father's poor 
 house had been reserved for the disappointing 
 Frank. Let a stranger speak of the family, and 
 Frank would be thrown at him; the people said 
 Frank who had been to school in Devon, Frank who 
 had spent a year in London, Frank who wrote 
 pieces in the papers. But of Irwin, not a word. 
 
 He had resented the indifference, and shaped his 
 124
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 character upon it. When he sinned, he told him- 
 self that he could not help it. A further argument 
 suggested that sin was a subtle vengeance upon his 
 enemies. He had been starved and beaten and neg- 
 lected at home? What right had they to ask good 
 conduct of him ? And yet, oddly enough, there was 
 mixed up with all this a strange mysticism which 
 spoke ecstatically of heavenly things, and sensually 
 of those pertaining to the earth. He adored women, 
 but had no conscience toward them. The Sabbath 
 found him bitterly repenting his deeds, but without 
 the moral strength to promise amendment. 
 
 This was the lad who had put to sea after Japhon 
 Fearney had beaten him, and dared the darkness 
 because of his evil thoughts. A very cunning na- 
 ture, fed by many suspicions, led him to espionage 
 and surmise, and now at last to this voyage upon 
 an unknown course. Whither was he going, and 
 why? Perchance he did not know himself, and be- 
 lieving no more than that the sea had her secrets, 
 he set his course toward England and waited for 
 Fearney's return. 
 
 To be sure, there was nothing to make him afraid 
 nothing, that is to say, at the beginning of it. 
 The clouded heaven gave a black sea below, but 
 showed very clearly the lights of the passing ships 
 and those on the shore. A monitive silence pre- 
 vailed, and even the wavelets rippled softly as 
 
 125
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 though upon an oily bed. Far out in the Channel, 
 Irwin distinguished the brilliant lights of some big 
 ship bound for Avonmouth, and again to the scuth, 
 the masthead light of the cruiser which had been 
 anchored off Bell Island for some days. As to the 
 fishing fleet, that had disappeared in the direction 
 of Longships light, and would be no more heard 
 of until morning. Irwin cared nothing about dis- 
 covery, and yet he was glad to be alone. He could 
 almost imagine that he escaped from the living 
 world, and was drifting to some new land where a 
 miracle would open his eyes to the glories of an un- 
 known sphere. 
 
 He was not a clever sailor, but he knew enough 
 of the currents about Bell Island to set a course 
 straight out to sea, and to keep his little boat far 
 from the dangerous reefs which run to the south- 
 ward. A sluggish breeze, beginning to blow about 
 eleven o'clock, found him some three miles from the 
 harbor and seven from the coast of Devon. He 
 could discern the lights upon the mainland quite 
 plainly, but no lanterns of ships anywhere about 
 him. Thus it befell that something like terror over- 
 took him, when a black, silent shape loomed sud- 
 denly out of the darkness and passed so close to 
 him that his outstretched hand could have touched 
 it. A ship, he said yes, steamship but without 
 lanterns, steaming so slowly that she almost drifted. 
 
 126
 
 THH FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Had she come three yards more to port, that would 
 have been an end of Irwin Benson. He shivered at 
 his narrow escape, and lay for some time peering 
 into the darkness as though a second monster might 
 follow and destroy him. 
 
 It is not strange, perhaps, that this sudden appari- 
 tion was not accompanied by any definite ideas, or 
 that he failed to associate it with Japhon's voyage. 
 A vague knowledge of Admiralty and the fact that 
 manoeuvres were taking place in the Channel led 
 him to say that this would be a "destroyer," and 
 that she carried no lights because of the mimic war- 
 fare. Her return, suddenly, and without any warn- 
 ing, confirmed that impression. She passed at a 
 cable's length this time, and was headed southward. 
 Irwin had just determined that she must be a de- 
 stroyer, when she showed a single green light, not 
 on her starboard, but on her port quarter; and lift- 
 ing it half way to the masthead, dropped it as 
 quickly. Irwin knew much which it is necessary for 
 sailors to know, but of the Navy or its customs he 
 knew nothing. The "destroyer" must be making a 
 signal but to whom? When he answered the 
 question, it was to tell himself that another ship had 
 hoisted a green lantern in reply, and that she was 
 standing out from the mainland and sailed, as it 
 would appear, right in the "destroyer's" path. 
 
 All this fascinated the lad, and led him to forget 
 127
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 both Japhon Fearney and his own suspicions. For 
 a long while he lay, his boat swinging lazily to the 
 gentle seas, and the hauled lug sail flapping softly 
 against the little mast. Perchance he would have 
 returned eventually to the islands as wise as he left 
 it but for a sudden lift of the clouds, which declared 
 the scene plainly enough. Yes, there the strange 
 steamer was, and there now, fifty yards from her, 
 lay the boat which had put out from Barnstaple 
 Bay. But that was Japhon Fearney's boat. Irwin 
 would have recognized it anywhere. Nor was that 
 all, for he himself was detected as quickly, and with 
 a low whistle from one boat to the other, the strange 
 steamer instantly showed all her proper lights, while 
 Prisoner Twenty-Seven 
 
 Fearney headed straight for Bell Island and the 
 harbor. 
 
 Now, it has been said that Irwin Benson was a 
 lad of much natural shrewdness, and yet it must be 
 granted that he could make nothing of this circum- 
 stance. He had heard, no matter where, wild 
 stories of old Japhon's dealings with strange ships 
 at sea, and had determined to probe them for him- 
 self yet why the old man should so act, or what 
 such conduct meant, he had not the vaguest idea. 
 Certainly this would be no excise affair; trust 
 Japhon not to be risking his position and his money 
 in a paltry attempt to smuggle a keg or two of 
 
 128
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 brandy or a few cigars into England. Then why 
 did he speak the ships at all, and why did this par- 
 ticular ship carry no lanterns? Full of wonder, the 
 lad headed his lugger for the shore. Then fear 
 fear unlike any he had ever known overtook him 
 when he perceived that Japhon's boat was coming 
 after him, and that it must overhaul him before he 
 could make the harbor. 
 
 What a fool he had been! And what a hazard- 
 ous thing to do ! for surely this would be no affair 
 of a common rebuke or even of a thrashing. He 
 dreaded Fearney now with a dread unspeakable. 
 His own helpless situation, the lonely sea, the dark- 
 ness of the night all contributed to his alarms. 
 Would not this man kill him? Strange tales were 
 told upon Bell Island of Japhon's anger, of what it 
 had been and of what it had done. Irwin remem- 
 bered how the old man's eyes had blazed at the mere 
 question and now he knew, knew that he had been 
 followed, perhaps imagined that he had been dis- 
 covered. Crouching in the boat, Irwin turned sick 
 with terror. Yes, they would kill him because of 
 what he knew. And the irony was that he knew 
 nothing. 
 
 There had been some lifting of the clouds when 
 he discovered the ships, and this endured for a 
 quarter of an hour perhaps. A great azure lake in 
 a heaven of black mountains sent down a pale glow 
 
 129
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 upon the sea, and revealed all things in contrasts of 
 silver and of sepia. But for the wind, which was 
 but a breath across the waste, Irwin Benson would 
 have come to judgment quickly enough; but the 
 lugger could hold the ketch in such a sea, and drift 
 with her to no disadvantage. Thus for twenty min- 
 utes the positions were unchanged. Thus the race 
 became but a whisper of prayer upon the lad's 
 part that he might make the haven ; upon the man's 
 that he might forestall the lugger. Never, in all 
 truth, had Irwin known what the fear of death 
 could be until this black night overtook him. For 
 it was not discovery but the pain which must attend 
 discovery, not the dread of the aftermath but of the 
 present, of the cold, dark water, of the rough hands 
 which would hold him down, of the seas closing 
 above his head and the unknown terrors beneath. 
 And all this vainly, mere surmise; the vision of an 
 hysterical youth who had not the courage of his 
 deeds. 
 
 He prayed for safety and thanked God aloud 
 when the clouds banked up in the heavens and night 
 fell back again. Now for a long while it was a 
 battle of the ears, the lad listening for any message 
 from the waves, the man for the boat's voice lead- 
 ing him. For an hour, a fresher breeze helping 
 them, the two sailed round and about each other. 
 But the lugger was the first to harbor ; and, scram- 
 
 130
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 bling ashore, Irwin ran like a deer to his father's 
 house. 
 
 Day was breaking in the sky then and the island 
 asleep. He crept unto his bed and laughed, as much 
 from the reaction of terror as at his own victory. 
 
 Let Japhon Fearney charge him to-morrow. 
 
 Ay, but would he dare ? Would he dare ?
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE FAIR AT THE CASTLE 
 
 JOHN CANNING looked down from the terrace of 
 the Castle to the garden scene below; but it would 
 be untrue to say that he found pleasure in it. Was 
 it for this that he had bought the place and sought 
 its sanctuary to hire fiddlers for the feet of hobble- 
 dehoys, to set up his tents that the vulgar might eat 
 and drink therein? He knew that it was not, but 
 submitted patiently, nevertheless, to the ordeal. 
 After all, he owed something to so good a friend as 
 Ernest Hobby, and the fair at the Castle had been 
 Hobby's idea from the beginning. 
 
 "Get in touch with the people," Hobby had said ; 
 "you complain that they are uncivil, that they re- 
 ceive you coldly. Well, you don't know them yet. 
 Of course they are jealous of their supposed rights 
 and will oppose you. Obstinacy is the peasant's 
 compensation for wit and learning. They don't 
 like you for many reasons, but chiefly because you 
 are a stranger. Get to know them, Canning. Make 
 yourself master of their good will, and then you 
 will be the 'laird' indeed." 
 
 Canning listened a little contemptuously. To be 
 132
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 sure, he had been but two months on Bell Island 
 this was the month of September and the place 
 had already disappointed him. What a lot of pig- 
 headed, obstinate fools the people were prating of 
 their rights perpetually, or quoting the charter until 
 he was weary of the very word ! All attempts to im- 
 prove their condition had failed dismally hitherto. 
 They wanted nothing better than it had been. When 
 he spoke of building a fine church whose spire 
 should be seen from the mainland, they retorted 
 with a talk of covenants and justification by grace 
 which exasperated him. The reading-room he had 
 wished to open, the club he would have founded, did 
 no more than provoke their suspicion. Not a man 
 but young Frank Benson entered its doors, and he 
 but to read the daily papers and to idle away the 
 time. Finally Had come the proposal for a new 
 harbor, and an immediate resort to the bitterest 
 weapons of outspoken hostility. They would have 
 no harbor to bring the coasting barks to Bell Is- 
 land and ruin them. Such a suggestion savored of 
 robbery. 
 
 So here was the beginning of a pretty mischief, 
 and here a simple fellow's solution of it. Hobby 
 was all for conciliation the festina lente, the com- 
 promise. Canning, in his impulsive way, had not 
 hastened slowly enough, he said. It would be neces- 
 sary to go step by step. To which Canning an- 
 
 133
 
 THH FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 svvered with the question, Why go at all ? Why re- 
 member the existence of such cattle ? 
 
 "I came to this place to find solitude," he said; 
 "I have found instead a colony of very detestable 
 people, overmuch given to drink and other vices and 
 imbued with few virtues. If I choose, I can make 
 their lives miserable " 
 
 "We can all do that, Canning, where the poor are 
 concerned. But it isn't quite a noble performance, 
 is it? Don't blame them for not being what they 
 can never be. You wouldn't call a dog names for 
 not being an ox." 
 
 "Then what, in Heaven's name, would you do, 
 Hobby?" 
 
 "Feed them, my dear boy. Give them meat and 
 drink. Show them something a bit brighter than 
 anything they find in their daily lives. That's what 
 I would do." 
 
 "Oh, a fancy fair and fete-bribery and corrup- 
 tion in a gross form. I believe you wish to dance 
 with the village girls yourself. Now, isn't it that, 
 Hobby?" 
 
 Hobby blushed very much, but declared that it 
 wasn't. His simple arguments won the day in the 
 end, and Canning consented to see those obstinate 
 folk and to hear them for themselves. 
 
 "Do what you like," he had said; "I'll pay the 
 bill cheerfully. If it must be beef and beer, for 
 
 134
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Heaven's sake let them have plenty of it. I'm sick 
 of them, Hobby " 
 
 "But very much in love with Bell Island all the 
 same. Well, I'm glad you came here, Canning, for 
 you'd never have been happy over yonder. And 
 when a man does make a home and learns to love it, 
 he's about as near to happiness as any of us ever 
 will be in this mortal life." 
 
 Canning had no argument with which to meet 
 this, nor did he try to do so. It was true that he 
 had learned already to love Bell Island ; true that he 
 had found upon its heights the peace he had sought 
 vainly through the years. Here no man knew his 
 story, or, knowing it, might profit by it. Here was 
 a haven to which he might retire while preparing 
 the armies of his brain for the new assault upon the 
 citadels of wealth. For, be sure, such a man as 
 John Canning had no intention of retiring definitely 
 from the world in which he had won so many tri- 
 umphs and suffered so much bitterness. He would 
 go forth to conquer when the day came. 
 
 Meanwhile there was, upon this sunny day of 
 September, the fair in the gardens of his house, and 
 the realization of that scheme by which his simple- 
 minded friend set so much store. Already four 
 fiddlers had arrived from Bideford, and according 
 to the customs of fiddlers in those parts, had taken 
 off their coats and hung them up in the boughs of 
 
 135
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 the trees. The gardens themselves looked very 
 beautiful, and had gained something by the cool 
 white tents, pegged down upon the sunburned 
 lawns. As for the flowers, and especially the great 
 dahlias upon which Canning prided himself, they 
 made a very picture for the eye, marred only by the 
 presence of stote caterers from Bideford, who rolled 
 monstrous barrels of beer to the refreshment tents, 
 and handled rounds of beef which should have fed 
 an army. 
 
 It was to be an island fete and yet more than that, 
 for friends from the mainland were to be invited, 
 and every lad to bring his lass. These came strag- 
 gling up to the Castle about four of the afternoon, 
 the girls aglow with blushes and colored ribbons, 
 the sheepish youths following after with lagging, 
 but not unwilling, steps. As for the old people, 
 they came a-tiptoe as though they would declare 
 their readiness for the dance to all and sundry 
 and, as Abe Benson announced, "jine in a jig so 
 long as it were de-chorus." This worthy wore a 
 seaman's coat, with smart brass buttons and anchors 
 stamped upon them. But his son Frank came in a 
 pepper and salt suit from Barnstaple, and moved 
 apart as though really a little ashamed of his com- 
 pany. 
 
 "We are a very primitive people," he explained to 
 Canning loftily; "few of us have had any educa- 
 
 136
 
 tional advantages. I am greatly amused some- 
 times but it is also a little pathetic." 
 
 "What is pathetic?" was the rejoinder. 
 
 "Oh, I mean their ignorance. Some of them 
 hardly know whether the world is round or flat." 
 
 "Especially on Saturday nights, I suppose. Well, 
 my boy, you should be their schoolmaster. Why 
 don't you take pity on them?" 
 
 "Oh, I am going to the law, when I have finished 
 my reading. I'm not in the teaching line." 
 
 He was much affronted, and strolled away to 
 wait for Jesse. The others in the meantime ad- 
 vanced as well-drilled soldiers to the refreshment 
 tent, and immediately made themselves comfortable 
 therein. 
 
 "I be such a man for a corner seat that I fall into 
 it to the manner born," old Abe said, as he took his 
 second mug of beer; "but this I will say, friends, 
 we are guests in this house and must be upon the 
 proprieties. Now let me see any man forgetting 
 what's due to Bell Island, and I'll d n well lay my 
 stick on his back." 
 
 Somebody said "Ay, ay," to that; but an over- 
 bold fellow in the corner muttered something about 
 Abe Benson being as ready as any other man to 
 take a wench on his knee, and this raised an ironical 
 controversy which nothing but John Canning's en- 
 try among them could terminate. 
 
 137
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 The master of Bell Island certainly looked very 
 well that day in his gray frock suit and white top- 
 hat, and he moved with that firm step and gracious 
 manner which the years had made habitual to him. 
 To the people his greeting was both affable and 
 cheering. He was very glad to see them in his 
 house, hoped that they would make themselves at 
 home and do just as they liked. Observing Irwin 
 Benson in a corner, and remembering that the lad 
 had been called a scamp, he beckoned him to his 
 side and asked him why he was not dancing. To 
 which the youth answered sheepishly, and with 
 some hypocrisy, that Nance Weede had not yet ar- 
 rived, and that it would not be seemly for him to 
 be dancing with any other. When Canning asked 
 the further question, if the ladies in those parts imi- 
 tated their sisters on the mainland and generally 
 kept the gentlemen waiting, the response was both 
 quick and opportune. 
 
 "They tell me they're just the same all the world 
 over, sir. I wish I knew, but I've never been fur- 
 ther than Barnstaple, and that's a poor place to 
 judge them, as Mr. Fearney will tell you. He's 
 often in Barnstaple, generally going over by night 
 when nobody's about. You should ask him about it, 
 sir ; though his comings and goings are not what he 
 most likes to talk about." 
 
 Canning looked at the lad sharply. 
 
 138
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "He goes by night ah, his produce would be 
 shipped to Barnstaple. Or is it to Bideford? I 
 am still a stranger in this part of the world." 
 
 "He sends everything to Barnstaple, sir, in the 
 two old smacks he bought of Mother Hunning 
 after her husband died. You can see them crossing 
 almost any week, but Mr. Kearney himself, he goes 
 by night in the ketch he calls the Pharos. I saw 
 him starting one night, and he was fair angry. But 
 for my father I'd have had him in the courts for 
 what he did to me." 
 
 "Mr. Fearney is evidently one who believes in 
 minding his own business. It is a good lesson. Do 
 not pry into other people's affairs, my lad. Your 
 own should occupy all your time. Now go and look 
 for the young lady. What is her name, did you 
 say?" 
 
 "Nance Weede, sir; she's over yonder with old 
 Mother Hunning of whom I was speaking. Young 
 Hunning you may have heard of. He's been in 
 prison more than once there won't be many to 
 dance with him to-day." 
 
 Canning took a step backward, just as a man may 
 step away from a wasp which would sting. A flush 
 of color suffused his sun-browned face. For an 
 instant he could have believed that this fawning lad 
 had been chosen as the mouthpiece of an insult. 
 
 139
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "What do you mean, my boy ? Why should they 
 not dance with him?" 
 
 "I don't know, sir. Father says it's human na- 
 ture. He's the only one on Bell Island as ever came 
 to a misfortune, and the folks don't like it. We're 
 a proud people, sir, though we're poor." 
 
 Here was the common cant of the quay and the 
 meeting house, and Irwin Benson knew it to be 
 such. But he wished to try its effect on the 
 stranger, believing that platitudes which were good 
 enough for Japhon Fearney were good enough for 
 him. Canning, however, turned sharply on his heel 
 and went straight over to Mother Running and her 
 son. 
 
 And this was the moment when Jesse entered the 
 grounds, and, standing shyly by her father's side, 
 looked about her quickly as though seeking some 
 one and but ill content until she had found him. 
 
 140
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 JESSE REVISITS THE LONG GALLERY 
 
 FRANK BENSON was the first to espy her and 
 went over to her side immediately, to utter a com- 
 monplace about his own pleasure and to express 
 contempt for that of other people. He wondered a 
 little at the magnificence of old Japhon's appear- 
 ance, but expressed no surprise. Never had the old 
 man worn so majestic an air. A frock coat from 
 the best tailor in Barnstaple, a glossy silk hat of 
 enormous dimensions, yellow gloves held awk- 
 wardly in the hand, a collar which gave him phys- 
 ical pain, were the insignia of an office he felt com- 
 pelled to glorify upon such an occasion. Had you 
 read his thoughts you would have found them far 
 from the scene and its novelties, for he was thinking 
 of the little chapel in the hollow, and of a sermon 
 he once had preached there from the text "Judge 
 not that ye be not judged." 
 
 To be sure there was a further reflection, and that 
 a prudent one. Japhon Fearney knew enough of 
 the law of slander to weigh his words at all times. 
 Had he been sure of Holly Angus' facts he would 
 have gone more confidently, but even that worthy 
 
 141
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 was not sure of them. Certainly a man named John 
 Canning had been in prison for fraud but was this 
 the man? Japhon looked up at the Castle, down at 
 the brilliant gardens, and the doubt waxed stronger. 
 Was this the man? Ay, it would never do to make 
 a mistake about the matter. The law would cor- 
 rect that, and a castigation there meant bankruptcy, 
 or worse, the lawyers. 
 
 In which mood of doubt, his easy charity had 
 consented to come to the fair. Vanity also had been 
 tickled by the invitation. Let the two of them, the 
 master of the Castle and the King's justice, stand 
 side by side before the people as their proper lords 
 and rulers. Japhon perceived that Cannihg might 
 want all the rock for himself. He was determined 
 to get a foothold; and there he stood upon the 
 sweeping lawn, a figure ironical of a petty kingdom, 
 a trussed effigy of an unstable power. 
 
 "I don't see Mr. Canning; where is he, Jesse? 
 He should be here to meet us rightly 'tis no proper 
 behavior this, and me a magistrate." 
 
 "Mr. Canning is over there, father, talking to 
 young Hunning." 
 
 "Ay, I should have looked for him in that quar- 
 ter. Just you step down and tell him we're here, 
 Frank. I'll cool my heels on no man's doorstep." 
 
 Frank exchanged a glance with Jesse as who 
 should say "This is no proper thing to do," but he 
 
 142
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 obeyed the old man nevertheless, and presently John 
 Canning himself came briskly across the lawn and 
 greeted these distinguished visitors. With the old 
 man he was particularly affable; asked after his 
 harvest, his boats, the doings in the hamlet, the gen- 
 eral state of the island and the people. Nor did he 
 forget to throw in an occasional compliment to 
 Jesse, whose quick eyes read up his shy glances and 
 made no mistake concerning them. 
 
 She was smartly dressed to-day, perhaps showily 
 for such a place, but not to the point of vulgarity. 
 Very girlish, slim, her skin amazingly fair, her hair 
 a wealth of black tresses caught up in a bright blue 
 ribbon, her dress of the finest muslin, a wonderful 
 transparency which it would seem the lightest 
 breath might dissolve, her stockings of silk, her 
 shoes buckled and over-fine, mittens upon her arms, 
 a plain gold brooch at her throat. She was neither 
 of the bourgeoisie nor the peasant but just herself, 
 Jesse of the Pharos decked out for the fete; a 
 schoolgirl grown a little older; a picture that Bel- 
 lini should have caught upon the Guidecca and 
 passed on to the immortality of galleries. Nor 
 would she have been a woman if she had not 
 guessed at least something of the truth. John Can- 
 ning should notice her to-day, she had said ; she cer- 
 tainly was not disappointed. 
 
 He wondered at himself for the sidelong glances
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 he could not avert, asked himself why he carried so 
 vague a memory of a famous interview, told himself 
 that she was merely a farmer's daughter and for 
 all that remained close at her side. Frank Benson, 
 upon his part, was not to be ignored, nor would the 
 old man be left behind; so here was a little pro- 
 cession going from tent to tent among the people, 
 and always bringing hands to honest heads or 
 women to the curtsy. As for old Japhon, he found 
 himself in his glory, and he was very glad that he 
 had listened to Holly Angus with suspicion. 
 
 After all it was something to stand cheek by jowl 
 with the great man of the island; something to be 
 able to say, "My friend Canning up at the big 
 house." He hoped very much that the news was 
 not true, and found himself unwilling to give it 
 serious credence. It may even be that he resolved 
 to make no use of it should it be true, but to serve 
 his own interests by the judicious cultivation of one 
 who evidently possessed a large fortune, and was 
 not unwilling to disburse some of it upon Bell Is- 
 land. In which spirit he followed his leader from 
 tent to tent, and being required by him to do so, 
 gave the signal for the dancing, which many of the 
 young people had been long awaiting. 
 
 And what a tripping on the light fantastic fol- 
 lowed! How shy the lads were; how ready the 
 girls! There were even silly old men to push their 
 
 144
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 way to the green with exclamations upon their 
 aforetime cleverness ; tousled old women to stumble 
 a sorry gait and end panting in unwilling arms; 
 but everywhere a great stamping and the utterance 
 of shrill cries and a real response to the crazy music. 
 As for the fiddlers, they had come from Bideford 
 with a big reputation for muscle and powers of en- 
 durance, and were not to lose it upon Bell Island. 
 True, one of them, regardless of his part, would 
 halt from time to time to take a great draught out 
 of a monstrous pot, and this was disconcerting 
 but little the dancers recked of that or cared either 
 for time or tune if they could but shuffle a measure 
 and catch a slim waist in its performance. As for 
 old Abe Benson, he boasted afterward that he had 
 cuddled every girl in the company. "And what else 
 were they dancin' for?" he asked shrewdly. 
 
 Canning was much amused at all this, and far 
 from displeased by its opportunities. He found 
 himself alone with Jesse by and by, and insensibly 
 drew her away from the stadium. If she had the 
 will to dance she concealed it artfully, an itching 
 foot battling with a beating heart and the per- 
 suasions of her vanity. Upon the man's part there 
 was just the echo of boyish triumphs, the pleasure 
 which would lead her from the company of her 
 equals and assert a proper superiority ; but he would 
 not have denied the desire to be alone with her, and 
 
 145
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 he began to say that he had been very blind when 
 the Long Gallery caged so wild a bird for him. 
 
 "Let us see!" he exclaimed; "how many weeks 
 have passed since we met ?" 
 
 She told him instantly. 
 
 "It is just ten weeks since you came to the farm 
 to see my father." 
 
 He was gratified that she should have remem- 
 bered it. A flash of memory in her eyes upbraided 
 her confession. 
 
 "And eleven weeks also since you promised me 
 not to forget. But I hope you have forgotten." 
 
 "No one has," she rejoined simply; "people on 
 Bell Island never forget. That is sure and certain. 
 They won't like you any the better for having them 
 to your house. They will take what you give them 
 and then go away and laugh at you. That's our 
 character I know it." 
 
 "But not yours ; I'll answer for you." 
 
 She looked up at him impatiently. The rhodo- 
 tnontade of nonsense always exasperated her. 
 
 "What does it matter what I think? The master 
 of the island doesn't want the women's good will, 
 he wants the men's. And you haven't got it, Mr. 
 Canning. There isn't one of them who will say a 
 good word for you when your back is turned." 
 
 "Am I not to include your father in the honor- 
 able exceptions?" 
 
 146
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "Oh, father is worse than any of them. He says 
 you mean to ruin the people, and they believe him.'' 
 
 "And so they all come here to dance on my 
 lawn?" 
 
 "Of course they do; and to tell each other after- 
 ward that you were silly to have them." 
 
 Canning was greatly tickled. This was exactly 
 the kind of talk he used to encourage in the old 
 days. The girl was revealing her character swiftly. 
 He wondered how much of tenderness and the 
 womanly instinct lay behind this plaster of shrewd 
 wit, and who would be the man to discover it 
 
 "Naturally," he said presently, "I am very much 
 concerned about it. I should, of course, pay some 
 attention to my guests' opinions." 
 
 "You pay some," she rejoined, "or you would 
 not have had them here to-day. If you were in- 
 different, Mr. Canning, not one of us would have 
 passed the Castle gates." 
 
 "That's very true. I must tell my friend, Mr. 
 Hobby, that he gave the party." 
 
 She looked at him shyly, some displeasure in her 
 glance. 
 
 "I don't believe it," she said quietly; "yon 
 thought he was right or you would not have the 
 people here." 
 
 "And you blame me for that?"
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "Oh, no, I think you are right. They won't be 
 able to say that you didn't try to please them." 
 
 He laughed, with a business man's disdain. 
 
 "They may say what they please, my dear young 
 lady when I have had my own way. That's some- 
 thing I generally get, even if I have to tread on 
 other people's toes to get it. These good folks are 
 merely obstinate. I am trying to find out how to 
 deal with them. When I discover the right way, a 
 great many things will happen on Bell Island but 
 there may be none of those present here to-day to 
 witness them." 
 
 Jesse looked a little afraid at this. She liked his 
 masterfulness, but it awed her. Deeds, but not 
 diplomacy, had prevailed hitherto on Bell Island. 
 She would not have been of the people had not 
 these new methods found her reticent. 
 
 "Oh," she said, "I am sure you will do what is 
 wise, and what is just. It is easy to be unjust to 
 simple people, Mr. Canning. You understand that 
 much better than I do." 
 
 "But if I am merely just if I give them their 
 rights and nothing more?" 
 
 "Ah, that is what every one says when he does 
 not get all he wants. Our rights, Mr. Canning, are 
 so often other people's wrongs." 
 
 ''Meaning > But no, I am not going to preach 
 
 a sermon, Miss Jesse. Let us talk of something 
 
 148
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 else. Do you remember the last morning you 
 climbed the turret stair? It was eleven weeks ago, 
 you say. Let us climb it together now, and see if 
 we find the house changed. My pictures are in the 
 Long Gallery. Will you let me show them to you ?" 
 
 She assented with a nod, though her color height- 
 ened at his invitation. They had come to the house 
 by this time, and, entering by the wicket, found 
 themselves presently in the Long Gallery where 
 Jesse had spent so many hours of dreaming. She 
 would hardly have known the place, she said such 
 furniture, such cushioned alcoves, great pictures 
 upon the walls, rare china, so many flowers. She 
 knew not whether to praise or blame. But her man- 
 ner changed the moment she had passed the door. 
 She was no longer the shrewd daughter of a self- 
 seeking farmer. The atmosphere of the house 
 transfigured her. 
 
 "You came here often in the old days," Canning 
 said ; "why did you come, Miss Jesse ?" 
 
 "Oh," she cried, cringing, "I could never, never 
 tell you." 
 
 "But I could. You came because you were able 
 to live in another age, among another people. You 
 came because imagination has rare gifts for some 
 of us, and they were yours. I knew it when I first 
 saw you in this room; I admired you because of it. 
 Now, honestly, is not this the truth?" 
 
 149
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "If I must tell you," she pouted ; and then, "Why 
 did you bring me here, Mr. Canning? That's a 
 question for a question." 
 
 "I brought you here that I might try to under- 
 stand you. Was that quite a hopeless business a 
 mutual understanding?" 
 
 She shook her head sagely. 
 
 "My father says that no man ever understands a 
 woman and doesn't wish to. What can it matter 
 to you whether you understand me or not? I am 
 only a farmer's daughter, while you " 
 
 "Are a farmer's son. That's telling you my his- 
 tory. But I want to show you my pictures. Do 
 you like pictures, Miss Jesse ? They tell me you are 
 very clever with your brushes. Well, come here 
 and paint when you like. I shall be very glad to 
 see you, and we shall be quite alone." 
 
 She looked up quickly at this the dark eyes shot 
 a ray of suspicion, but as instantly softened to kind- 
 ness. The Castle open to her again, and at the bid- 
 ding of the stranger! 
 
 "I should like to come," she exclaimed ; and then, 
 "I have never seen pictures like these. How ugly 
 some of them are." 
 
 "Artists would not agree with you. Come, now, 
 that is a study of children by Sir Joshua Reynolds. 
 I paid a great deal of money for that. You don't 
 find the angels ugly?" 
 
 ISO
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "They are sweet faces. I was thinking of the 
 picture next to it the lady crowned with stars." 
 
 "Ah, Ariadne, after Rubens. A Grecian edition 
 of a three-person play do I puzzle you? Well, the 
 case of a lady who ran away from her father's 
 home because she fell in love with a fine fellow who 
 deserted her. Then came the other man who 
 crowned her with stars not from Tiffany's. The 
 allegory is of the rich man snapping up the relics 
 of a dead passion. Now, I can't understand that. 
 The woman who loves me must love me wholly. I 
 should be a passionate lover she must be a pas- 
 sionate mistress. I shall ask for blind devotion, 
 willing consent there must be no modernity about 
 it, nothing but her love. Could you believe that?" 
 
 She looked at him, her lips parted, her bosom 
 heaving. 
 
 "Yes," she said; "I have loved like that in my 
 dreams." 
 
 "Here in this room?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, here in this room." 
 
 "A figure your imagination sent to you cavalier, 
 soldier, prince of cities, a hero in shining armor. 
 Then comes modernity in pepper and salt alas, 
 alas ! are there any lovers in this age, or is all senti- 
 ment bound in vellum and gilt-clasped?" 
 
 She but half understood him, and they continued 
 their tour of the gallery. Madonnas in the blues
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 which Murillo loved earned but a titter or a shy 
 question she cared nothing for the mighty alle- 
 gories which Tintoretto dreamed. When she 
 stopped it was before a modern canvas, open and 
 yellow and rich in marbles. Here a fine fellow 
 capered on a horse, while above at the barbican 
 my lady flung him a rose. This had blazed in a 
 Christmas number; the author told you that the 
 man was in disgrace, and rode away with shame 
 shrouded on the pummel. But Jesse knew nothing 
 of the story. "How beautiful !" she said and Can- 
 ning smiled. 
 
 "She's given him a rose. The fellow was ac- 
 cused of cheating, and rode away to the wilderness. 
 She, of course, believed nothing. You can see the 
 crowd in the background they always spent their 
 days gossiping on marble seats when Henry III. was 
 King of France the crowd is glad, and says he's 
 done for. But he carries the rose into the wilder- 
 ness which reminds me, Miss Jesse, you have a 
 red rose in your dress. Upon my word, what a coin- 
 cidence !" 
 
 He stepped back to look straight into her eyes. 
 She could not utter a single word. 
 
 And he plucked the rose from its nesting place 
 and put it to his lips. 
 
 152
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 WISDOM OF THE SIMPLE 
 
 SHE came almost every day, wondering at her 
 courage, but impelled by it to come. He had invited 
 her to continue her studies in the Long Gallery, and 
 she obeyed him caring so little for art, so much 
 for her secret. As an altar in a church, so was her 
 easel set up. She must paint because he had com- 
 manded it. -Ah, but to listen for his step in the cor- 
 ridor beyond, to bend to the canvas at his entry, to 
 feel his breath upon her neck as he bent over her 
 to know! 
 
 Now, here was a man who had discovered in an 
 instant the master-key to life. He knew nothing of 
 it in his boyhood, the world had not given it to him; 
 shame and the abyss had taught him nothing. But 
 Bell Island revealed the golden gate and showed 
 him the way. 
 
 An islet of green downs in a fair waterway; the 
 coast of England shimmering upon his horizon ; far 
 down in the valley a village, and beyond, the ships 
 but here in this droning house a sense of isolation 
 
 153
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 and security which satisfied him beyond all words 
 to tell. Canning had come to the place to rest. Per- 
 haps some ambition to found a little kingdom, to be 
 the master of its people, sent him across the seas. 
 But he had found instead Jesse. And he had but to 
 find her to perceive in her love a finality which 
 should crown his life. 
 
 This child of the untutored life, this waif of the 
 cliffs, this black-eyed Madonna of the sea, with her 
 plump bare feet and her round pink limbs, her good 
 common sense and her moments of ecstasy what a 
 gem to wear, what a treasure for his keeping ! And 
 she had responded already to those swift advances 
 the world taught him how to make. She thrilled at 
 his touch, let her warm hand rest in his, looked into 
 his heart and did not quail nobody but Jesse 
 counted now. He did not care twopence what the 
 people did or what they forbore to do. The old 
 masterfulness said that he had but to speak and his 
 desires were gratified. 
 
 They were critical Hays in the lives of both, and 
 for the most part lived alone. When Hobby, who 
 had been over on the mainland laying the founda- 
 tions of his church, returned to Bell Island, he sized 
 up the affair in a moment. 
 
 "Do you mean to marry her, Canning?" he asked; 
 and Canning said "yes" as quickly. 
 
 "Then you have told her all the story?" 
 
 154
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "The story! What story?" 
 
 "My dear fellow, I can't put it plainer. She 
 ought to know. Her father ought to know. I 
 don't think you can keep it from them you have 
 no right to do so." 
 
 It came as a thunderclap to Canning; firstly, be- 
 cause he had never faced the question squarely, and, 
 secondly, because Jesse's position distorted his view 
 and showed him no true proportions of the affair. 
 In London he had come to understand what it 
 means to have been in prison the hopelessness of 
 the outlook, the utter abandonment, the perpetual 
 voicing of the past, the social branding which no 
 iron could better. But here upon Bell Island he had 
 almost obliterated the truth. A farmer's daughter! 
 What were business affairs to her, the vortex and 
 its victims, the giddy pinnacles and the black 
 depths? He was neither thief nor criminal. If he 
 had failed, his failure was well understood in 
 Threadneedle Street, where half the dealers might 
 be prosecuted on a similar charge to-morrow. Cer- 
 tainly, no scruples of his conscience drove him to 
 confession. 
 
 "Do you really mean, Hobby, that I must put my- 
 self in the penitentiary because of these people? 
 But I'll ask you another question. Why did I come 
 to Bell Island at all?" 
 
 "Oh, my dear Canning, you came at my request 
 
 155
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 to rest. You came because your friends treated 
 you badly and you wished to make a new home. I 
 thought you were wise to come, I think you would 
 be wise to marry Jesse Fearney if you tell her 
 father everything." 
 
 "Her father ! Oh, come, that's beyond all reason. 
 Am I to go upon my hands and knees in the mud 
 because I have fallen in love with a farmer's daugh- 
 ter?" 
 
 "I don't think that. You are a judge of men, 
 and will know. We take a very favorable view of 
 things when they are gilded sufficiently. I should 
 say old Fearney will be very reasonable. If he does 
 not think that you ought to tell Jesse, very well, it's 
 his business, and you can always tell her when 
 you're married." 
 
 "When I am married; yes, I could tell her then. 
 You have put something new into my head, Hobby. 
 Frankly, I never thought it would be anything to 
 these people. Perhaps I do not understand even 
 yet. It is difficult for a man who has been through 
 the mill. I may be, in the world's eyes, no better 
 than the lowest ruffian at Portland yes, I must not 
 forget it but the farmer, that crabbed old devil 
 who has done me all the mischief No, it's im- 
 possible, Hobby you will admit yourself that it is 
 impossible!" 
 
 Hobby admitted nothing of the kind; but he 
 156
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 turned the subject adroitly, knowing that it would 
 be henceforth much in Canning's mind. And this 
 was true. It haunted him from that moment. He 
 thought upon it waking and sleeping, debated it in 
 lonely places apart, began to ask himself if this in- 
 deed were not the aftermath of a punishment which 
 already had won the commiseration of some of his 
 fellow men. 
 
 To bear the brand eternally. To feel the hurt of 
 it even upon this lonely shore, from whose heights 
 he could see the England whence they had driven 
 him. And no way of escape, save by that confes- 
 sional which the Almighty has built for every man 
 and every man must visit Nor had he a doubt now 
 that his friend was right. Never again could he 
 look into the child's eyes if an image of his own 
 cowardice must meet him there. He would tell her 
 that very morning. Was she not already in the 
 Long Gallery awaiting him? He would throw 
 himself upon her pity, he would tell her the story, he 
 who had never dared to speak of his past since the 
 prison gates were opened for John Canning to pass 
 out. 
 
 The determination was very real, and took him 
 to the gallery without delay. Jesse was there, of 
 course, not wearing stockings and the ribbands this 
 time, but Jesse of the Pharos again, barefooted and 
 with her hair upon her shoulders, the Jesse he had 
 
 157
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 asked her to be in some mood of a sensuous desire. 
 Seated upon the edge of an old mahogany table, she 
 had an easel before her, and an ill-done sketch of 
 the "Knight of the White Swan" in black outline 
 upon it. Canning remembered that he had sug- 
 gested this very picture to her unconsciously his 
 mind had anticipated Ernest Hobby's question. Co- 
 incidence would never have named such a study he 
 could not believe it possible. 
 
 Now Jesse looked up from her work for an in- 
 stant as Canning entered, but as swiftly resumed 
 her task. It needed no formality of words to ex- 
 press her pleasure or to read the story which her 
 eyes betrayed. Was not this poor pencil of hers 
 sketching the White Knight as her own imagina- 
 tion shaped him no figure of myth and legend, but 
 of this very room, the master of Bell Island and, 
 for her, the master of the world? The story as her 
 lover had told it to her, in soft words breathed into 
 her eager ear, went straight to the heart of her own 
 romance and lingered there. She delighted in all 
 that poetic comparison, applauding faith and shed- 
 ding secret tears upon the treachery. And now her 
 pencil sought to portray the dream, but succeeded in 
 nothing more than a sorry smudge of bedraggled 
 plumes and swans most miserable. 
 
 "Oh,"" she said pitifully, "why did they tell me I 
 was an artist?" 
 
 158
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 He came and stood by her side, and looked kindly 
 at so ill an effort. 
 
 "But it gives you pleasure to draw, does it not?" 
 he asked her. 
 
 "It gives me pleasure to see such things with my 
 eyes I cannot make others see them." 
 
 "But the story is your own story. You know 
 the man I can see that your Knight would never 
 have been betrayed." 
 
 "His secret would have been safe with me." 
 
 "Whatever it had been ?" 
 
 "He would not have been afraid when we set 
 up an image in our hearts we know it wholly. 
 There are few secrets a woman does not discover, 
 Mr. Canning." 
 
 "And few she does not imagine she has discov- 
 ered." 
 
 Jesse did not like these swift asides. They en- 
 tered in so often, elbowing her pretty idols and shat- 
 tering them with the wand of a satire very foreign 
 to her own nature. She would have preferred a 
 child's make-believe, castles and keeps and moated 
 dungeons, Sir Rupert of the Black Plumes and a 
 veritable Dulcinea del Toboso. 
 
 "Oh," she said pettishly, "you are never serious, 
 Mr. Canning." 
 
 "And your knights are always serious. Imagine 
 a knight's laugh when he had his vizor on." 
 
 159
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "My father always says that they saved a fortune 
 in shoe leather." 
 
 "Your father also being a Philistine. Is it true, 
 by the way, that he is still over on the mainland ? I 
 heard the rumor yesterday." 
 
 "He is very much there now. I cannot tell you 
 why. He does not like to speak of his business to 
 me." 
 
 "You are wise to respect his reticence. After all, 
 there is a good deal in a man's life with which 
 women have no concern." 
 
 "I suppose there must be. My father thinks all 
 girls were born for the dairy he is afraid to trust 
 me with the least thing." 
 
 "Even a letter. There is a little bird which tells 
 me of a letter." 
 
 Jesse sprang up, blushing furiously. 
 
 "How did you know?" she cried; and then, 
 "Why, I do believe I've left it at home." 
 
 "There's no doubt at all about it the girl came 
 up with it ten minutes ago. I see it has been sent to 
 you in another envelope, and that you were to de- 
 liver it yourself to me." 
 
 "That's my father's way of doing things. He 
 would be thinking of the postage. Well, there it is. 
 I'm sure it's about something dreadful." 
 
 Canning opened the letter uneasily. He was a 
 little flushed, and his hand not so steady as it had 
 
 160
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 been. Premonition told him the truth the old man 
 had heard the story and wished to be sure of it. 
 
 "DEAR SIR," the note ran, 
 
 "Be good enough to inform me if you are the 
 John Canning, late of London, referred to in the 
 enclosed newspaper. My daughter will bring me 
 your answer, which I shall make known to her or 
 not as the necessity may arise. Her frequent visits 
 to your house must be my excuse for troubling you 
 upon a matter which is painful. 
 
 "Sir, yours obediently, 
 
 "JAPHON FEARNEY." 
 
 Canning read the letter, and then opened the 
 newspaper cutting. It referred to his trial at the 
 Old Bailey, a highly colored report full of the 
 necessary sensations. This he had never seen hith- 
 erto. There is some mercy of the aftermath of pun- 
 ishment which shuts the door upon the condemned 
 criminal immediately; banishes him beyond the 
 range of clamor and hides his own disgrace from 
 his weary eyes. Canning had believed in prison 
 that men thought lightly of his offence. The news- 
 paper shocked him. It wailed of widows and or- 
 phans, of fortunes lost and homes ruined; it spoke 
 of financial wolves preying upon a weak and igno- 
 rant humanity. And he he was the man. 
 
 161
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Oh, to tell the child this this little dreamer with 
 the White Knight rowing on the golden lake of her 
 happiness, to break in upon her visions with such a 
 story, to say to her, "Read I am the man" ! Can- 
 ning knew now that he could not tell her at any 
 rate, not here in the citadel of her dreams. It might 
 be that he would never tell her. A powerful sense 
 of the justice of a father's appeal animated a quick 
 response, however, and he sat down at a desk and 
 wrote the monosyllable "Yes" across the paper. 
 Then he folded and sealed the letter. 
 
 "Please take that to your father," he said; and 
 then very earnestly, "Do you expect him to-day?" 
 
 "It will be to-day," she stammered, amazed by his 
 manner. 
 
 "Then please to take it at once. He is waiting 
 for it." 
 
 He turned and left her. The rose at her heart 
 was unplucked this day. She believed that some 
 great misfortune had overtaken them both, and 
 crept from the Castle with the step of one who is 
 affronted and ashamed. 
 
 162
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 JAPHON RESOLVES UPON SILENCE 
 
 JESSE hastened with her letter to the farm, but 
 her father had not yet returned. As a matter of 
 fact he did not put off from Barnstaple until seven 
 o'clock that night, and when he gained the open sea 
 an obstinate wind from the sou'west made passage 
 difficult. Later on there fell a dead calm, and the 
 September night was ushered in upon that a night 
 of a mackerel sky and a lopping sea, of vast ships 
 upon a hazy horizon, and the fishermen's boats 
 drifting upon a sluggish tide. 
 
 Japhon made no complaint of the delay. In 
 truth, he liked these lonely nights at sea ; liked their 
 opportunities for quiet reflection, their changing 
 beauty, the panorama of sky and shore which 
 marked the river's channel; and then across the 
 waste of waters to those stars upon a near horizon, 
 which spoke of the harbor and of home. A true 
 seaman, he dared the passage jauntily, would have 
 scoffed at caution mongers and derided those who 
 prated of shallows or 'unfriendly shores. His peril 
 
 163
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISON HR 
 
 did not lie here. He could remember that with 
 equanimity upon this particular occasion, when he 
 sailed with no other object that that of making his 
 home, and traded no other merchandise than that 
 of his own thoughts. 
 
 Angus had been wise at last. It was time to let 
 the business go, for the time being, at any rate. 
 Well enough for the poor seamen to run their paltry 
 kegs of spirit and bales of tobacco but when a 
 man dealt in more dangerous commodities, when 
 the penalties would amount to a small fortune and 
 default would spell an exemplary sentence, then 
 truly should Prudence get a hearing. He was 
 pleased with Angus, very pleased; and as he sat 
 back in the cuddy of his ketch, smoked an honest 
 pipe and watched the lazy movements of the two 
 men in the bows, he came as near to content as 
 Japhon Fearney had been for many a long day. 
 
 He was going home to marry Jesse, his daughter, 
 and to humble the man who would take her to wife. 
 The truth about Canning's story was now perfectly 
 well known to him. This fine gentleman had tried 
 to rob other fine gentlemen, and the law had caught 
 him in the act. Very well, that was his misfortune, 
 a misfortune by which both father and daughter 
 should profit presently. "Let him come to me on 
 his hams," the old fellow put it coarsely, "and I 
 will listen to him. He wants my daughter pretty 
 
 164
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 bad, and by all accounts would make her a tolerable 
 husband. Well, let him have her when he knows 
 how to ask for her. That will make me master of 
 the place, and there'll be no call to tell any one else 
 unless they inquire about it. His interest will be 
 my interest and he shall pay for both." 
 
 The thought, base and mercenary, pleased the 
 old man and moved him to a sardonic smile. After 
 all, luck had sent such a man to the island for 
 without luck one of a very different stamp might 
 have bought the place and ruled there. A con- 
 victed felon must be easier to deal with. Japhon 
 foresaw himself putting his hand deep into Can- 
 ning's fortune and still unsatisfied. It would be 
 better than the business, he said, and entail none of 
 the risks. 
 
 For surely there were risks enough. This very 
 night, for instance, what a fright he had ! It would 
 have been about nine o'clock when it had fallen very 
 dark, and the wind died away to a mere whisper. 
 He lay some two miles from the English shore and 
 eight, perhaps, from Bell Island. The yacht's red 
 and green lanterns were burning brightly, and she 
 rode easily to a lazy swell. As to the two hands, 
 they lay full length in the fo'castle; Japhon had just 
 knocked out the ashes of a soothing pipe, when the 
 black shape of a launch moved by him swiftly in 
 the darkness, and was instantly lost in the void be- 
 
 165
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 yond the aureole of the cuddy lantern. Japhon had 
 not expected this to-night. He started up and 
 asked the men a hurried question. 
 
 "Did they speak you, Jo?" 
 
 "Not a word, master." 
 
 "Then what, in thunder, is he doing here to- 
 night." 
 
 "Can't tell you, sir nobody said nothing." 
 
 "Hail him if he goes about speak cautious, Jo. 
 Hail him ordinary." 
 
 "He's going about now, master. I hear the 
 wash." 
 
 All listened and heard the hum of a steamer's 
 propeller, fitful and varying. The man Isaacson, 
 the Swede, said curtly, "Backing, master." Jo, the 
 nigger, listened with his ear laid almost to the water. 
 
 "He's coming on the starboard quarter, Masser 
 Japhon." 
 
 "Then get out your sweeps and stand by. Does 
 he think he'll sink me for a change? the jowned 
 idiot, why didn't he send word?" 
 
 He was trembling with excitement, the old man 
 who had dared many a venture such as this and not 
 known a tremor. A quick eye searching the hither 
 sea discovered neither the masthead light of any 
 ship at anchor nor the lanterns of a moving vessel. 
 Apprehension, he knew not of what development, 
 dominated his acts. He waited for the launch, erect 
 
 166
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 at the tiller and defiant. The fools ! Why had they 
 not warned him? And here they were blundering 
 down in the darkness without a glimmer of light 
 save that which glowed above the launch's funnel. 
 
 "Ahoy, ahoy! Where are you coming to then?" 
 
 "What ship's that?" 
 
 "The Pharos out of Bell Island. Who are you?" 
 
 "I'll ask you another; where are your lanterns? 
 We've seen none of them." 
 
 "We didn't know " 
 
 An angry roar from the cuddy shut the negro's 
 mouth. Japhon had listened with his heart in his 
 mouth, but this new folly almost choked his utter- 
 ance. 
 
 "What have we to do with lanterns?" he cried. 
 "Ain't ours burning? Do you go mind your own 
 affairs. Where's yourn? I'll ask ye that to begin 
 with. What are you doing here like pirates in the 
 dark? Don't talk about the Government no Gov- 
 ernment has the right to sink a man in his own ship 
 but I'll speak about that to the Admiral, and 
 sharp, too." 
 
 A suave voice speaking from a hidden place upon 
 the launch's deck answered the wild words. 
 Japhon's heart sank within him when he heard it. 
 "Good evening, Mr. Fearney. I'm Morris of Bide- 
 ford. Sorry to have put you to any inconvenience, 
 but we're looking for strangers. You won't have 
 
 167
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 seen an unlikely ketch between here and the Pharos 
 to-night?" 
 
 The old man needed all his courage to answer 
 this ; nevertheless, he spoke out loudly. 
 
 "There was no stranger about when I came out. 
 If I sight one I'll signal. You should go more 
 careful, Mr. Morris. There's other beside strange 
 ketches in these waters." 
 
 "To be sure, to be sure I'll remember that, Mr. 
 Fearney. Good night to you now and all well at 
 home, I hope?" 
 
 Japhon mumbled something as he gave an order 
 to the hands to haul on the jib sheet. A puff of 
 wind coming up from the south helped him to drift 
 away from the launch and to lose her quickly in the 
 darkness, but he carried with him a clear impression 
 of the spoken words, and could have set them down 
 on paper there and then. A strange ketch! The 
 coastguard searching for her without lanterns. 
 The business known and now become the chief 
 affair of the officers at Bideford ! As in a flash he 
 recalled the nigger's foolish hail and its conse- 
 quences! What would the man Morris make of 
 that? What interpretation would he put upon it? 
 Good God! he said, if the black man had done for 
 them and in a torrent of anger he began to rate 
 the pair of them. Did they know what they were 
 doing? Did they understand that this meant jail, 
 
 168
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 starvation afterward, or a lousy fo'castle of some 
 foreign trader? Had he not rewarded them richly 
 and they would not learn! To serve him like 
 this to bring danger upon him and all their heads 
 when danger lay a hundred miles away. 
 
 The men answered nothing to this wild tirade. 
 In truth they cared little, believing that the law 
 would not trouble itself overmuch about two poor 
 sailor-men. Indeed, the nigger lit a pipe as he 
 talked, and when Japhon called him over and bade 
 him take the tiller, he plainly showed that he would 
 stand no nonsense. 
 
 "You look after yourself, Masser Japhon me 
 and Isaacson, we do our own business. You make 
 yourself safe no matter about us." 
 
 "No matter you black fool. Is prison no mat- 
 ter?" 
 
 The nigger grinned. 
 
 "I do five months in St. Louis jail for hitting 
 white man. I can do same here if white man call 
 me black fool." 
 
 Japhon had no answer. He knew well enough 
 that he was in the power of these men, and no 
 match physically for either of them. The hulking 
 figure of the black man, the white teeth grinning 
 in the darkness, the catlike eyes frightened him. 
 What easier than for such a man to throw him into 
 the sea and come to port with a story of an acci- 
 
 169
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 dent? Japhon turned away without a word and 
 went down to the cabin to mix himself a stiff glass 
 of rum and to nurse a thousand fears. 
 
 Discovery it could be nothing less than that 
 black discovery, and afterward the end! He, the 
 great example, the chief man on Bell Island, the 
 magistrate, the preacher, arrested by common po- 
 lice officers and taken over to his trial on the main- 
 land. And afterward the crash, the monstrous fine, 
 the exemplary sentence. He could see in imagina- 
 tion the little knots of gossipers discussing the 
 news, hear the story running from cottage to cot- 
 tage. How some of them would rejoice ! And the 
 man up at the Castle, why he had not thought of 
 him. Ay, truly this would be John Canning's day. 
 Japhon reflected ironically that this was the son-in- 
 law whose fortunes he would have shared, and by 
 whose past he would have profited. What a mock- 
 ery of hope ! What a turn of fortune's wheel ! 
 
 The crisis of a personal peril is rarely unaccom- 
 panied by some interval of a better hope nor was 
 Japhon Fearney unblessed by that Coming up on 
 deck at dawn, he discovered the ketch to be still 
 some miles from the harbor and the wind fallen 
 to a dead calm in spite of the promise of yester- 
 night. A clear, cold light declared the familiar 
 scene in all its bald outline the rugged jetty, the 
 iron lantern, the beached ships, the white houses be- 
 
 170
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 yond, the green jalousies, the school, the chapel. 
 How often had he landed there and walked up the 
 hill with the firm tread and the jaunty carriage of a 
 man who had succeeded! With what dignity and 
 severity had he not administered justice in the puny 
 court! And what veneration had been paid to him 
 how the poor folk hung upon his lightest word, 
 that haply it might bring them profit! The night 
 might have changed all this Japhon remembered 
 that he might be landing there for the last time, en- 
 joying the last hour of triumph he would know 
 upon Bell Island. 
 
 He remembered it and, none the less, a sudden 
 freshet of consolation reassured him. How if his 
 fears were purely of his own imagination? Would 
 so clever a man as Holly Angus have neglected to 
 utter a warning had there been danger abroad? 
 And why should Morris, the exciseman, leap to so 
 swift a conclusion? Japhon said that he had been a 
 fool to make so much of so little, and fell to blam- 
 ing the dark for all his despair. Let him go ashore 
 and trust to the security of his own house. They 
 had yet to prove the charge, yet to connect him 
 with it. He was a clever man who knew how to 
 invent a story and to stand by his invention, and 
 this he would do when the occasion arose. To-day, 
 for instance, being the Sabbath, he must preach to 
 the people as heretofore, conduct the service in the 
 
 171
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 little chapel, neglect none of his common duties; 
 and he fell to wondering- what his text would be 
 and how to treat it. Could he not appeal to their 
 compassion ay, prepare them for what was to 
 come and engage their sympathy ? A cunning whis- 
 per of self-interest mingled curiously with an un- 
 feigning regret for the truth. He must choose a 
 passage from the Book which would predispose his 
 fellows to deal kindly with him when the evil day 
 came if it ever came, as he dared now to hope that 
 it might not. 
 
 It was eight o'clock when he made the harbor 
 and half an hour later when he arrived at the farm. 
 The tide did not serve for the creek he used habitu- 
 ally, nor was it safe to make it in a calm because of 
 the currents. So Japhon went up through the vil- 
 lage where few were abroad or even awake at 
 such an hour of the Sabbath morn. Jesse, however, 
 had hardly slept a wink the whole night through, 
 and she came down to the gate to meet him, carry- 
 ing John Canning's letter, and very wistful for her 
 father to read it. 
 
 "I was to be sure to give it you yourself, father 
 Mr. Canning told me particularly." 
 
 He looked at her, impatient at the interruption. 
 "Did he speak of what was in it, girl?" 
 "Not a word ; but I could see he was upset." 
 "Ah, he would be ; well, I shall have more to say 
 172
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 about that presently. Do you go in and get my 
 breakfast, for I'm fair tired nearly twelve hours 
 crossing, and not enough wind to 'dry a pocket 
 handkerchief. There wouldn't have been any one 
 here while I was gone?" 
 
 "Not any one; who should there be?" 
 
 "No strangers from the mainland, nor anybody 
 like that?" 
 
 "No one at all. Mr. Hobby left for England last 
 night he went across in Mr. Canning's new 
 launch." 
 
 "He did ay, but it wouldn't be him no, no ; get 
 you into the house, for I'm fair perishing with cold 
 and hunger." 
 
 He pushed her aside and entered the house im- 
 patiently. In truth suspicion was busy once more, 
 and troubled him with many thoughts. Could it 
 be possible that the launch he had passed last night 
 was John Canning's launch? Had this fine gentle- 
 man from England been the informer after all ? A 
 moment's reflection declared the thing to be ridicu- 
 lous. Jesse was upset because the man had shown 
 up in his true colors after reading the letter. So 
 much the better he would be easier to deal with. 
 
 "Well," he said presently, when he sat at a well- 
 spread table, and the dejected girl had poured him 
 out a cup of steaming coffee; "well, so you gave Mr. 
 Canning the letter?" 
 
 173
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "You know that I did, father you have his an- 
 swer." 
 
 "Ay, ay, but the answer to a letter don't always 
 say as much as the hand that wrote it. I reckon he 
 wouldn't like my message; did he tell you so?" 
 
 "He was very strange and cold. He seemed to 
 be somebody else in an instant. I don't think he 
 said very much to me I came away at once." 
 
 Japhon raised his rugged brows. 
 
 "There was no cause to do that. Perhaps the 
 matter don't concern you at all. You'll be going up 
 to the house agen come morning. I wouldn't stop 
 away if I were you." 
 
 "I shall go when Mr. Canning asks me." 
 
 "Oh, he'll do that quick enough by all account." 
 
 He laughed a little coarsely, and for some while 
 continued to watch her closely while he ate. She 
 was much changed these two days had lost some 
 of her good color and all her high spirits. Well, 
 the man should bring them back again. 
 
 "I'll be going up to the Castle belike the morn to 
 'see John Canning there may be a word about 
 somebody else. Shall I answer for her or will she 
 speak for herself when I think fit?" 
 
 "Oh, father, please " 
 
 "What I'm to hold my tongue?" 
 
 "Yes, yes. I will never see Mr. Canning again if 
 you do not." 
 
 174
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "Perhaps you'll never see him again anyway if I 
 choose to say the word. I'm thinking upon it and 
 what's best to be done. Now, do you go and get 
 your hat on it's time we thought of chapel." 
 
 She did not answer him. He finished a hearty 
 breakfast, and having clothed himself in good 
 broadcloth and an ancient beaver hat, set off for 
 chapel a man of many moods and of few resolu- 
 tions. 
 
 175
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE RESOLUTION IS RECONSIDERED 
 
 THERE had been a church upon Bell Island in the 
 fifteenth century, but it fell into ruins during the 
 sixteenth, and is to-day hardly more than a mound 
 of rubble in a holy acre. Untroubled by creeds, yet 
 not backward in the sentiment of a primitive faith, 
 the people worship in the little chapel by the harbor 
 and are content with its humble offices. Sometimes 
 a stranger will come from the mainland to preach 
 to them. There have been resident ministers from 
 time to time, but none has remained long on this 
 lonely isle, where bare subsistence is not always a 
 possibility, and a missioner's success all difficult of 
 attainment. 
 
 Japhon Fearney never regretted the lack of mis- 
 sionary enterprise, for it helped his own power and 
 influence. He led the services in the absence of any 
 other, and spoke to the people when no preacher 
 came from the mainland. On this particular Sab- 
 bath morn, he had gone down to the chapel pre- 
 pared to open the path of justification for himself, 
 but he found the task difficult enough, and handled 
 
 176
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 it but clumsily. To be honest, the throne of his own 
 puny majesty had never seemed to him more de- 
 sirable. He spoke to the simple people of sin and 
 its consequences, of the need of personal humility, 
 of the danger of hasty judgment, and of the due 
 recognition of those temptations by which men are 
 assailed. A shrewd hearer, none the less, would 
 have named it a justification of much that was done 
 by the people of Bell Island in defiance of his 
 Majesty's Customs and as such, both Abe Benson 
 and Tom Weede took it to be, when they came out 
 of church and lurched down toward the "Jolly Ad- 
 miral" just, as they said, to see if the wind had 
 shifted. 
 
 "The old man do git uncommon rankeerous as 
 the years go by," Abe ventured; to which Tom 
 Weede, a melancholy fisherman, rejoined, " 'Tis the 
 women, Abe, as puts gray hairs on a man's head for 
 sure." 
 
 "And something more than gray hairs on their 
 own, if my son Frank speaks true ay, queer tales 
 do he tell of the girls down Bristol way, though 
 I've no mind to be listening to 'em at my age. Will 
 ye have a glass of beer, Tom ye look precious 
 poorly this mornin', and Japhon he be no man to put 
 holiness into ye gladly, I must say?" 
 
 Tom Weede agreed, and they entered the parlor 
 of the "Jo-lty Admiral," where others of the island 
 
 177
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 quickly gathered. Here, to the general astonish- 
 ment, a stranger was discovered no other than 
 our old friend Benjamin Crabbe, who, having failed 
 to distinguish himself in the stables at Newmarket, 
 had found his way to Bell Island, to see what was 
 to be got out of his old comrade of the prisons, 
 John Canning. Such an event as the arrival of a 
 stranger on the Sabbath had not happened upon 
 Bell Island three times in as many years. It is true 
 that officers from the warships occasionally came 
 ashore, when their vessels lay at anchor under the 
 lea of the island, and western gales raged in the 
 ocean; but this abnormal product of an unknown 
 civilization, this begaitered, horsy, ferret-faced little 
 man, he, surely, had "escaped out'er some 'sylum," 
 as Tom Weede did not hesitate to say. 
 
 To give him his due, Mr. Crabbe spoke of his old 
 friend, the owner of the Castle, with great respect. 
 Yes, he had known him in other years he did not 
 say where ; but he might declare that they had been 
 closely associated in many an undertaking, and that 
 his reception at the Castle would be a friendly one. 
 If he hesitated to go up and thought it better to 
 send a letter, that was his natural delicacy. 
 
 "A man is like a horse," he said ; "come up to him 
 unawares and likely he'll kick you. But say 'Gently, 
 boy,' and hold a carrot in your hand and there's no 
 kinder creature stabled." 
 
 178
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "Be you a-going up ter the Castle wi* a carrot?" 
 Tom Weede asked, and this provoked the stranger 
 to great merriment. 
 
 "What a bloomin' mug you are!" he said. "My 
 carrot goes in an envelope, and here I wait for the 
 butler to show me in. Now drink with me, mates, 
 and let me forget that I am a stranger although 
 knowing your master very well." 
 
 There was some demur at this the bolder spirits 
 asking who was their master, and Abe Benson de- 
 claring that no man rightly had any master "on 
 airth" except his own wife, and she only at the 
 proper times and seasons. When order was re- 
 stored and the stranger's hospitality had softened 
 the company toward his view, a groom came down 
 from the Castle with an answer to the letter ; and at 
 this Mr. Benjamin Crabbe plucked up his spirit won- 
 derfully, and immediately drained his glass as a pre- 
 liminary to an early departure. 
 
 "Sir John is a gent," he said ; "let me see the man 
 who says he ain't. Did I speak truth or false when 
 I said he would be glad to see me by express, 
 mates? Well, here's the answer to that his own 
 'andwriting, his own letter. Oh, I knew my man 
 no doubt of it we didn't live as brothers four years 
 together for him to stable me in an outhouse. I 
 thank you kindly, mates, and good day to you." 
 
 He cocked a shabby bowler hat upon the side of 
 I7Q
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 a jaunty head, and followed the groom to the 
 Castle. It was six o'clock when he returned, to the 
 great satisfaction of a little group down by the har- 
 bor, and the particular pleasure of old Abe Benson, 
 who had made up his mind to drink rum with him. 
 Now it became apparent that John Canning's hos- 
 pitality had been altogether too much for the volu- 
 ble stranger. He talked incessantly, answered ques- 
 tions at random, fumed at the closed doors of the 
 inn, and concluded with an indiscretion which set 
 Bell Island aflame. And this, oddly enough, was 
 provoked by the question of that usually silent fish- 
 erman, Bill Running, who, provoked by the re- 
 peated references to "Sir John," at length ventured 
 an interrogation. 
 
 " 'Sir John,' doo 'ee say then he's been made a 
 barrernite." 
 
 "No baronet at all, my man. We called him Sir 
 John at Portland, and a better fellow never carried 
 the broad arrow, so help me Heaven." 
 
 Some one laughed foolishly at this few under- 
 stood its significance. Perhaps, had not that shrewd 
 person, Frank Benson, chanced to be on the pier 
 wall at the moment, the remark would have spent 
 itself aimlessly as an ill-timed jest, which none but 
 a stranger in his cups would have uttered. Young 
 Benson possessed a quicker perception. This man 
 was telling a tale which should be heard. 
 
 180
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "Here, I say, are you speaking of Mr. Canning?" 
 
 "Of who else, my boy?" 
 
 "Then keep a civil tongue in your head, and don't 
 tell your lies here." 
 
 "Who says it's a lie?" 
 
 "I do. You ought to be ashamed of yourself." 
 
 "Look here, young man ; well, wasn't he in Port- 
 land? Didn't he do seven years, and wasn't he 'Sir 
 John' to me and many? Oh, I'm off my chump 
 then I'm losing my blessed eyesight. And he 
 didn't give me ten pound to-day because of what's 
 what. One of the best mates, one of the best that 
 ever got into the saddle to ride the Seven Year 
 welter I'd like to see the man who'd tell me he 
 ain't." 
 
 "You mean to say that Mr. John Canning has 
 been in prison?" 
 
 Benjamin Crabbe laughed aloud. 
 
 "Hark at him and the noospapers to be had for 
 a blooming ha'penny. Has he been in prison ?" 
 
 He appealed to the company, thinking somebody 
 surely must know. Here lay the secret of his blind 
 loquacity he thought that all the world knew, and 
 John Canning, be sure, had never stooped to argle 
 bargle with such a man for silence, or contemplated 
 such a scene as this. Sober, Benjamin Crabbe could 
 have held his tongue but in this condition, never. 
 
 And so he put to sea at last, still protesting that 
 181
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Sir John was the best gentleman in the world, and 
 that the days he spent with him in Portland prison 
 were the finest in his life. Those on shore watched 
 him in awe, as one who had been sent providentially 
 to the relief of Bell Island and the confusion of its 
 tyrant. Ingrates, as their kind, these were without 
 a spark of sympathy either for the man or his in- 
 tentions. Had not John Canning treated them with 
 an Englishman's habitual hauteur, had not he made 
 much of their evil qualities and little of their good? 
 But more than all, and first in their thoughts, had 
 he not wished to ruin them by his schemes for har- 
 bors and docks, and Heaven knew what new- 
 fangled notions beside? Oh, it was a pretty group 
 which gathered at the door of the "Jolly Admiral" 
 presently ! 
 
 "And him nothing but a jail-bird arter all," said 
 old Abe Benson, spitting in contempt. "Well, 
 mates, we might ha' knowed that no gentleman 
 would ha' thought o' such things as he thought on." 
 
 "And playing puss in the cove with old Japhon's 
 darter fine she'd look along wi' such as 'ee, mates. 
 That be a pretty match for the old man to be taken 
 on. Ay, old Japhon will be mighty pleased to hear 
 this." ' 
 
 "It's my opinion," said Bill Hunning slowly, 
 "that we'll have to be after locking up our windys 
 
 182
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 at nights. He'll have learned a trick or two down 
 Portland way, and wantin' to practice may be." 
 
 "And him for makin' the new harbor to rob hon- 
 est men of their rights. Let me hear o' this again 
 and I'll have my answer. Ay, mates, will you be 
 put upon by a jail-bird? Be jowned to his impu- 
 dence !" 
 
 "What's best for 'ee," interjected Tom Weede, 
 "is to get into his hummin'-top of a boat and get 
 him back wheer he come from. We was honest folk 
 afore he landed, mates, and if we hev done a bit of 
 spirits and bacca, well, I take leave to say it was 
 gentlemen's empliyment. But this 'ere this is vul- 
 gar, I will say." 
 
 "What I like fine," said Abe Benson, "was him 
 a-buildin' of a church. Now, that there, mates, was 
 wholly colossal. A church damme, he'll be 
 preachin' to us next." 
 
 They laughed heartily at this, and the dark found 
 them still merry and excited. Be sure that every 
 grown woman on Bell Island had the news before 
 her first sleep that night, and that a willing tongue 
 carried it also to Japhon Fearney's house. Frank 
 Benson, in truth, went up to the farm in a state of 
 voluble ecstasy quite foreign to him. For days past 
 he had known the truth about Jesse and the Eng- 
 lishman, and his mild devotion toward Japhon 
 
 183
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Fearney's daughter had become almost an obses- 
 sion of mad jealousy, which would have worked any 
 mischief but for the craven will behind it. And 
 now this weapon was in his hands this surprising 
 truth this missile which should destroy in an in- 
 stant the house of his enemy's hopes. 
 
 Japhon received him very coldly. He had not an 
 idea why he came, and thought for an instant that 
 it might be to propose for Jesse a piece of inso- 
 lence the old man would have been quite capable of 
 punishing. When he heard the truth, blurted out 
 between wild gestures and loud exclamations, he 
 also realized in an instant that the whole fabric of 
 his building had come tumbling to the ground, and 
 that nothing but a volte-face, absolute, and imme- 
 diate, could save his reputation and that of his 
 daughter. 
 
 "Be careful what you are saying, Benson," he 
 said, the judicial manner prevailing above his curi- 
 osity; "this is a dangerous thing to talk about; the 
 law may have something to say to those who do not 
 hold their tongues. He was in prison, you say ; ah, 
 but how do you know it's true ?" 
 
 "We can prove it, sir. The man looked just like 
 a criminal himself he told everybody he said it 
 was in the newspapers. If it wasn't, we can soon 
 find out ; but I'll send over to a friend in Barnstaple 
 to-morrow to make sure." 
 
 184
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "You send over ! What's it to do with you ?" 
 
 "Oh, but I thought it had to do with us all a 
 jail-bird at the Castle." 
 
 "Do you visit there, then?" 
 
 "I! Oh, I've been up. But I was thinking of 
 Jesse." 
 
 "Leave my daughter's name out of it. I'll take 
 good care of her." 
 
 "Well, I'm sorry I came; but I thought it my 
 duty." 
 
 "Duty! That's every man's cant when he wants 
 to do his neighbor an injury. Suppose this gentle- 
 man has met with misfortune what right have you 
 to judge him?" 
 
 "I don't judge him, I'm leaving you to do that, 
 sir; and some of us don't call a man a gentleman 
 when he's been in prison." 
 
 "Some of you deserve to go to prison for calling 
 yourselves gentlemen that's the truth. Take a 
 word from me and keep your mouth shut. This is 
 no news for common folk." 
 
 "Oh, but they know already. I don't suppose 
 there's a man or a woman either who doesn't know. 
 It'll be all the talk to-morrow." 
 
 "Ay. they've precious little to do but talk in this 
 place. You yourself now do I hear that you've 
 found employment ? Daisy-cutting on the cliff head 
 doesn't butter any bread. You'll be wanting some 
 
 185
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 young woman to marry you by and by, I suppose. 
 Isn't it time you learned to do an honest day's 
 work?" 
 
 Frank Benson colored to his eyes, but with rage 
 and chagrin rather than with shame. 
 
 "You forget, Mr. Fearney my occupation is 
 literature." 
 
 "Well, you'd be a better man in my eyes if I saw 
 you with a hay fork in your hand. Poetry don't 
 feed no woman's bairns. The girl you marry will 
 want something more than that stuff on Saturdays, 
 and who's to be earning it ? Seek out an honest oc- 
 cupation folks'll think no worse of you." 
 
 The young man rose in high dudgeon. 
 
 "I am much obliged to you," he said coldly; 
 "when I want your advice I will come for it. I 
 am sorry I came at all." 
 
 "Don't mention it. I'm always pleased to see 
 young men and to have a talk with them. I was 
 young once myself though, thank God, no man 
 ever gave me an education. I've got on very well 
 without the poetry for a good many years, my lad, 
 and mebbe I'll finish the same way. Good night to 
 ye I was sorry to miss your father at the chapel 
 this night. Is he took with poetry also? Well, it's 
 a rare misfortune surely." 
 
 Frank had nothing more to say, and they sep- 
 arated upon a commonplace. It was now about nine 
 
 186
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 o'clock, and Jesse came in to lay the supper. She 
 was still very reserved and shy before her father, 
 and Frank Benson's visit had not reassured her. As 
 for Japhon, he watched her anxiously, wondering 
 in what way he should break the news, as break it 
 he must. That this story had got about the island 
 angered him more than he would have admitted to 
 any man. For very shame now, nay, for the protec- 
 tion of his own reputation, he must forbid Jesse to 
 visit the Castle or have anything to do with its mas- 
 ter. Secrecy might have permitted what the known 
 fact would not. He could never allow it to be said 
 that he contemplated with equanimity the union of 
 his daughter with a man who stood in the eyes of 
 the world for a convicted felon. 
 
 "Jesse, my lass," he said at last, and in a kindly 
 tone which won her interest, "you carried a letter to 
 Mr. Canning for me yesterday." 
 
 "Yes, father." 
 
 "And he told you nothing of what was inside of 
 it?" 
 
 "No, father." 
 
 "Then I must tell you, my dear. It's not a nice 
 thing to talk about, and I do so unwillingly, but 
 the truth's the truth, and deceit won't keep it from 
 coming out. Now read that for yourself, and tell 
 me what you make of it." 
 
 She took the letter from his hand, and placed a 
 187
 
 THB FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 candle so that she might have light to read it. No 
 child could have mistaken either the question or the 
 answer and yet she must dwell upon them, going 
 over the lines one by one and asking herself many 
 times if she read aright. 
 
 When she returned the paper to her father, her 
 face was quite white and expressionless, and she 
 feared almost to breathe lest she should break the 
 spell and burst into tears. 
 
 "What does it mean, father ? What is it ?" 
 
 "A very sad story, my dear. John Canning, it 
 appears, didn't come among us with clean hands. 
 He had soiled them in London years ago he's been 
 in prison, Jesse, for cheating that's what's the 
 matter." 
 
 "I'll never believe it, father never, never." 
 
 "Why, all of us might say the same, Jesse; and 
 what good's served by it? We didn't send him 
 there it wasn't our faults." 
 
 "Oh, but it's an untruth a wicked untruth. I'll 
 go to him." 
 
 "Not so fast, my girl. That it's no lie I've known 
 some days, as my letter tells you. Why, Holly 
 Angus told me the first day Canning came here. 
 'You've got a convict over at the island,' he said; 
 and I wouldn't hear him. It was kind to do that 
 we owe it to our fellow creatures to give scandal 
 the cold shoulder when we can and that's what I 
 
 188
 
 FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 said to Angus. 'Belike you're mistaken,' I said; 
 and then he sent to London for the newspapers, and 
 there it was for all the world to read. So I wrote 
 to Mr. Canning himself, and you see what kind of 
 an answer we get. Well, it's better so better that 
 we should know it now than afterward, when we 
 might have been tarred with that brush ourselves. 
 What we can do we will do but it will be precious 
 little among such a lot of clucking hens as you'll 
 find on Bell Island. Now go to your bed, my dear, 
 and think no more of it. We shan't be unkind to 
 Mr. Canning but the less we see of him the bet- 
 ter, and that's charity to say. There'll be no more 
 going to the Castle, of course that I must insist 
 upon to begin with." 
 
 She looked up, frightened and doubting. 
 
 "But, father " 
 
 "I say it, and I mean it. My daughter has no 
 place in that house." 
 
 "No place in Mr. Canning's house " 
 
 "Nor any title to be seen talking to him in public. 
 That's my last word on it, Jesse. You know 
 whether I am to be obeyed or not." 
 
 There was a menace in the tone, and she turned 
 away at it and quitted the room, with a step so soft, 
 and a face so white and drawn, that all the pathos 
 of her womanhood should have spoken eloquently 
 to him and won upon his pity. They did not do so. 
 
 189
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 He said that he might yet profit by John Can- 
 ning's misfortune but Jesse, never. That chapter 
 of his schemes was finished and never would be re- 
 opened. 
 
 190
 
 THE FORTUNATE, PRISONER 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 JESSE REVISITS THE CASTLE 
 
 JAPHON had believed that the chapter would 
 never be reopened; but here he reckoned without a 
 woman's unshaken faith and the courage begotten 
 of it. Jesse, in truth, had made up her mind from 
 the first moment of it to go to Canning and to hear 
 the story from his own lips. So much she owed 
 both to herself and to him nor could her overmas- 
 tering desire tolerate even such a delay as the con- 
 ventions would dictate. She must go at once, she 
 said the night had never seemed to her so long. 
 
 And what a night of silent thought and sorrow it 
 was ! a night spent at her bedroom window, whence 
 she could look over the moonlit sea by which John 
 Canning had come to Bell Island. How she feared 
 for him, hoped for him, pitied him! Tempted by 
 the letter to be indulgent toward her father's hasty 
 judgment, her own remained unshaken. Not a 
 thousand affirmations would convince her of John 
 Canning's guilt, or permit her to believe that he 
 had done any man a wrong. A trick, she said, an 
 
 191
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 enemy's device, an affair above the common under- 
 standing of these simple folk who dwell upon the 
 island. 
 
 And so she set out very early in the morning, 
 clad in no fine gown of muslin, nor obedient to any 
 prompting of her vanity; but just the little Jesse 
 who had been surprised in the Long Gallery a few 
 short weeks ago, and never would be surprised 
 there again until her life's end. To old Martin at 
 the gate she professed an affair of urgency. Let 
 the hour be what it might, she must see the master 
 of the Castle and see him alone. To which the old 
 servitor responded by a glance at her naked feet, at 
 her black hair tossed angrily about her shoulders, 
 and the plain woolen shawl which hid her wan 
 white face and being properly astonished, could 
 but venture a commonplace. 
 
 "Be you daft, girl, or what? Do you know it's 
 not gone seven of the morning?" 
 
 "I care not what time it is I must see him. Oh, 
 go at once, Martin he will never forgive you if 
 you do not." 
 
 "Be your father ailing " 
 
 "Oh, go, go," she cried, and stamping her foot 
 she drove him headlong. 
 
 Now, John Canning had slept no better than Jesse, 
 and the letter had answered for his vigil also. That 
 old Japhon Fearney possessed his secret was of it- 
 
 192
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 self a small affair he did not care twopence for 
 any man's opinion but that the story should be 
 told to Jesse by others was the graver matter. He 
 could blame himself readily enough now for his 
 own cowardice, and ask how it had served him. 
 Perhaps, a deeper thought was one which hinted 
 at the truth, speaking of Japhon's darker schemes 
 and of the part Jesse might be compelled to play in 
 them. "He will sell her to me," Canning thought; 
 "promise to hold his tongue if I make it worth his 
 while, and guard the menace against his own neces- 
 sity. He is rascal enough, if young Irwin Benson 
 is to be believed." 
 
 Here, then, came Temptation parti-colored and 
 a sorry bedfellow. Canning knew that he loved 
 Jesse, but the depth of his love for her had not yet 
 been probed. If he consented to be Japhon Kear- 
 ney's instrument, he doubted not that he might 
 marry her to-morrow, make her the mistress of the 
 Castle and the servant of his desires. But he knew 
 that he would never consent, that his dominant will 
 would find such a burden intolerable, and that the 
 child must share the consequences of his refusal. 
 Indeed, a supreme contempt for the man and his 
 methods was more in his thoughts even than his 
 love for Jesse. Intolerable that he should be dic- 
 tated to by this miserly farmer who, for aught he 
 knew to the contrary, might be a very criminal 
 
 193
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 ay, intolerable, but inevitable, for such was the pen- 
 alty of the downfall. 
 
 Upon such thoughts as these came Jesse to the 
 Castle, and be sure no door was barred against her. 
 Old Martin could not believe his ears when he was 
 told to show Miss Fearney up immediately; the 
 valet-de-chambre grinned like a babboon, and re- 
 flected with what additions he could retell the story 
 in the meaner streets by Piccadilly. But Jesse came 
 up nevertheless, and being conducted immediately 
 to the Long Gallery, she found Canning awaiting 
 her and at once declared the purport of her visit. 
 
 "Mr. Canning," she said quietly, "I thought that 
 I must come to see you I have something very im- 
 portant to say." 
 
 "About the letter you took to your father yester- 
 day?" 
 
 "Yes, it is about that. My father came home yes- 
 terday morning he had a long passage, he could 
 not make the harbor before. I gave him your let- 
 ter and he read it. Then, later on last night, we 
 had a visit from Frank Benson. Mr. Canning 
 they know the island knows; is it right that I, 
 Jesse, should be the last to hear it?" 
 
 "To hear what, Jesse?" 
 
 "The truth, Mr. Canning the truth, which is 
 every woman's due when she has been taught to be- 
 lieve that a man loves her " 
 
 194
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "But, Jesse " 
 
 "You kept it from me, Mr. Canning. Even when 
 you had the letter in your hand you said nothing 
 to me. Oh, you might have spoken that would 
 have been kind to me. But you were silent you 
 were afraid to trust me. And now the people 
 know I shall be ashamed to go among them they 
 will point the finger at me everywhere. Oh, Mr. 
 Canning was that kind?" 
 
 She had never shown weakness before him hith- 
 erto, but the pathos of it mastered her now, and she 
 sank into a chair sobbing bitterly. As for Canning, 
 the wickedness of his own silence could no longer 
 be denied. What a pitiful coward he had been! 
 What a price to put upon his own self-esteem the 
 price of this child's love and confidence! And he 
 had bartered it deliberately, thrown honor into the 
 scale that he might purchase a few hours of make- 
 believe, and ride high upon that proud horse which 
 was the White Knight's due. Oh, folly surely and 
 irreparable ! 
 
 "Jesse," he said, crossing the gallery to her side 
 and kneeling there, "I was wrong not to tell you. 
 But I wanted you to think well of me I could not 
 abase myself in your eyes. Jesse do you not un- 
 derstand ?" 
 
 She trembled at his touch, but knew, none the 
 less, that he spoke the truth. 
 
 195
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "It is true then?" she said; "the story is true?" 
 
 "It is quite true, Jesse." 
 
 "Oh, no, no, I'll not believe it tell me, for pity's 
 sake it is not true." 
 
 He took her hand in his and began to speak to her 
 in a low voice. Never before had he spoken to any 
 human being as he spoke to Jesse Fearney in that 
 hour. And first of his school days, of their many 
 successes both at work and play; his proud ambi- 
 tions even as a lad; of his Cambridge days and a 
 father's sacrifice which sent him there; of his early 
 knowledge that brains must count in the end, and 
 were the most potent weapons of success whatever 
 the armor of birth and station. He would have 
 been a lazy youth, he declared, but for the spur of 
 ambition, driving him ever to unknown heights, and 
 flattering him to unceasing labors. When he left 
 Cambridge, it was not to dream of success, but to 
 attain it. He tried to tell this mere child what the 
 flotation of companies was; how money was ob- 
 tained from many for the benefit of many ; how real 
 were the risks and how grave the responsibilities. 
 
 "I tried to do too much, Jesse. If I had suc- 
 ceeded in half my aims, the City would have called 
 me a great financier. Others in London are doing 
 every day what I did once, and being honored for 
 it. Some of them are knighted by the King; others 
 are made members of Parliament society ogens its 
 
 196
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 arms to them; the aristocracy borrows money of 
 them. If they fail, some trumpery charge is pre- 
 ferred against them and they go to prison to sat- 
 isfy the vengeance of those who have lost. In the 
 old days, when people put their money into a com- 
 pany, they well understood that it was a specula- 
 tion and that they might lose it. Now, they expect 
 all companies to succeed, and if they do not suc- 
 ceed, they talk about prosecuting the directors. 
 Well, I was one of those directors, and they prose- 
 cuted me because I was young and had been too 
 successful. A misunderstanding about the trans- 
 ference of some shares but you would never un- 
 derstand that gave my enemies their opportunity. 
 I -was badly defended by a man who did not under- 
 stand the intricacies of finance, and the Law con- 
 demned me. It condemned me, not for dishonesty, 
 but for misfortune as many a man has been and 
 will be condemned, Jesse, in that strange place they 
 call the City of London." 
 
 He ceased abruptly, conscious, perhaps, of the 
 futility of such a narration as this to such a child. 
 But here he did less than justice to Jesse Fearney, 
 who, if she did not understand him wholly, could 
 at least say that the truth was as she believed it to 
 be. John Canning had done no man any wrong. 
 Her womanly sympathies made of him in this dark 
 hour a greater hero than any that ever rode a proud 
 
 197
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 white horse in any knightly company. Gladly would 
 she have turned and held out her arms to him, that 
 he might have taken her to his heart, there to make 
 her sweet confession. But the very sorrow of his 
 words forbade this thought of self. He had spoken 
 to her as a grown woman, and so she would answer 
 him. 
 
 "I could not sleep last night for thinking of all 
 this," she said. "Oh, Mr. Canning, why did you 
 not go to my father and speak to him as you have 
 spoken to me? He is a hard man, but a just man 
 he would never have misjudged you. I am a 
 woman, and cannot hope to make men understand." 
 
 "Is it anything to me, Jesse, while you yourself 
 understand ?" 
 
 "I came for that," she said proudly. "I came 
 because I knew the story was false. My father for- 
 bade me to come, but I did not heed him. And 
 now I shall go and tell them all. They shall do 
 you justice here I will compel them." 
 
 "Can you compel people to disbelieve what it 
 pleases them to consider true? No, no, Jesse, you 
 will say nothing at all about it. I have spoken to 
 you because it was right that I should speak. If 
 your father forbids you to come to my house, then 
 we must obey him." 
 
 She looked at him her eyes wide open in aston- 
 
 198
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 ishment, her heart beating quickly. Was he not 
 glad, then, that she had come? 
 
 "He forbids me because he does not understand 
 Was not your own letter to blame for that? Oh, 
 Mr. Canning, you did not wish him to think it 
 true?" 
 
 "I wish him to form such a judgment of my char- 
 acter as his knowledge of me prompts. Consider, 
 Jesse ; can I go to him upon my knees, imploring his 
 better judgment ? Would you go in my place ? And 
 is he not right when he says that I am wrong to let 
 you come here? Consider, the world has the right 
 to point the finger at me. I have failed, and every 
 rogue who has not failed struts it proudly and cries, 
 'Here is a villain!' If you and I were to continue 
 friends, the same would be said of you. 'She is the 
 friend of a rogue,' they would say, 'of a man who 
 has been in penal servitude.' Now, how can I al- 
 low them to say that ? How can I permit it ? Is not 
 your father right after all? But, Jesse, you know 
 what it means to me to say as much, you know what 
 our friendship has been you will not misunder- 
 stand?" 
 
 She stood quite still, a hand pressed to her breast, 
 her eyes staring wildly into the void. This was her 
 banishment. John Canning was sending her away. 
 
 "Of course if you think " 
 
 199
 
 THH FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "I think of nothing but your happiness, Jesse. It 
 is the one thing I would give all the world to 
 achieve." 
 
 "And you wish me never to come here again, Mr. 
 Canning?" 
 
 "While your father forbids you, yes for both 
 our sakes. Oh, Jesse, Jesse, is not this a hard thing 
 to say?" 
 
 "I will try to understand you, Mr. Canning. If 
 I cannot do so at present, it is because I am not 
 clever enough to know why a man refuses to be- 
 lieve what a girl has told him when she has spoken 
 with all her heart. Oh, I shall never come please 
 don't think it. I shall go away at once as you wish 
 me to, Mr. Canning I am sorry that I came at all." 
 
 He knew not what to answer her. A moment of 
 weakness would have undone them both and sent 
 her sobbing to his arms. But now he understood 
 that even friendship with Fearney's daughter must 
 be denied to him, and that his very honor as a man 
 depended upon his courage. Yes, he must let her 
 go the one friend among women whom he had 
 ever known. 
 
 "I shall never forget the fact that you came, 
 Jesse," he said quietly ; "this day will be remembered 
 by me to my life's end. And I shall not cease to 
 hope oh, God knows, that is never denied to us ! I 
 shall always hope that you will come back to me 
 
 200
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 that your father will send you, and that I shall have 
 the right to receive you in my house as the 
 woman I love more than anything on earth. Jesse, 
 you will not forbid me to hope that?" 
 
 She shook her head the tears forbade her to 
 speak and for a little while there was silence. All 
 that she had meant to say to him, the warm ex- 
 pression of her unshaken faith, the protest of her 
 love, went unspoken before this unexpected attitude, 
 this surprising submission to her father's will. She 
 knew now that she had come to say "Good-by" 
 and she said it, offering her hand as she would have 
 offered it to any stranger, but turning quickly that 
 he might not see her shame. 
 
 "You told me once to remember," she said 
 quickly; and then, "Oh, Mr. Canning, I shall never 
 forget." - 
 
 '-*~ l * 
 
 2O I
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE FIRST STONE 
 
 CANNING had been over to the mainland twice 
 since he established his home upon Bell Island ; nor 
 could the solicitation of his few friends turn him 
 from his purpose to withdraw, for the time being at 
 any rate, from a world which had treated him so ill. 
 
 Let it be confessed that he was the visionary no 
 longer; all his fine schemes of a dominion over a 
 simple people had long since been scattered before 
 the winds of a somewhat vulgar reality. These 
 island folk, he had come to see, were in no way dif- 
 ferent from their brothers and sisters of the city he 
 had left had no greater charity nor any exclusive 
 possession of the elementary virtues. He found 
 them immoral, selfish, and not a little disposed to 
 be insolent. His desire to befriend them had been 
 received coldly or with outspoken opposition. That 
 Eldorado he would have founded stood now for an 
 unattainable kingdom. He was merely the owner 
 of the Castle and these men were the churls who 
 would thwart him. 
 
 202
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Such had been the state of affairs before Dis- 
 covery stalked the island, and brought him to a new 
 understanding of his position and its consequences. 
 Alone in his beautiful gardens, whose terraces were 
 so many cascades of flowers falling to the danger- 
 ous beach below, he could ask himself, when Jesse 
 had left him, if it were possible to continue in this 
 place at all, or if fatality must drive him, hence. 
 The very beauty of the house, its proud position as 
 some fortress of an island kingdom, mocked his 
 hopes and derided his intentions. For what friend 
 would visit this citadel ? Who would share its beau- 
 ties with him? What solace would be found in its 
 possession? In Paris, in New York, in Buenos 
 Ayres he might start de novo, his fortune helping 
 him, his brains re-establishing that authority for 
 which he craved and of which punishment had de- 
 prived him. But here on the rocky heights, with 
 the wide sea all about him and the eternal solitude 
 what should a man achieve here and what impulse 
 of folly had dictated such a purchase? 
 
 Candor, be it admitted, would have answered this 
 impatience very readily. John Canning had come to 
 Bell Island as a protest against the baseness of his 
 aforetime friends, and as an affirmation of his reso- 
 lution to triumph in spite of them. Here he had 
 hoped to rest a while; to establish himself in the 
 hearts of a simple people; to found a contented col- 
 
 203
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 ony ; to teach all the world that his old abilities had 
 not deserted him. And in lieu of these things he 
 had found, what? A pretty face, a pair of wistful 
 eyes a little peasant girl who climbed to the 
 heights barefooted, and had just promised him not 
 to forget. 
 
 She would not forget this little girl of the raven 
 locks she would remember. In her he had an ad- 
 vocate against a score of frowsy fishermen who 
 knew that he had been in prison. Pitiful in truth 
 grotesque in its humiliations and yet the truth. 
 And for her sake he could contemplate further resi- 
 dence upon the island, a new determination to win 
 the affections of its people, a firm intention to teach 
 them what kind of a man he was. Thus Candor in 
 the garden which he paced alone through the 
 weary morning, and did not quit until the clock 
 struck four. When he left it at last, an idea had 
 come to him that he would ride out and learn the 
 truth for himself. 
 
 Ay, what a knight then went forth, and yet how 
 simple-minded a man, seeking here in this lonely 
 hamlet just that very sympathy which London had 
 denied to him! Canning would have laughed in 
 the face of any man who had told him that he was 
 anxious to know what old Abe Benson thought 
 about it or Bill Running, or Tom Weede to say 
 nothing of Japhon Fearney. Yet such was the 
 
 204
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 truth he must know. Vanity rode as surely down 
 the lanes of Bell Island as it had stalked the purlieus 
 of Threadneedle Street. He must know; he must 
 hear the people for himself. 
 
 He crossed the downs and sought the old farmer 
 first. Japhon was in the rickyard when his visitor 
 rode up, but he came out immediately and received 
 him at the gate, not insolently, but with the plain in- 
 timation that what was to be said were better said 
 in the open. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Mr. Canning I was not look- 
 ing to see you here." 
 
 "I suppose not I came to speak about the letter 
 you received mine, Miss Jesse tells me." 
 
 "Ay, and precious sorry I was to get it. This is 
 bad news for all of us, Mr. Canning." 
 
 "I can well imagine it -you are concerned for 
 my welfare, no doubt." 
 
 "God forbid that I should judge any man; but 
 we must take things as they are. This is a simple 
 place and does not understand great matters. I 
 wish I knew what to say to the people but I don't. 
 They'll not take it kindly, I fear." 
 
 "Ah, it would never do not to consider the peo- 
 ple." 
 
 "Just so and I must consider my daughter's 
 good name. You won't be asking her to your house 
 or anything of that kind not at present?" 
 
 205
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "Why do you qualify it? Is the future to make a 
 difference ?" 
 
 The old man looked at him shrewdly beneath his 
 pursed brows. 
 
 "I don't say that it mightn't that depends upon 
 you. Win folks' kindly nature and they'll stand by 
 you. It'll take a long time and mean some humble- 
 ness, but it can be done. There's a deeper story 
 than any you've told me. I'll help you with it if 
 you'll give me the chance." 
 
 "That's very good of you ; what do you suggest?" 
 
 "That you go away a little while and leave me to 
 think it all over. Make an end of your talk about 
 building this, and improving that, and something 
 will be done. They're an obstinate lot down yon- 
 der. I think you will find that they have the upper 
 hand of you just at present and mean to use it." 
 
 "Oh, a menace. Well, we must see what can be 
 done. I'll think it over, too; meanwhile rest as- 
 sured about Miss Jesse. She won't be coming to 
 the Castle." 
 
 "She'd better not. I'll teach her that. Whatever 
 I may do, she'll have no hand in it until I give her 
 leave." 
 
 Canning smiled at the open threat, but he chose to 
 ignore it. His desire to speak openly to this blunt 
 old man vanished in the face of the insult and he 
 rode away, conscious of humiliation and of defeat. 
 
 206
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Here as in London the human instrument, different 
 as might be its key, still harped this theme of exile 
 and of flight. Just as old Sir Horace Gipps, the 
 banker, had advised him to quit England, so this old 
 farmer upon this remote island had no other coun- 
 sel. And he began to ask if such were not words 
 of wisdom after all. A new country would care 
 little for his story an alien people would not judge 
 him as they judged him in this England of his hopes. 
 What, then, forbade him to obey the voice of rea- 
 son? 
 
 A pretty face a pair of wistful eyes a little 
 peasant girl who had climbed to the heights bare- 
 footed and had told him that she would not forget ! 
 Here on the open down the truth confronted him 
 once more. If he stayed upon Bell Island, it would 
 be for Jesse's sake. If he still sought to conciliate 
 these people, her faith bade him attempt the task. 
 In a fine vision of success and triumph he saw him- 
 self triumphant in his island, as aforetime in the 
 great city the Castle resplendent, the island trans- 
 formed, the people worshiping him. He would 
 make a home here which others should envy and 
 having made it, would turn again to the fields he had 
 deserted, to the scene of the debacle which should 
 become the theatre of his vindication. 
 
 It was a glorious afternoon, and might well have 
 allured him to gentle thoughts. Far out to the west 
 
 207
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 the ocean rolled in mighty grandeur, an infinite 
 waste of blue water whose vast distances might be 
 measured by the sails of ships and the black hulls of 
 the passing steamers. The land itself was golden 
 with the full ripe corn, the pastures still green, the 
 broom a blaze of summer glory, the heather a feast 
 of white and pink to gladden the eyes with all its 
 suggestion of nature's solitudes and their bounty. 
 Eastward, the shores of England stood out plainly 
 in the radiant sunshine you could espy the low 
 shores about Westward Ho, and the very light- 
 ships which marked the river; while down in the 
 near hollow, the smoke from the cottages floated as 
 a dream cloud above the little hamlet. Never had 
 Canning looked upon a picture which suggested so 
 rich a harmony of land and seascape, or could please 
 more readily with all the changing phases of a nat- 
 ural and unspoiled beauty. But for men, he said, 
 this would be Eldorado indeed and he asked of 
 how many scenes the same could be said, and re- 
 flected sadly that by man, and not by nature, came 
 the misfortunes of the world. 
 
 So vain thoughts accompanied him down the 
 dangerous bridle path from the heights to the ham- 
 let, and thence to the winding village street and the 
 purlieus of the harbor. His own launch had gone 
 across to the mainland to take his friend, Ernest 
 
 208
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Hobby, back to his building but there were two 
 fishing boats at the mole, and a brig chartered by 
 Japhon Fearney to bring the island coal. The lat- 
 ter gave employment to half a dozen of the younger 
 men, who ceased to haul the baskets as Canning 
 rode by, and watched him with that insolent curi- 
 osity whose meaning never can be mistaken. No 
 man, however, said a word, and when he met Tom 
 Weede, that worthy touched his hat with all the old 
 respect; though, as he said at the "Jolly Admiral" 
 afterward, "I were that took by surprise that I'd 
 ha' done it onthinkingly, though it were not to be 
 undone arterward, surely, mates." As for the 
 women of the place, they curtsied with the same 
 readiness as of old, and the whole passage would 
 have been in some way a triumph but for Ned Run- 
 ning, the fisherman's son, who, creeping behind the 
 shelter of an old barrel on the beach, deliberately 
 flung a stone at the rider and laughed when he had 
 done it. 
 
 Canning heard the stone fall idly on the road be- 
 fore him, and turned as sharply as though a man 
 had cut him with a whip. He could not see the lad 
 who had flung the missile, nor was he aware whence 
 it had come. For a moment he was ready to accuse 
 the men at the windlass, and he rode a few paces 
 back immediately, facing them angrily and asking 
 what they meant. To this the reply was evasive. 
 
 209
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "We aren't throw'd no stones, guv'ner what do 
 'ee talk about ?" 
 
 Some one laughed, and a lout made a gesture 
 which could not be mistaken. The guilty lad, seeing 
 his opportunity, crept from his hiding place and 
 went scudding along the beach, a great shout of 
 laughter after him. Now, for a truth, the affair 
 was ugly enough, and without another word to any 
 one Canning rode at a canter from the village, 
 straight up to the Castle gates, as though they had 
 been the portals of sanctuary. Never in his life 
 had he known such anger. That these mere brutes, 
 the dregs of the village, the drunken loafers should 
 be the chosen instrument ! And he unable to punish 
 them or to answer a single word. No insult could 
 surpass that, no truth of the day convince him more 
 quickly of the folly of all he had contrived. Either 
 he or they must leave Bell Island, he said ; and say- 
 ing it, a voice of anger bade him hunt them out 
 neck and crop, buy their cottages whatever the price, 
 serve them wholesale with notice to quit, burn the 
 very hamlet to the ground if need be. Was he not 
 the master? Who should forbid him? 
 
 The thought took him quickly to his house. He 
 would have no delays, and Abraham Wesson should 
 be his instrument. The lawyer would not hesitate 
 he was just the fellow for this business, and would 
 make a desert of the place if the fees were large 
 
 210
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 enough. Canning began to perceive that salvation 
 Jay not in concession, but in action, not in an appeal 
 for charity, but in the determination to do by these 
 people as they had done by him. 
 
 And in that spirit he came up to the house, so 
 full of his own thoughts that he saw nothing of the 
 cruiser which had lately anchored in the eastern 
 bay, or some of her crew young Lieutenant Blake 
 especially, who at that very moment was question- 
 ing Jesse, down in the cove where the beacon had 
 been kindled upon the momentous night of his ar- 
 rival at Bell Island. 
 
 211
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE EFFIGY 
 
 THE news fell upon Bell Island as tidings of a 
 woeful disaster. The people were to go from their 
 homes which they and their forefathers had occu- 
 pied through the centuries. No explanation was 
 offered them, no grace allowed. The master of the 
 Castle had decreed this thing, and go they must. 
 But weekly tenants, for so the custom had been as 
 long as any man could remember, they received 
 from the solemn Wesson but a week's notice, and 
 were to be gone within seven days, he said. Japhon 
 Fearney remained alone in the pride of possession. 
 He had bought his farm from the Morencys more 
 than ten years ago no stranger might turn him 
 out. 
 
 And yet he quailed despite his advantage. These 
 intervening weeks (for it was now the month of 
 October) had been no weeks of triumph for him. 
 In vain he tried to console himself with the thought 
 that John Canning had been humbled to the dust, 
 and he, Japhon, magnified accordingly. His ex- 
 ultation took no bit in its teeth nor went beyond a 
 
 212
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 snail's pace. The shadow lay ever upon his house ; 
 he would listen the night through for the steps of 
 the men who came to arrest him the dawn found 
 him ready to say that his fears were those of a 
 child's imagination, and should never trouble him 
 again. But the day did not bring him peace the 
 phantom never left him. 
 
 So tragic, too, that this should be the fruit of it, 
 that all his words to Jesse and the islanders should 
 thus ring hollow. How could he denounce his 
 neighbor with any fervor when men might be de- 
 nouncing him to-morrow? 
 
 How could he remind the child of her duty, when 
 any day might leave her to be the mistress of her 
 own acts, and the sole arbiter of her fortunes? 
 Japhon, in truth, began to wonder if it would not be 
 wiser to take Canning's part outright, to give him 
 Jesse ; and coming to his aid, to silence these malev- 
 olent tongues by the weight of his authority alone? 
 But this was a mighty matter and not to be con- 
 cluded lightly. Self-interest warred with pride and 
 gained no victory. 
 
 Now, to be honest, the islanders would have been 
 quick to forget Canning's misfortune if he had been 
 wise enough to leave them a little while, and trust to 
 time for his justification. Diversions of the harvest, 
 but especially the passing and repassing of the war- 
 ships then engaged in the famous maceuvres in the 
 
 213
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Channel and off the Irish coast, kept the people 
 amused and stilled their tongues. They liked to 
 have the Handy Men ashore in the few intervals of 
 their leisure; it was something- to see the officers 
 go up to the farm and take a meal with that sour 
 eld curmudgeon, Japhon ; and even if the same good 
 fellows never went to the Castle, that fact would 
 have won upon the people's sympathy in the end, 
 but for Canning's unhappy act and its consequences. 
 
 "They won't bemean theirselves with such as 'ee," 
 Tom Weede would say, and the others agreed; 
 though, perhaps, the thought remained that Bell 
 Island was disgraced by the fact, and that it would 
 have been a better day had the Castle gates stood 
 open at such an hour. No news of Canning's inten- 
 tions had come to them nor had they heard further 
 from the Castle, whose very servants were forbid- 
 den to set foot in the village, and whose courtyard 
 remained as silent as the grave. Some believed that 
 the master had already gone to England others 
 declared that he was about to go; none knew the 
 truth in all its melancholy. 
 
 He had not left; he was still alone in the great 
 house, from whose windows he could watch the 
 warship in the bay and espy her officers going 
 ashore. These men knew his story it would be 
 impossible that they should not; and, knowing it, 
 his house must be anathema to them. No invita- 
 
 214.
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 tion did he dare to pen, no hope of their society en- 
 tertain. Perchance, had they met him in London, it 
 would have been different; but here, upon Bell Is- 
 land, there could be no middle course. Ostracism, 
 absolute and unmistakable no knowledge that such 
 a man as John Canning existed; no truck with him 
 whatever. 
 
 It may be that these were foolish notions, and 
 that he was unwise to torment himself about the 
 matter. He knew that some of the officers had vis- 
 ited Japhon Fearney, and heard without particular 
 interest that Jesse was the loadstar. This hardly 
 troubled him. He had never been a jealous man, 
 and he imagined no serious purpose of the incident. 
 When they told him that Jesse had been seen many 
 times with Lieutenant Blake, and that he had taken 
 her out to visit the cruiser Marathon, he declined to 
 believe the story, or half believing it, made allow- 
 ance for gossip's multiples. What mattered it if the 
 girl had gone? Should he put nun's veiling upon 
 her because he might not ask her to be his wife? 
 Better to believe the stories fables; better to shut 
 his ears to them. 
 
 Herein he showed wisdom above that of his other 
 acts. Jesse had, to be sure, seen much of Philip 
 Blake, and this young man already had made love 
 to her. A true sailor, he would have scoffed at the 
 idea that a man should visit Kearney's farm with 
 
 215
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 any other idea than that of making love to the 
 pretty daughter; and would have been just as much 
 amused if any one had spoken of marriage. The 
 jest of a day, the episode in a busy life, the red rose 
 snatched for the softness of his petals here was 
 Philip Blake's gospel. In her turn, Jesse was 
 hardly conscious that he was making love to her at 
 all. She listened to him because he could tell her 
 tales of John Canning honest tales unspiced by 
 malice, and full of welcome truths. 
 
 "Know him?" Blake had said; "why, my old dad 
 made pots out of him on the Stock Exchange. He 
 used to be the cleverest of the lot of them poor 
 devil, we never thought he'd go under. But that's 
 the luck of it. He wanted to be at the masthead 
 before he'd learned to climb. Just like these chaps, 
 Miss Fearney they're worth twopence-halfpenny 
 to-day, a million to-morrow, and the day after 
 they're in prison. That was Canning's story but 
 I don't think any the worse of him, and I'd have 
 gone up to his house if he'd asked me." 
 
 She was glad to hear it, and tried to learn from 
 him how it was that Mr. Canning had come to such 
 a place as Bell Island, and why the rest of the world 
 did not treat him as this boy would have treated 
 him. Here Philip Blake was at a loss; he could 
 make but a bungle of a kindly philosophy learned 
 from his own and not from the world's text books. 
 
 216
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "I suppose he hid some of his ill-gotten gains 
 these chaps generally do and now he's spending 
 them. He thought he'd be out of the way in this, 
 place but a man is never out of the way when he 
 has done seven years at Portland. That's a fact an 
 Archbishop couldn't get over. We may be sorry 
 for him, but what can we do? Our womenfolk 
 won't look at him, and half the men turn their backs 
 when he passes. If I'd have been Canning, I would 
 have gone to South America. They don't care a 
 dump there whether you've been in prison or out of 
 it, and he could have made love to the Spanish 
 women. What's the good of having money and 
 shutting yourself up in a place like this? He might 
 as well be in Pentonville. Now, don't you think 
 so, Miss Jesse?" 
 
 She replied that she did not. The shame had 
 spread a net over her also, and left her powerless 
 to tell any human being all that she felt and dared 
 to hope because of John Canning. Fidelity, staunch, 
 staunch, unquestioning fidelity, predominated at the 
 ruined shrine, and if she no longer worshiped, at 
 least she might serve. 
 
 "I think that Mr. Canning was wise to come here, 
 and I don't believe he has done any man a wrong," 
 she said, and so she betrayed herself to this quick- 
 witted man, who knew women the better because he 
 had never made a study of them. 
 
 217
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "He's lucky in his friends, Miss Jesse you'll 
 have to introduce me." 
 
 "I ! Oh, no ; my father forbids me to go to his 
 house." 
 
 "Of course he does he's wise. Come, that 
 would be a pretty thing-, wouldn't it? You might 
 meet some of his old friends from Portland. I 
 wonder if they ever steal his spoons?" 
 
 "You will not win my friendship by jesting, Mr. 
 Blake." 
 
 "Quite right to say that I was a beast. And 
 please don't think I wouldn't visit John Canning. 
 He should see me there to-morrow if he'd send a 
 line to ask me. I'd never jump on a man that's 
 down, Miss Jesse. Some day I might be down my- 
 self." 
 
 "Why don't you call at the Castle without an in- 
 vitation, Mr. Blake?" 
 
 "Ah, that wouldn't quite do. You see the cir- 
 cumstances are peculiar he mightn't like it." 
 
 "I feel sure he would be very pleased." 
 
 "I'll go if you ask me." 
 
 "What have I to do with it?" 
 
 He laughed, with a sidelong glance at her. 
 
 "A good deal I should say now haven't you? 
 Tell me straight, haven't you a good deal to do with 
 it, Miss Jesse?" 
 
 218
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 She was very pale and serious, and by no means 
 disposed to gratify his curiosity. 
 
 "I have as much to do with it as any friend of 
 Mr. Canning's " 
 
 "And as a friend may give him some good ad- 
 vice. I'd tell him to travel if I were you. What 
 can a man do on a rock like this? Isn't the world 
 open to him, just as it's open to any man who would 
 lead a man's life?" 
 
 "Then women should not travel?" 
 
 "I don't say so. They ought to see the world as 
 well as men. You have never traveled, I suppose. 
 Think how much you have missed " 
 
 "What have I missed?" 
 
 "Life, cities, art, music everything which makes 
 the world go round for brainy people. I'd like to 
 show you the world some day we might go to 
 Paris to begin with. That's the place for girls. I 
 never knew one of them yet who didn't like Paris. 
 Now, honestly, wouldn't you like to see Paris ?" 
 
 He meant much by the question, but it was lost 
 upon Jesse, who had often traveled in her dreams 
 and builded cities of her imagination in many a 
 distant quarter of the globe. She did not under- 
 stand that this man was a dangerous friend far 
 from it, she liked him for what he had said about 
 John Canning and encouraged him, as did her 
 
 219
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 father, to come to the farm. Japhon Kearney would 
 have offered no opposition to such a marriage it 
 would have suited him very well that his daughter 
 should be the wife of a naval officer. 
 
 And so the friendship ran on, and might have 
 culminated in that visit to the Castle which Jesse so 
 earnestly desired the lieutenant to make. Failure 
 here must be set down to Canning's own deed, and 
 especially to his threats against the islanders. A 
 turbulent, independent race, they swore that the 
 law must come armed to their doors ere they quitted 
 the hamlet in which their lives had been spent. 
 When entreaty and protest did not help them, they 
 fell to open hostilities. 
 
 No man from the great house dared to show his 
 face in the village street now. An attempt to fire 
 the launch in which Canning crossed to the main- 
 land was frustrated only by Japhon Kearney's in- 
 tervention. Koiled in this, the wit of Krank Ben- 
 son contrived an effigy, and they built in that very 
 cove where they would have wrecked the English- 
 man on the night of his arrival a monstrous effigy, 
 tarred and feathered and hoisted shoulder high 
 upon a barrel. This they carried up the hill to the 
 Castle gates, fired it triumphantly, and kindled a 
 beacon in whose radiance every brick of the old 
 house glowed red and brilliant through long hours 
 of the night of brawling. Let the man come out 
 
 220
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 and show himself they would know how to deal 
 with him. 
 
 Now, Jesse herself was a witness of this scene, for 
 the bright light called her from the farmhouse about 
 the hour of ten o'clock, and her father wisely feign- 
 ing to know nothing of the business and keeping 
 close to his bed she ran across the down and stood 
 upon a high place of the cliff to watch the riot out, 
 and to pray silently for her lover's safety. A splen- 
 did night of autumn befriended her, and added the 
 bewitching moonlight to the beacon's fiery glow. 
 She could espy the Marathon lying at anchor under 
 the lea of the eastern shore, the fishing boats over 
 toward the mainland, the flowing sheen of the dis- 
 tant ocean, the Castle uprising as a citadel of her 
 hopes. Creeping a little closer, half afraid of her- 
 self and the omens of the night, she began to name 
 the men who were there assembled; the Bensons, 
 the Runnings, Jo, the nigger ; Isaacson, the Swede ; 
 coal-begrimed sailors from the Tyne, the riffraff of 
 Bell Island and of the smacks from the mainland. 
 These howled like so many wild beasts, defying 
 Canning to show himself. A little nearer still, step 
 by step toward the scene, and she heard their threats 
 more clearly. "Burn him out!" was now the cry. 
 The devil of revenge had been loosed among the 
 men, and they would have dared any mischief. 
 
 John Canning, pacing the Long Gallery alone, 
 
 221
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 heard these cries and was not affrighted by them. 
 Vainly his servants came to him from hour to- hour 
 and begged him to summon aid from the warship, 
 or at the worst to escape by the garden gate down 
 to the shore and to his yacht. He refused to budge 
 an inch. "Go yourselves if your courage is not 
 equal to it," he told his butler Mellish, and that 
 worthy protested that untold gold would not buy 
 him to do such a thing. Here the valet joined him ; 
 but the oath did not prevent the pair of them keep- 
 ing the kitchen door wide open and preparing for 
 flight incontinent should the occasion arise. Their 
 master was mad, they said, to trifle with such a 
 crew. The horrid shouts resounded through the 
 vaulted chambers, as sallies from the throats of 
 demons. And there was the object of them, as un- 
 concerned as ever he had been in all his life, pacing 
 the great room alone ; smoking his cigar easily ; even 
 talking of taking the enemy by a flank movement 
 and putting him to rout. 
 
 "How many of us are at home?" he asked Mel- 
 lish. The fellow was too shocked to answer him 
 without many a stammer and many a protest. 
 
 "At home, sir? God bless me, you wouldn't 
 think of opposing of 'em, Mr. Canning? I'm sure, 
 sir, I wouldn't do anything of that sort." 
 
 "I asked you how many men-servants were in 
 the house, Mellish please answer me." 
 
 222
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Mellish did not usually forget his aspirates, but 
 they went by the board that night. 
 
 "Height, sir," he cried, "height in hall." 
 
 "Tell them to get any kind of weapon they can 
 and to follow me I am going to talk to the people, 
 Mellish." 
 
 "My word, sir, I hope not ; they're no better than 
 raving madmen. Listen to 'em with your hown 
 hears, Mr. Canning." 
 
 "I can hear perfectly, Mellish; now go and do 
 what I tell you." 
 
 The butler went off, but did not soon return. 
 Mutiny was abroad in the servants' hall, and opened 
 a craven mouth to speak bitter words. Why should 
 they obey such a master? Had he not been in 
 prison? Why risk their lives for him? Certainly, 
 they were not paid wages for that. Let them refuse 
 to go; nay, more, let them hasten to quit a house 
 where such requests were possible. Such a resolu- 
 tion was carried unanimously, but none dared to re- 
 port it to John Canning. He rang the bell vainly 
 even the worthy Mellish had not the courage for 
 such a job, and when he appeared at last, it was fear 
 of his master prevailing above fear of the men 
 which sent him to the Long Gallery. 
 
 "Just as I said, sir," he exclaimed, his face as 
 white as the marble of the mantels ; "not a man of 
 'em is willing to leave the females unprotected." 
 
 223
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "Won't go, eh, Mellish?" 
 
 "Beg your pardon, sir, there ain't none of 'em 
 been in the army, and this is soldier's work." 
 
 Canning smiled. He had expected it and per- 
 haps he knew that these poor cravens were wiser 
 than he. None the less he meant to go out and 
 alone if none would follow him. 
 
 "Do you what you please, Mellish," he exclaimed. 
 "I am going down to see what the trouble is about." 
 
 "God help us and save us, sir; they'll murder 
 you." 
 
 "In which case you will see that the murderer is 
 hanged. Now go to my dressing room you will 
 find a revolver in the little drawer upon the right- 
 hand side of the dressing table; bring it to me and 
 my hat." 
 
 The butler obeyed him, too terrified to protest 
 further. He was a dreadful coward, but he stood 
 at the front door while John Canning passed out 
 and followed him with feeble steps across the inner 
 courtyard to the great gate upon which the mob was 
 beating. Here you walked in deep darkness the 
 blacker for the crimson glow upon the windows 
 above; here you heard the resounding shouts and 
 could estimate their ferocity. These madmen were 
 as good as their word they were trying to burn 
 down the Castle gates that afterward the house it- 
 
 224
 
 THE, FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 self might hear the red cock crowing. But what 
 was more odd was the fact that they fell to silence 
 even as the gates were unbarred. You might have 
 said that the very clatter of the bolts had put them 
 to shame. 
 
 Canning threw the gate wide open, and imme- 
 diately understood both the silence and its meaning. 
 It is true that a belch of flame half blinded his 
 eyes and that the heavy smoke of burning wood al- 
 most choked him upon the threshold, but the voice 
 of the advocate was not to be mistaken. A child 
 was contesting with the rabble, he said, and that 
 child was Jesse Fearney. Oh, it was music to hear 
 her voice, a very delight to watch her as she stood, 
 the beacon's glow setting warm upon her angry 
 face, the radiance of fire about her, the whole soul 
 of her womanhood pleading with the men! And 
 with what eloquence, with what naive insistence 
 upon their folly, with what appeals to their good 
 sense and to their fear! 
 
 "Go back to your homes," she was crying; "oh, 
 do you think you will not be punished for this? 
 Are we murderers on Bell Island ? Shame ! shame ! 
 must I, a girl, teach you your duty? Is there no 
 man who thinks of to-morrow none who has a 
 home to save? Is this the way to seek favor? 
 I'll not believe it you are not all cowards there 
 are men here. God send you grace to hear the 
 
 225
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 truth there are men among you let them speak 
 in the name of God." 
 
 They cowered before her, drawing back from the 
 fire they had kindled against the gate, and consult- 
 ing one with the other in low tones. To be sure 
 they were somewhat at a loss since that shrewd 
 Plot-all, Frank Benson, had deserted them directly 
 his work was done, and was now gone back to the 
 hamlet to deplore their mad intentions. None the 
 less they were ready to stammer a poor excuse; 
 when what must happen but that the great gate 
 flies open, the fire is flung to the winds, and the 
 master himself stands accusing them. Now, for a 
 truth, they were glad for who would have deal- 
 ings with a woman? 
 
 "What do you want here ?" he asked them, strid- 
 ing across the fire-bespattered ground and facing 
 the giant Bill Running, with a menace in every 
 gesture; "what do you want here, men?" 
 
 An insolent laugh answered him. He heard Jesse 
 as a man hears the voice of a dream, imploring him 
 to go back, but he advanced the further because 
 of it. 
 
 "Shall I tell you that this is a crime for which 
 you can serve half your lives in prison?" he cried. 
 "Do you wish me to send to the mainland to-mor- 
 row with a request for police? Madmen, do you 
 know what it means?" 
 
 226
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Some one at the back cried out that he should 
 know himself, seem' as "he'd been there afore," 
 and the sally provoked a general shout of "Jail- 
 bird ! He's a jail-bird !" There is courage in many 
 voices, and these men now found their courage. 
 "Put him in the sea," cried the far from valorous 
 Tom Weede, and the less eloquent Bill Running 
 laid a hand upon the master's shoulder. An instant 
 later the butt end of the revolver struck him to the 
 ground, and he lay senseless and bleeding with none 
 to pity him. 
 
 "Pick up that man," Canning roared. None 
 obeyed him but Jesse, who sprang in between and 
 knelt at the ruffian's side. A mere girl now seemed 
 the arbiter of life and death they must trample 
 upon her to get at Canning's throat the wolves 
 primed to tear him to pieces when the first of the 
 wolves should leap. 
 
 "Back!" she cried; and then, "Will none help me? 
 Will none help his comrade? Mr. Benson, Tom 
 Weede yes, yes, I see you both will you not help 
 me ? Are you mad that you stand there and do noth- 
 ing?" 
 
 They responded with shamed laughs. The others, 
 driven desperate by the blow and their own re- 
 straint, did not cease for a moment to cry "Jail- 
 bird !" and upon that the foulest oaths ; while John 
 Canning stood as a figure of marble, the pistol 
 
 227
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 raised, the ear intent. When they leaped upon him 
 at last he did not fire his eyes were still upon the 
 girl's face the vision still fascinated him. 
 
 They fell upon him like ravening wolves, over 
 Jesse's prostrate body, fighting with each other to 
 get at the hated throat. But with them and among 
 them came twenty of the Marathon's crew, sum- 
 moned from the ship by the glare of the beacon and 
 firmly believing the Castle to be on fire. 
 
 Ay, a merry bout for the Handy Man, and one in 
 which he delighted. Devil a chance for raving 
 fishermen now, or for any coal-heaver that ever 
 sailed from Tyne. Jack was among them like a 
 merry policeman at an Irish fair. Down they went 
 headlong some fled incontinent; others bawled 
 like women a few were burned by the very fire 
 they had kindled, and cried as children at the pain 
 of it. 
 
 But John Canning stood unharmed through it all, 
 and stooping, as the sailors closed about him, he 
 caught Jesse in his arms and kissed her burning 
 lips. 
 
 228
 
 STOOPING, AS THE SAILORS CLOSED ABOUT HIM, HE 
 CAUGHT JESSE IN HIS ARMS AND KISSED HER LIPS
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 A SHIP OF SHADOWS 
 
 JAPHON had not suspected his daughter's absence 
 from the house, and when he heard of it from Han- 
 nah, the maid, very early in the morning, his first 
 thoughts were entirely selfish and appertaining to 
 his own position in the matter. 
 
 He had known well enough that mischief was in 
 the air, but the nature of the mischief he had not 
 discovered. Perhaps a firm belief in the cowardice 
 of the population of Bell Island disarmed a fear of 
 real violence. The riffraff might carry an effigy 
 up to the Castle and shout itself hoarse there, while 
 they burned it, but no overt act would be committed. 
 He was not sorry to see John Canning humbled; 
 and humiliation would make the fellow more pli- 
 able. So he slept upon it, determined to know 
 nothing until the need arose. Let the morrow tell 
 its own tale he would prove a ready listener. 
 
 And what a tale it was! of riot and tumult, of 
 fire and burning, of a mob maddened to mad acts, of 
 the King's sailors called from their sleep to inter- 
 vene. But more amazing still, a tale of Jesse's ab- 
 sence and of the story of her deed. Oh, now, be 
 
 229
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 sure the old man was aflame. His daughter to 
 have been where duty should have sent him the 
 law upheld, not by the King's magistrate, but by a 
 mere girl. And she absent from her home in de- 
 fiance of her 'father lodged at the very Castle 
 which he had forbidden her to enter. In truth the 
 supreme humiliation; the final scene in this drama 
 of disgrace. 
 
 > Japhon had risen at six o'clock according to his 
 custom, and Hannah, the maid, at once brought 
 him the amazing tidings. A visit some two hours 
 later to the harbor and the village afforded him but 
 meagre satisfaction. Few but women were about 
 at such an hour. The fishermen, thoroughly 
 ashamed of themselves, had put to sea, and their 
 boats already stood upon a southward course, mak- 
 ing for the open ocean or the Scillies. Such 
 strangers as helped to haul the coal from the "for- 
 eign" brig laughed when he questioned them, and 
 pretended to know nothing of what had happened. 
 "A bad business up at the great house na, lad, 
 what dost thee clatter aboot?" they asked him, and 
 he had no evidence to bring against them. When 
 he left them, just such a volley of insolent laughter 
 followed him as had put John Canning to shame 
 yesterday. These oafs had nothing to lose. They 
 did not care a straw for any King's magistrate in 
 the three kingdoms. 
 
 230
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Some of the women, to be sure, were more elo- 
 quent. They deplored what had been done, and 
 were more wistful about the consequences. Mr. 
 Fearney, they said, should make it his business to 
 tell the master that the poor fellows were not them- 
 selves to do such a thing. They had been maddened 
 by the threat and were not responsible. Let some 
 one go up to the Castle and humbly beg pardon a 
 suggestion which Japhon received with an oath. 
 Was he the man to be the minister of apology ? He 
 would have struck any man who had asked him as 
 much. 
 
 "Your husbands are a pack of fools," he snapped; 
 "they deserve what they are going to get. I'll say 
 nothing for them ; let them make their own excuses. 
 What, to burn a man out of his house and then say 
 'they didn't mean it! I'll hear no such nonsense." 
 
 The attitude was necessary and he must persist in 
 it. As the resident magistrate upon Bell Island 
 much of the responsibility for last night's work 
 must fall upon his shoulders so unwilling to bear 
 responsibility at such a time. For the women's 
 tears he cared not at all. All his interest lay in an 
 attempt to excuse himself before John Canning, and 
 to put the blame on other shoulders. This might 
 no: be difficult. The threats of eviction would win 
 sympathy in England he, the magistrate, must 
 knew nothing of sympathy but only of the law. 
 
 231
 
 THH FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 And so he returned to the farm to find Jesse 
 there, and to be confronted immediately by the true 
 story of the night. That interview between father 
 and daughter was one of the most solemn in 
 Japhon's story. A man of rugged courage in com- 
 mon affairs, he shrank before this pale, determined 
 face, could not look boldly into the accusing eyes 
 of the girl, who met him in the porch, and told him 
 in a few simple words where she had been, and 
 what she had done. 
 
 "I saw the fire kindled, and I went across the 
 down to see what they were doing, father. They 
 meant to burn the house down, and would have 
 done it but for Mr. Blake and the sailors. Mr. 
 Canning says that I saved his life, but I don't think 
 that is true. He would not let me leave the house 
 until he knew that it was safe for me to go. I could 
 not come before, father I am sorry if you are 
 angry but I could not come." 
 
 Japhon strode into the house, brushing by her 
 rudely and bidding her follow him. In the little 
 parlor, when he had shut the door and locked it, he 
 pulled a vast watch from his fob pocket and showed 
 her the time. 
 
 "Do you see that, girl ten o'clock of the morn- 
 ing? Now, answer me a plain question. What were 
 you doing in this man's house until ten o'clock of 
 the morning?" 
 
 232
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "I was asking him to spare the people, father." 
 
 "To spare the people! God in heaven, is that 
 the tale?" 
 
 "It is true, father. I have asked Mr. Canning 
 to let the poor folk have their cottages, and he has 
 consented to do so." 
 
 "You asked him you and he consented?" 
 
 "He has promised me that if they will behave 
 themselves, he will not send them away. We must 
 see that they do so, we must tell them, you and I, 
 father." 
 
 "A likely story; and for that you left my house 
 against my orders and went to this man's door? 
 Well, suppose I show you mine to-day will he take 
 you back again, will he harbor such a woman? Go 
 you and ask him and see what he. says." 
 
 She shrank at the word, shrank as though he had 
 struck her a blow. 
 
 "If I leave your house," she said quietly, "it will 
 not be to go to Mr. Canning, or ever to return to 
 you again as long as I am alive." 
 
 "Ay, ay, the old story I've done you a wrong 
 been a bad father to you I know it all heard it 
 from your mother many a time. Now I'll ask you 
 this, do you mean to marry this man or don't you 
 and marrying him do you understand what 
 you're doing? I want to know that, Jesse it's my 
 duty to know it. Do you mean to marry him?" 
 
 233
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "I do not, father marriage with Mr. Canning is 
 out of the question. He has told me so." 
 
 "Oh, then you've talked it over, I see. And 
 that's the man in whose house you've been since 
 midnight yesterday God in heaven, that I must 
 listen to you." 
 
 Jesse sat down quietly in a seat by the window 
 and folded her hands upon her lap. 
 
 "You do not know what you are saying, father, 
 or I would leave you at once. Mr. Canning will 
 not marry me because he thinks it would be wrong 
 to do so but I would marry him to-day if he asked 
 me. I went to his house to do what you should have 
 done you know it, and will be glad because I went. 
 But I shall never forgive you for what you have 
 said to me to-day, and I shall leave your house upon 
 the first opportunity." 
 
 "Leave me! Ah, we'll see about that! Perhaps 
 I'll teach you both a lesson before you get as far. 
 Now go to your room, girl do you hear me ? get 
 to your bedroom and leave it when I bid you. If 
 you don't, as sure as there's a God in heaven, I'll 
 lay my whip on your shoulders." 
 
 She rose immediately, but did not answer a single 
 word, while he opened the door and followed her 
 up the narrow stairs to her bedroom above, locking 
 her in with his own hands and thrusting the key into 
 a capacious pocket. For the time being Japhon 
 
 234
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Fearney had lost touch both with common sense 
 and with common prudence. Full well he knew that 
 every spoken word had been a crime against truth 
 and against his child. There had been nothing 
 wrong in her visit to the Castle. Chagrin and bit- 
 ter disappointment were at the back of all his ac- 
 cusations. That this salvation for the islanders 
 should come by Jesse's hands; that he, Japhon, 
 should have no part in it above all that the sep- 
 aration between the two houses should be final and 
 irrevocable there was a pretty day's work! And 
 be sure he understood that John Canning was not 
 the man to keep such a secret as this. Would he 
 not tell all the world, "I have spared the people for 
 Jesse Fearney's sake?" Of course he would. And 
 they would be at Jesse's feet in consequence 
 while he, Japhon, must win nothing but their con- 
 tempt and if he held them to account for last 
 night's work, their overt anger. He could see no 
 alternative the more he thought upon it the wilder 
 his anger became, the more unreasonable his per- 
 sistency. 
 
 Should he see John Canning for himself and en- 
 deavor to come to a better understanding? He 
 pondered this long during the day, arriving at no 
 settled resolution until sundown, and then but half 
 determined in his purpose. If he offered this man 
 Jesse to wife, the concession might make an end of 
 
 235
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 all their difficulties. And why not? Did he, 
 Japhon, really care, he who stood on the brink of 
 prison himself? Why had he paid so much heed to 
 the fisherfolk and their prejudices? Fool, fool he 
 said and, upon this, asked himself the question, Is 
 it yet too late ? He would go to the Castle and have 
 it out with John Canning. He could beg Jesse's 
 pardon afterward, when he came to tell her what he 
 had done. That, surely, would be good news for 
 he did not doubt that she loved the Englishman and 
 would marry no other. 
 
 So it befell that, with no word to his daughter 
 at all, he took up his hat about six o'clock of the 
 evening, and set out across the down toward the 
 heights and the Castle gate. The sun had just set 
 over the ocean then, but the sky was afire with a 
 rich afterglow, which had the shape of a mighty 
 baldachino uplifted above the eternal altar of the 
 universe a heaven of radiance and of spreading 
 lights, which declared the ships beneath as flecks of 
 white upon an unbroken waste of golden waters. 
 Westward it was nearly dark, and there were lights 
 already at the pier head, and in some of the cot- 
 tages; but Japhon took little notice of these, or, if 
 he espied them, reflected sadly upon his next appear- 
 ance among the people and the humiliations which 
 must attend it. As he drew nearer to the Castle 
 
 236
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 gate, he was surprised to discover the whole build- 
 ing plunged in profound darkness; and when at 
 length he rang the great bell, the evidences of last 
 night's work confronted him all too plainly. Yes, 
 there had been madness here, and some one would 
 have to give a fair account of it for he was not 
 willing to accept Jesse's account, nor could he be- 
 lieve that such a man as John Canning would for- 
 give the people so readily. 
 
 Now old Martin answered the bell, and he an- 
 swered it shyly opening the wicket first and ask- 
 ing in a rasping voice, "Who is it ?" When Japhon 
 replied, curtly and with the voice of authority, he 
 did not find the old man ready to bend the knee to 
 him or to pay him any civility whatsoever. 
 
 "Ay, it be Mr. Fearney all right. Well, master, 
 we were wanting you last night. 'Tain't like 
 Japhon Fearney to be one day after the fair, 
 surely?" 
 
 "Hold your tongue, man I didn't come here for 
 your opinions." 
 
 "Ay, but you'll get 'em all the same, Mr. Fear- 
 ney there ain't no law as I knows on which jumps 
 at a man's head for his opinions. You've been a 
 precious sight of time coming, I must say, and now 
 you be come, there won't be many to cry their eyes 
 out over it. Is it anything I can do for ye, Mr. 
 
 337
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Fearney? Don't you mind asking me, because I 
 shan't mind answerin' you so there'll be no bad 
 blood between us." 
 
 "I wish to speak to your master to Mr. Can- 
 ning. Go you and tell him that I am at the door." 
 
 "Then I'll be wanting a boat, Mr. Fearney. Mas- 
 ter's gone to Lunnon you'd have seen his yacht in 
 the Strait if you'd eyes in your head gone to Lon- 
 don with the flood. You'd better be writing him, 
 Mr. Fearney. You're a wonder at the writing as all 
 the island knows." 
 
 Japhon turned away with a snarl. What a fool 
 he had been to come at all and how blind! Sure 
 enough, as he went down the hillside, he made out 
 the yacht's lanterns creeping in a black wake to the 
 mainland and obscurity, and he understood in a 
 flash that all his fine house of cards was down, and 
 that nothing but a miracle would rebuild it. 
 
 Ay, who w^juld summon John Canning to Bell 
 Island again? What hope would bring such a man 
 to such a place? Had he not come here to escape a 
 censorious world, and had not a miniature of that 
 world received him? Even a woman's love would 
 not prevail against that chivalry with which Japhon 
 Fearney could accredit him now. He had gone 
 from Jesse and her people, not because he believed 
 himself unworthy of her affections, but because he 
 
 238
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 knew that the world had stamped him as unworthy. 
 And here Japhon perceived the strength and intent 
 of sacrifice, and could bow the knee to it. How far 
 above his own puny schemes was all this, how alien 
 from his own modes of thought and feeling I He 
 would have cared nothing for the world's opinion, 
 he said, and yet, in truth, he had never cared so 
 much. 
 
 He watched the disappearing steamer, and it 
 seemed to him as though the years of his finer man- 
 hood were carried away in some phantom ship, to 
 leave him old and broken and decrepit. What story 
 could he carry to Jesse now? What had he to offer 
 her in this hour of her tribulation? Could he tell 
 her that he had gone to the Castle for her sake, 
 humiliated himself at her nod? Candor, defying 
 him, laughed at the fabrication and whispered a 
 truer word in his ear. Candor also bade him look 
 seaward once more, and ask himself what ship it 
 was which now made for the harbor, and would 
 put its passengers ashore before half an hour had 
 passed. This was no boat from Canning's yacht 
 surely nay, it was a little lugger whose shape was 
 as well known to Japhon Fearney as that of his own 
 lugger. 
 
 "Holly Angus' boat," he said, and saying it he 
 began to shiver as a man with an ague. 
 
 239
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 For what new portent of disaster was this what 
 news to drive the blood from his face and send him 
 headlong toward the farm a trembling old man 
 about whose path the shadows of disaster were clos- 
 ing? 
 
 240
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE MESSENGER 
 
 THE lugger put into the northern cove, steered 
 by one who knew Bell Island and the channels about 
 it. There were but two aboard the little boat and 
 one was a slim lad, not much more than eighteen 
 years of age. He, however, appeared to be the mas- 
 ter, and giving curt directions to the other, an old 
 boatman from Bide ford, he set out at once for the 
 farm and was closeted with Japhon Fearney before 
 half an hour had passed. 
 
 Now this was a strange interview, a sorry chapter 
 of a swift drama such as Japhon Fearney with all 
 his apprehensions had never believed that he would 
 be called upon to take part in. For who was this 
 slip of a lad but young Willie Snarth, the son of 
 Holly Angus' aforetime partner, and now a clerk in 
 that very office at Barnstaple which Japhon had vis- 
 ited so stealthily? And what other object had he but 
 to speak of great happenings; but chiefly of an ar- 
 rest and its sequel and of all that sequel might 
 mean to the agitated old man before him? This he 
 
 241
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 told in a few words a boy's words, plain and out- 
 spoken, but very sensitive to the opportunities. 
 
 "I came at once, Mr. Fearney you should know 
 before all others. They arrested Mr. Angus at 
 three o'clock this afternoon. Lucky the wind was 
 right or I wouldn't be here now. I tell you it has 
 been a dreadful day for me." 
 
 Japhon gasped for something, he knew not what. 
 His hands were shaking so that he feared even to 
 help himself to brandy from the decanter in the 
 sideboard. 
 
 "They arrested Mr. Angus? Good God, lad! are 
 you dreaming? What have they arrested him for?" 
 
 "For smuggling saccharin into England that's 
 the first charge, Mr. Fearney, but there are others." 
 
 "Others what others ?" 
 
 Here was an honest question. Japhon knew per- 
 fectly well that the charge would be for smuggling 
 saccharin into England, but that there should be 
 others amazed him. 
 
 "Oh, it's difficult to tell you, Mr. Fearney. But 
 I think it's a question of bills and fraud." 
 
 "What bills has he been doin' then what need 
 was there for such as him to defraud anybody? 
 You're speaking truth, lad eh, you've not come 
 here to fool me?" 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Fearney, why should I do that? Have 
 
 242
 
 'THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 I anything to gain by it ? I came because I thought 
 I ought to do so I came to warn you." 
 
 "Me do they say I've been doing bills, then? 
 Is that the tale? God in heaven, what next?" 
 
 Young Snarth settled comfortably in his chair 
 and watched the old man, who now threw all dis- 
 guise to the winds, and going with tottering steps to 
 the sideboard, mixed himself a stiff glass of brandy 
 and water and drank it at a gulp. Here was a battle 
 between youth and age, a battle of argle-bargle and 
 cunning and the lad was to win all the way. 
 
 "They say that you were Mr. Angus' partner, 
 Mr. Fearney. I know it because my brother is a 
 great friend of Inspector Bent and had it from him. 
 They say that you were a partner in the firm, and 
 that a deed has been found to prove it." 
 
 "It's a lie a black lie." 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon you forget that I was 
 a clerk in the office." 
 
 "Then you've been spying on us d n you, 
 you've been spying on us. What I put my name to 
 was a document that we went partners in the stuff 
 which came ashore. You know it, young Snarth 
 why do you stand there telling me those lies? 
 you know I was not his partner?" 
 
 "Indeed, I know very little, sir. Of course I had 
 some idea that your boats were bringing in sac- 
 
 243
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 charin and that you were making a great deal of 
 money by it, but what your arrangement was with 
 Mr. Angus, I didn't know at all upon my word 
 and honor, I did not." 
 
 Japhon stood to wipe his brow his thoughts 
 came and went as a surge of terror and apprehen- 
 sion upon which all right reason was to be wrecked. 
 He knew not what to say. Had this lad come to 
 him with the simple story of the smuggled saccha- 
 rin, he might, at least, have played a creditable part 
 but this darker story, this woeful menace, how 
 should he answer that ? He knew not his protests 
 were not renewed and his voice dropped to a mere 
 whisper. 
 
 "At what time do you say they arrested Mr. 
 Angus?" 
 
 "About three o'clock." 
 
 "Did they mention my name then?" 
 
 "No, sir not then but my brother says they are 
 coming for you to-night." 
 
 "Let them come I shall have my answer let 
 them tell what lies they please I shall know how to 
 defend myself." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Mr. Kearney; but Inspector 
 Bent thinks you have no defence." 
 
 "He would say that the police always say it. I 
 must leave this place, lad I must get away to 
 England." 
 
 244
 
 "I think so, Mr. Fearney you would be very 
 wise to go while you have time. If you trust to me, 
 I will help you." 
 
 "You, lad what can you do for me?" 
 
 "I can show you how to get to France to-night 
 there's just time if you will go but, of course, 
 I shall want money." 
 
 Japhon looked up swiftly. Money! Had this 
 mere lad come here to blackmail him then? Then 
 all his avaricious instinct was awakened in an in- 
 stant. Money! Must he buy a fool's tale and re- 
 pent it afterward? Oh, be sure 'twould need a 
 clever fellow to get money out of him. 
 
 "You want money, boy did you come here for 
 that?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. Why should I come otherwise? I have 
 something to sell to you and I want money for it." 
 
 "You are a clever lad I should have remembered 
 what such as Holly Angus would have taught you 
 how much money do you want ?" 
 
 "A hundred pounds, sir." 
 
 "Suppose you're telling me a lie suppose it's all 
 wrong what then?" 
 
 "It is not a lie it's the only way you can escape 
 the police. Please answer me quickly there is no 
 time to lose." 
 
 "Tell me what you know, and I will give you the 
 money afterward." 
 
 245
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "Oh, indeed, no I am a little sharper than that, 
 Mr. Fearney." 
 
 "Well, I warn you if it's false, I'll have it back 
 from you as the Lord hears me I'll do you an in- 
 jury if you're fooling me." 
 
 "You shall be the judge of that afterward, Mr. 
 Fearney come, please be quick or I shall go." 
 
 "Do you think I carry that much money about in 
 my hat? You're little better than a fool. Be pa- 
 tient I'll deal fairly by you." 
 
 He shuffled about the room, tortured by the di- 
 lemma, as unwilling to pay this tribute as any miser 
 whom danger had enveloped. All his reason said 
 the youth was honest all his desire would have 
 made him out to be a liar. 
 
 "There's a hundred pound in banknotes there; 
 now tell me what you have to say." 
 
 "I beg your pardon there are just sixty pounds 
 here." 
 
 "D n you, will you have my life's blood I'll 
 not hear a word give me my money !" 
 
 "Very well, Mr. Fearney there it is." 
 
 Snarth tossed the notes upon the table and took 
 up his hat. He knew full well that the man would 
 not let him go, and was not mistaken. With a howl 
 of rage and real misery, Fearney tossed a further 
 roll of notes upon the table. 
 
 246
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "Speak/' he cried "speak before I do you a mis- 
 chief." 
 
 Snarth picked up the banknotes, rolled them up, 
 and thrust them into his breast pocket. Then he 
 spoke, slowly and with emphasis. 
 
 "The Count will lie off the Galland Rock for 
 twenty-four hours from noon to-morrow. We 
 cabled him the day before yesterday, and had an 
 answer last night. The code says twenty-four 
 hours, just inside the twenty-fathom line I read it 
 myself." 
 
 Japhon stood quite still to hear the message, and 
 for some minutes after it was spoken. These two 
 had been talking most of the time in the dark, and 
 not so much as a candle had been kindled until the 
 money was fetched. Its light flickered upon strange 
 faces that of a boy who had no fear, and of a 
 man who feared greatly, but had just been taught 
 to temper fear by hope. In a twinkling now, 
 Japhon understood why young Snarth had come to 
 him and the extent of the service he had done. A 
 hundred pounds he would have paid five for such 
 tidings. 
 
 "Then Angus meant to show 'em a clean pair of 
 heels, eh?" he asked presently. 
 
 Snarth said that it was so. 
 
 "And Count Gabriel is waiting for him off Gal- 
 
 247
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 land Rock. They would have run for the Scheldt, 
 I suppose?" 
 
 "I cannot tell you that, Mr. Kearney. But the 
 Count is clever. Once aboard his launch you won't 
 need to think twice about Mr. Moss. But you'll see 
 that there isn't much time to lose." 
 
 "Are they watching in the Channel, think you?" 
 
 "I cannot tell you I saw nothing as we came 
 across." 
 
 "I could stop in Belgium a while and make my 
 position clear. I'm no partner of Angus' the trial 
 will make that plain. Let 'em fine me a thousand 
 for getting the saccharin in if they like. I shan't be 
 called upon to pay it in Belgium." 
 
 "Then I advise you to put to sea at once. For 
 myself I must get back it would never do for them 
 to miss me, Mr. Fearney." 
 
 "Go as you say, lad and keep the money. I'll 
 never ask you for that again." 
 
 Snarth replied that he supposed not. He had got 
 what he wanted and had no cause to linger. Their 
 parting was commonplace and abrupt. This old 
 man, with all his fears and his uncouth gestures and 
 the terror which animated every movement, af- 
 frighted the mere lad who had come there to save 
 him. Snarth hardly breathed freely until he gained 
 the creek and the open sea. Yes, it had been a 
 clever move and he did not care twopence now what 
 
 248
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 became of Japhon Fearney. The hundred pounds 
 were safe in his pocket a lad of eighteen can do 
 much with a hundred pounds. 
 
 And so he hoisted sail, and getting by the dan- 
 gerous reef, stood out for the mainland and the 
 river. The night had fallen black, dark and moon- 
 less, and the wind was blowing half a gale already. 
 He espied few ships upon the hither waters; none 
 which he suspected. Whatever the authorities had 
 learned about Japhon Fearney, this was not the 
 night for it to be declared. 
 
 "The old rogue will get across," Snarth said to 
 himself; "will he take his daughter with him?" 
 
 And that, oddly enough, was the very question 
 which Japhon asked himself at that very moment. 
 
 249
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 JAPHON SAILS FOR HOLLAND 
 
 JAPHON closed the door upon Willie Snarth and 
 stood for a little while in the hall, debating what 
 he should do. The evidences of a night of wind 
 and rising sea, which he had espied from the shel- 
 ter of the porch, cheered the man and put heart into 
 him. He was a fine sailor and feared neither storm 
 nor tempest. The keen northwesterly breeze, fresh- 
 ening every instant, would help his flight for upon 
 flight he was determined. 
 
 Stealthily and with chosen steps, he re-entered the 
 parlor and began to search his bureau. Compro- 
 mising papers he did not fear. His native shrewd- 
 ness had always dreaded correspondence, and he 
 preferred at any time to sail across to the mainland 
 rather than to write a letter. None the less there 
 were certain documents his will, the title deeds of 
 the farm, but above all his store of greasy bank- 
 notes, hoarded against such an emergency as this, 
 which claimed his first attention. These he scruti- 
 nized carefully, and setting twenty pounds of the 
 
 250
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 money apart, he rolled the notes in an oilskin bag 
 and thrust them into his pocket. 
 
 What should he say to Jesse? This had been in 
 his mind from the first, though his own condition 
 and its perils made light of the lesser responsibility. 
 Like all guilty men, Japhon believed that he would 
 be absent from his home but a little while; that he 
 would return in some way vindicated, and that all 
 his affairs must be regulated upon that belief. So 
 now it seemed a lighter thing to frame excuses. He 
 was called to Holland on urgent business. Jesse 
 must manage the place while he was away, look 
 after the farm and the hands make herself mis- 
 tress in the master's absence. The very words of it 
 were mumbled as he moved from room to room, 
 packing a few shabby clothes here, getting his great- 
 coat there poking into empty drawers; trying to 
 think of a hundred things, but thinking of none 
 save those which concerned flight. Had not the lad 
 reminded him that the time was short? Good God! 
 they might come for him at any hour. 
 
 He listened to every sound, to the moan of the 
 wind about the farm; to the footsteps of the girl 
 who moved furtively about the kitchen ; even to the 
 beating of his own heart. Now, for a truth, this 
 interview with Jesse began to appear a formidable 
 thing. What a fool he had been to speak so harshly 
 to the girl! She was not one to be won by hard 
 
 251
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 words, and well he knew how small is their worth 
 when women are concerned, for her mother had 
 taught him the lesson. Much better to have been 
 discreet, as prudence had prompted him to be. He 
 must pay the penalty for that outbreak, abase him- 
 self and crave forgiveness. Well, well, that was a 
 bitter night, and lamentations upon past acts would 
 not make it better. 
 
 He took a candle and crept up the narrow stairs, 
 pausing often to choose his words, and yet con- 
 scious of the need of haste. A gentle knock upon 
 the heavy oak door obtaining no answer, he beat 
 loudly for a reply for his fears already alarmed 
 him and permitted him to guess the worst. 
 
 "Jesse I'm coming in to see you, girl I must 
 have a word before I go." It would prepare her, he 
 thought, to speak of departure, and he laid emphasis 
 upon the word. When the effort proved vain, he 
 unlocked the door clumsily and raised the candle 
 high to peer within. There was no one there. Not 
 at the first or even at the second glance would he 
 believe the trutti; but he came to believe it pres- 
 ently, and stumbling from the place, his brain on 
 fire, his lips shaping unspoken words, he said that 
 Jesse had done as he dared her to do and had left 
 his house. 
 
 Oh, be sure, this was the crowning hour of that 
 night of misfortunes. Whatever his sins, Japhon 
 
 252
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Fearney loved his daughter loved her with that 
 uncouth affection which pays no tribute in words, 
 but many in deeds ; which is rarely remembered, but 
 ever present an affection brutelike in its elemen- 
 tary virtues, but not wholly selfish at its source. 
 And she had deserted him he must leave his home 
 without one word to the child he loved; without 
 even the knowledge that his anger had earned no 
 graver penalty than her flight. How if she had 
 killed herself? It might even be that, he said, as 
 he staggered into the kitchen and began to ques- 
 tion the terror-stricken maid. She might have left 
 him, not for the hour, but forever. Jesse came of 
 a headstrong race who would answer for her in a 
 moment of hysteria which injustice had provoked? 
 
 "Have you seen Miss Jesse?" 
 
 "Oh, master, master " 
 
 "Have you seen her. I ask? Don't lie to me, I 
 will be answered." 
 
 "She left the house an hour ago, sir I heard 
 her I think it was Mr. Blake who took her." 
 
 "You think slut. Did I not bid you tell me 
 what happened?" 
 
 "I couldn't, sir I couldn't say a word against 
 Miss Jesse." 
 
 "Who's asking you that ? Hold your tongue and 
 wipe your eyes. I'm going away, Hannah I must 
 go away to-night now I'll be away a week; per- 
 
 253
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 haps a month. Let Miss Jesse understand that 
 perhaps a month." 
 
 The girl ceased to cry, and regarded him \vith 
 open eyes. 
 
 "You going away, master? Oh, Miss Jesse will 
 be surprised to hear that." 
 
 "I shall write a letter to her. See that she has it 
 directly she comes back do you hear? Miss Jesse, 
 and no other. If any one comes from the main- 
 land, you don't know where I am eh, girl, have 
 you the sense to understand that? you don't know 
 where I am or when I shall be back." 
 
 "Oh, master how strange you talk to-night. 
 Of course I understand it." 
 
 "Then hold your tongue and I'll give you a sov- 
 ereign when I come home eh, Hannah? that's 
 something you can make head and tail of a sov- 
 ereign when I come home." 
 
 He jested as a man who has lost all and aban- 
 doned himself to anything that fortune may have to 
 send him. Jesse's flight did not trouble him now. 
 She had gone off with that sailor lad well, she 
 must be her own protector henceforth and after 
 all, the day comes sooner or later when every man's 
 daughter must be the arbiter of her honor and her 
 fortunes. If the truth must be told, Japhon was 
 pleased with what Hannah had to tell him. He 
 
 254
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 could leave without let or hindrance now, and ten 
 minutes had not passed before he was out on the 
 down with his bundle; a bent old man whose heart 
 warmed to the spirit of the contest; whose courage 
 rose as his difficulties accumulated. 
 
 It had been a merry game and this was the end of 
 it. Three years ago that clever rogue, Holly An- 
 gus, learned by chance that the profits on smuggled 
 saccharin are fifty-fold those upon any other pos- 
 sible commodity. He got in touch with Count Ga- 
 briel Lacombe, of Antwerp, and with Japhon Fear- 
 ney, of Bell Island. They brought the stuff from 
 Antwerp by steamer, and shipped it in small quanti- 
 ties upon one of Japhon's boats taking advantage 
 of black nights and of the old farmer's honest repu- 
 tation. He would hide the stuff and get it into 
 Barnstaple, a hundred tricks helping him. Often it 
 went nested in trusses of hay; sometimes it would 
 come in the machinery of husbandry, sent over 
 nominally for repairs, but in reality to carry sac- 
 charin. Old pianos, bureaus, even common travel- 
 ing bags, were employed in a similar service, for 
 who would suspect old Japhon, and why should the 
 Devon Customs be associating him with such a rare 
 commodity? Possibly, if they thought about it at 
 all, they would have said that he did not know the 
 meaning of the word. And he and Angus were 
 
 255
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 laughing in their sleeves all the time, making hun- 
 dreds at the business, defying the risks of extreme 
 penalties and of prison. 
 
 And now it was all done with, and that very 
 Count Gabriel, whose ship had so often run the 
 stuff over from Holland, came once more upon a 
 work of mercy. This had been his promise from 
 the beginning. "If anything goes wrong," he had 
 said, "I will hide you all in Belgium until the storm 
 blows over and you can make your peace with the 
 police afterward." This promise he was about to 
 keep as his message bore witness; and if Japhon 
 admitted that neither he nor Angus would have 
 kept it, he could yet say, nevertheless, that the Count 
 was a man of honor. 
 
 "I'll lie a month in Belgium while old Lawyer 
 Harper works for me," he argued. "If Angus 
 goes to penal servitude, that's no reason why I 
 should. They can't prove that I was his partner, 
 and if they do they can't say I had any of the 
 money. A month should see me safe, and after that 
 I can begin to think of life at home again. This'll 
 blow over if it's managed properly. They'll for- 
 give me for the stuff if I can prove to 'em I'm hon- 
 est." 
 
 He liked the reasoning, and it was shrewd. Bell 
 Island would overloom the lesser offence if the 
 greater were not brought home to him. Perhaps 
 
 256
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Japhon himself did not quite understand how in- 
 extricably his affairs were mixed up with those of 
 Holly Angus, and how sure were the prospects of 
 conviction. He had not had any of the baser money, 
 it is true but that was a fact even his own lawyer 
 could not prove; and, failing proof, an adverse ver- 
 dict was assured. If he fled to-night, he fled be- 
 cause of uncertainty and for a reason equally po- 
 tent. The supreme dread of his life had been the 
 Law, its meshes, its costs, its dangers. Prison stood 
 to him for an unnamable infamy, a place where 
 men were starved and flogged and crushed. And 
 from prison he was flying out to the darkness of 
 the sea, and to those unknown waters which stood 
 to this ignorant old man for the very fables of the 
 half-decked boat, small and handy and familiar. It 
 was the work of a few moments to warp her from 
 her moorings and get her into the open channel. 
 He would carry no lights nor trouble about provi- 
 sions, but he took a great flask of rum and put a 
 flare into the boat in case there should be the need 
 to signal. A rising sea delighted him, and he prom- 
 ised himself a swift run to the Galland Rock and 
 the security of the Count's launch. Once aboard 
 that he might laugh at these stories of policemen 
 and of prisons, laugh at what the world might say 
 of him, go his way among a strange people, un- 
 known and unremembered. In truth, the very ex- 
 
 257
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 citements of it were a fine mental tonic to a man 
 who had spent the best part of his life upon that 
 lonely island, and knew the world no better than 
 any ancient philosopher drumming a theorem in an 
 anchorite's cell. 
 
 He warped his boat into the Channel, we say, 
 and thence to the open sea. The island protecting 
 him from the dangerous northwesterly wind, the 
 first beginnings of his voyage were altogether to 
 a sailor's liking, for he ran almost before the steady 
 breeze, straight down the length of Bell Island to 
 the great lighthouse at its southern extremity. 
 There was no revenue boat here. Well he knew 
 the shape of them; often had his old eyes searched 
 them out when Jo, the nigger, and Isaacson, the 
 Swede, were blind to any sight but those which 
 years had made familiar to them. And to-night the 
 sea was almost destitute of ships 'for the fishing 
 boats had rounded the headland for safety, or were 
 once more ensconced in their own welcome harbor. 
 Japhon reflected that no revenue cutter would look 
 for work upon such a night, and pluming himself 
 upon security, he came at length to the headland 
 and the open sea and then he understood in an in- 
 stant the perils he had invited. 
 
 Ay, to be sure this was no landsman's breeze 
 this no night even for such a venture. How the 
 great rollers surged in toward the distant mainland ! 
 
 258
 
 THH FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 How they thundered already upon the fateful reefs ! 
 Darkness above and darkness below the weird 
 voices of storm calling him as with a witchery of 
 sirens; the wind roaring in the joy of tempest and 
 holocaust and upon it all that sense of despair, of 
 remoteness from a human aid which is the sailor's 
 direst experience. Japhon was a master of seaman- 
 ship, but never did he remember being afloat upon 
 such a night in such a ship, or even venturing be- 
 yond the Pharos when the dreaded northwesterly 
 winds were blowing half a gale. And this was tem- 
 pest, risen with tempestuous treachery, a storm 
 which would be remembered in the annals; a thing 
 for fathers to tell their children in the years which 
 should come after. 
 
 He had a good courage, this dour old man flying 
 from unknown perils, and it did not desert him in 
 this hour. If there were moments when he con- 
 templated surrender to necessity, and an attempt to 
 regain the Harbor or the cove, more sober reasoning 
 told him that such return was impossible, and that 
 even the river and the mainland were beyond his 
 hopes in such a gale. Even if it were done, the 
 greater peril stood there, for what kind of a figure 
 would he cut walking the streets of Barnstaple, and 
 what would the police have to say to him at such a 
 time? Arrest upon suspicion could be the lightest 
 of the penalties, and after arrest, the trial, and, it 
 
 259
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 might be, the judgment. Japhon determined that 
 whatever befell him here on the open sea, his fate 
 must be kinder than any which could await him on 
 shore. And this thought inspired him in the darkest 
 hour. He would run south before the gale, and 
 trust to pick up the Count's yacht before the tem- 
 pest drove him to harborage. Vain delusion ! They 
 were already signaling his predicament from the 
 lighthouse, and the rockets at the pierhead were 
 calling the lifeboat from the mainland. 
 
 Japhon saw the rockets cleaving the black sky 
 and tumbling with a long-drawn hiss into the spume 
 above the southern rocks. For a little while, he did 
 not understand that his own peril prompted the 
 men, and that he was responsible for the wailing 
 blasts now set up by the siren upon Bell Island, or 
 for that answering light from the river's mouth, 
 which signaled the departure of the lifeboat. When 
 he did so, when at last the truth came home to him, 
 the very irony of it appalled him as though it were 
 a judgment of Almighty God. To be taken thus in 
 the very act of flight to be dragged from the har- 
 boring seas to this light of exposure and of ridi- 
 cule. Better death itself, he said, and none the less 
 shrank from death with all the horror which a sim- 
 ple faith had nurtured through the years. 
 
 Here upon the ocean he could fight his battles 
 alone, peer up to the blackened heaven and pray for 
 
 260
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 forgiveness but over there, amid the lights and the 
 faces of men, with the finger of scorn pointed at 
 him, what hope for him was to be found there? 
 Despair answered none. He watched the trail of 
 the rockets as though the very fire must search out 
 hidden infamies. Not a guilty man in the graver 
 sense, conscious but of vague offences, he could 
 complain of the destiny which put these imagined 
 charges upon him, swear to Heaven that he knew 
 nothing of Angus' wrongdoings and was unable to 
 bear a new burden of suspicion and of peril. Better 
 by far that the end should be here, amid the black 
 waters, with the drone of the surges in his ears 
 better that the sea engulf him than that men should 
 say, this was the night when they took Japhon Fear- 
 ney, the felon. 
 
 He battled with the thought, rocked in the hard 
 cradle of temptation. It was one thing to boast a 
 resolution, another to battle with these monstrous 
 waves which cast up the boat high amid showers of 
 blinding spindrift, or hurled it headlong into the 
 turbulent abyss. Let his courage be what it might, 
 the voice of ocean could yet appall it, shrieking with 
 maddened youth, and belaboring his ship until every 
 timber yawned and the cabin was aflood. Again 
 and again must he lie head to the gale, to cheat the 
 whirlwind of waters racing after him in mocking 
 majesty, or boiling about the trembling ship until 
 
 261
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 her very shape was lost in their embrace. The bit- 
 ter cold, the dank air stupefied his brain and para- 
 lyzed his limbs. He watched the rockets as they 
 soared in lines of crimson fire, and began to think 
 that deliverance were better at any price. Lights 
 upon a distant horizon the lights of the tug which 
 towed the lifeboat from her moorings spoke of 
 shelter and warmth and security. And he was an old, 
 old man grown older in this brief hour of judg- 
 ment and the penalty. His debt was paid, he said. 
 Come what would, the Almighty had dealt with him, 
 and man's reckoning must be of no account. 
 
 262
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 THERE IS SOME TALK OF PARIS AND THE EAST 
 
 IT was at the Carlton Hotel, some ten days after 
 Japhon Fearney sailed for Holland, that Ernest 
 Hobby confessed his views upon later-day trage- 
 dies as performed at the West End theatres. 
 
 "I've seen three of them in four days, Canning," 
 he said, "and in every one of them there is a fool of 
 a husband whose wife wants to go off with another 
 man, but doesn't. You know all about it long be- 
 fore the curtain drops on the first act. Jones is a 
 millionaire and works all day. Smith is an artist, 
 or a dilletante, or a fool, and he flirts with Mrs. 
 Jones in her husband's absence at the office. Brown 
 is a genial person who will save Mrs. Jones at the 
 last moment. Now, my dear Canning, is this a bit 
 like life? Does a woman really dislike the man 
 who works for her happiness, and are there so many 
 Browns in the world always ready to save these la- 
 dies from the rascally Smiths? I can't believe it- 
 I've lived a good many years, and I never saw the 
 woman who disliked a man just because he was 
 busy, nor have I come across the amiable meddler 
 
 263
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 who is so ready to discover scandal in other people's 
 houses. Surely it's nonsense you have lived 
 among these people and you know." 
 
 Canning liked the simplicity of Hobby's talk and 
 used to encourage him in these heresies. They had 
 been ten days at the Carlton together, living there 
 as any tourists up to London for a holiday. And 
 they were on the eve of more extended travels 
 Heaven knew where. 
 
 "My dear Hobby you are too critical. If our 
 dramatists were absolutely true to life, there 
 wouldn't be a play on the stage 'the censor would 
 see to it. Always remember that what interests is 
 not the normal, but the abnormal. Possibly, round 
 about us at these very tables, there are plenty of 
 Joneses, but few Browns. Brown is necessary to 
 the tragedian in our humdrum existence his place 
 is often taken by the judge, though that is a fact 
 we must not dilate upon." 
 
 "Then you do believe that men who work are 
 likely to have a bad time as husbands?" 
 
 "I don't believe it at all. It is true that com- 
 merce does not inspire high ideals but you must 
 remember that your commercial man rarely suc- 
 ceeds before he is forty by which time he has a 
 family of sons and daughters and his wife is a 
 dowager. The idle few may be responsible for the 
 
 264
 
 THE, FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 tragedies indeed, we know that they are but the 
 idea that all is rotten in the state of Denmark be- 
 cause a few men are rogues and a few women un- 
 faithful, is just as pernicious a doctrine as any you 
 could name to me." 
 
 "I am sure of it. What I quarrel with is the 
 eternal sameness of the story. They say there are 
 no new plots two men and one woman or two 
 women and one man I wonder what the Greek 
 tragedians would have had to say to that?" 
 
 "Ah, there we must be fair. When Medea rends 
 her children or Alcestis goes to the Shades, there 
 are possibilities unknown to the moderns, with their 
 eternal scenes in Park Lane, or second acts in the 
 casino at Monte Carlo. Modernity is everywhere 
 the foe to romance. The new socialism will wipe 
 out all the romantic figures we shall have no 
 braver uniform than a banded cap with a badge on 
 it no more splendid hero than the fireman on the 
 top of a ladder. We are nearer to it every day. 
 Regard nosostros as the Spaniards say what 
 would they have thought of this dinner suit in the 
 days of Charles the King? My dear Hobby, they 
 would have locked us up in Bedlam immediately for 
 wearing boards upon our chests, and considered us 
 little less than lunatics for imprisoning our throats 
 in impossible bands of linen." 
 
 265
 
 "That's true and yet we do it because no man 
 has the pluck to set the fashion. Now, in the 
 East " 
 
 "Ah, the East that brings light to the eyes. I'll 
 ."Hke you to the East if you like, Hobby the East 
 of Europe to begin with Turkey, Hungary, 
 Greece then to India, to Burmah, to China, to Ja- 
 pan. My dear fellow, we shall begin to live in the 
 East. This is but existence and not very tolerable 
 at that." 
 
 Hobby looked at him a little sadly. How heavy 
 was the debt his fellow men had called upon this 
 clever man to pay ! Even these few days in London 
 had been a torture to John Canning. He was sure 
 of it 
 
 "Are you really willing to go?" he asked, a little 
 nervously. "Does London bore you already?" 
 
 "Of course it does. Any city which brings evil 
 memories is anathema to a sensible man. This Lon- 
 don is full of them. Ghosts meet me at every cor- 
 ner. I wake up in the morning to live ancient days 
 and to lan'ient them. Phantoms everywhere, Hobby 
 castles of the dreams, whose gates are shut to me ; 
 friends who pass by on the other side how shall I 
 like London and why should I live here?" 
 
 "Oh, but you have met a good many men these 
 last few days." 
 
 266
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Canning laughed so loudly that a waiter turned 
 to look at him. 
 
 "I'll tell you I met Horace Gipps, the banker, 
 to-day and he asked me to lunch at a hotel. Do 
 you see, my boy, you can't take convicts among 
 your women folk it wouldn't do and yet you 
 must get money out of them if they have got any. 
 Gipps banks my money and offers me the seclu- 
 sion of a private room in a private hotel. Then 
 there's young Val Percival, who was my closest 
 friend at King's. I saw him in the Park yesterday 
 and he clambered into his phaeton to avoid me. He 
 doesn't want my money and so we don't speak. A 
 third is that notorious rogue, Bernard Philpotts 
 his real name is Abraham. He asked me to his 
 house but I discovered that his wife and children 
 are at Brighton. Finally, I met the woman who 
 was to be my wife she was coming out of the 
 Haymarket last night. She stared me full in the 
 face and did not even change color. In my case 
 even money is not the key. I could rent a house in 
 Park Lane to-morrow and fill it with rascals of all 
 kinds, unspeakable men, women who would sell 
 their souls but what's the gain in that? How does 
 Self, sitting in a high place, like the worship of the 
 great kingdom of vice and roguery, the applause of 
 mendicants, the love of mercenary women? Is that 
 
 267
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 amnesty? Does such a victory satisfy? I tell you I 
 would sooner starve with the meanest upon the 
 Thames Embankment than suffer an hour of it. 
 That's why I'm going to the East, Hobby and 
 there's the reason why you should accompany me." 
 
 Hobby shook his head sadly. 
 
 "I have my work to do, Canning. Little homes 
 like mine don't send men round the world to enjoy 
 themselves. I have the wife and kiddies to con- 
 sider and am thankful if I can keep everything go- 
 ing. When people speak to me about holidays 
 motor cars, yachts, and all that sort of thing they 
 are doing me no service. Workers in olden times 
 were better off, just because they didn't know what 
 they missed. I'm sure the daily papers must be tor- 
 ture to thousands of good fellows who never get a 
 real holiday, and wouldn't ask for one if it wasn't 
 for what the papers say." 
 
 "That's true. Our greatest heroes are not states- 
 men or soldiers or even successful barristers they 
 are the humble folk working in the gloom of the 
 city and resting in the gloom of the suburbs. These 
 go unhonored and unsung. They live daily trage- 
 dies. The tax gatherer's knock is often an omen of 
 doom to them. They have no societies to help them 
 they live and die unaided. Yes, these men are the 
 heroes and here in England we have a few mil- 
 lions of them, thank God." 
 
 268
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "I say the same but you don't put me into that 
 category, surely. My work is a real pleasure to 
 me. I dream dreams which are reward enough, 
 even if they remain dreams. Some day I believe 
 that I shall do something, please God though I 
 wish I could tell you when the day was coming." 
 
 "It will come soon if you are determined that it 
 shall come. But you must add patience to deter- 
 mination and must make sacrifices. I shall take 
 you to France whatever you say, and you will spend 
 excellent weeks lying, metaphorically, on your back 
 and studying the architectural wisdom of the an- 
 cients. In Rouen alone, I will make your fortune, 
 Hobby you would be a madman to neglect the 
 opportunity.'"' 
 
 Hobby did not make an immediate response. 
 Truth to tell, he suffered no little anxiety on his 
 friend's behalf, and grieved much over the circum- 
 stances which had driven them from Bell Island. 
 The world must be full of evil temptations to such 
 a man at such a time, he thought. Far better to re- 
 main quietly in the shelter of his new home, win- 
 ning the people's confidence and regaining his old 
 self-respect. These Eastern cities with their idle 
 and voluptuous life for here you had the subur- 
 ban view the glamour of new lands, the excitement 
 of travel would minister but ill to a mind harassed 
 by one desire and sustained but by one hope. This 
 
 269
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 the little man was shrewd enough to perceive; but 
 he did not express it, for another had come upon the 
 scene, and, with an instant prescience of danger, 
 Ernest Hobby sat back in his chair to listen. 
 
 What a beautiful creature she was ! he said for 
 thus was the manner of his expression. Though 
 London is but a social wilderness in October, there 
 were many well-known folk in the Carlton lounge, 
 many well-dressed women who were "passing 
 through" ; a goodly sprinkling of men just returned 
 from the moors or the cures and not a few mem- 
 bers of Parliament called back to the dull labors of 
 an autumn session. Among these my Lady of the 
 States moved with charming grace and becoming 
 majesty. Faultlessly dressed in a gown of the rich- 
 est lace, wearing diamonds as her only ornament, 
 the Countess de Failes had long forgotten that 
 France was not the land of her birth, and that Phil- 
 adelphia had established the fortunes of those an- 
 cestors whose very names she had almost forgotten. 
 For she had married a French nobleman, whose 
 chateaux were not in Spain, but upon the banks of 
 the Loire ; and one of whose forebears had followed 
 the Marquis de Lafayette to that very America 
 which re-established the splendor of his decaying 
 household. 
 
 Now, John Canning knew this lady well ; he had 
 been concerned formerly with her husband in float- 
 
 270
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 ing a motor-car company in Paris and had stayed 
 at the Chateau de Nivres for weeks together ; drawn 
 there less by the hope of adding to his fortunes than 
 of enjoying the society of this charming woman. 
 When he met her again thus unexpectedly at the 
 Carlton Hotel, his satisfaction was abounding hers 
 not less reticent. Be sure that such a woman knew 
 nothing of the tragedy or its meaning. She had 
 always liked the Englishman whose ways were so 
 very American, for such was a charming fem- 
 inine inconsistency and his rediscovery pleased 
 her beyond any event of a wearying season of 
 pleasure. 
 
 "Why, it's Mr. John Canning, I do believe now 
 where have you been hiding all these years and 
 years, and whatever do you mean by deserting your 
 old friends in this way?" 
 
 The men stood at her approach, and she drew a 
 chair to their table with the greatest nonchalance. 
 The general babble and confusion permitted Can- 
 ning to hide the distress to which her question had 
 put him, and to make a commonplace answer. 
 
 "Don't tell me that you are curious," he said 
 quietly; "that is not a social vice in our time. The 
 world goes too fast to leave us time for curiosity. 
 Say that I was dead and have come to life again 
 and permit me to introduce my friend, Mr. Ernest 
 Hobby." 
 
 271
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 She bent her head a salute returned by Hobby 
 in a suburban bow, which began at his boots and 
 finished at the back of his head. When coffee had 
 been served and she had lighted a cigarette, she 
 persevered in her endeavor to learn what her friend 
 had been doing during the years. 
 
 "My husband is in America," she said quietly; 
 "I am quite alone, and for two weeks I have been 
 insufferably bored in this hotel. You shall amusa 
 me by telling me about your travels I want to- 
 hear about the women, not the tigers every one 
 tells me about the tigers and that makes me tired. 
 Now, Mr. Canning, you won't tell me about the 
 tigers " 
 
 "Are they generally associated with women, 
 Countess your own suggestion?" 
 
 "Why! was it? But you see I've lived fifteen 
 years in Europe what else could I say?" 
 
 "Oh, many things you could tell me about the 
 Chateau de Nivres to begin with. I carry a memory 
 of it in my dreams. A winding shallow river, a 
 bridge of arches, turrets, towers, a little chapel, a 
 great ballroom from whose windows you can fish, a 
 range of green hills across the valley the forest, 
 a forest of dreamland everywhere. Now, is not 
 that the Chateau de Nivres and do I overpraise 
 it?" 
 
 She admitted that he did not. 
 272
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "You must write an account of it when my hus- 
 band wishes to sell it," she said and this turned 
 astonished eyes upon her. 
 
 "Sell it what an infamy! He doesn't contem- 
 plate anything of the kind, surely?" 
 
 "He may do so -when we quarrel. A man often 
 wishes to sell the house of his disagreements." 
 
 "You are speaking of the future, Countess?" 
 
 "Naturally is one really to be blessed with a 
 memory in these days? My husband is wise he 
 has gone to America to learn the first of all lessons. 
 Do you know what that is, Mr. Canning?" 
 
 "Certainly there is one god and gold is his 
 profit." 
 
 She laughed, tapping his arm with her fan and 
 sipping her coffee before she spoke again. 
 
 "Woman is the lesson in America. Men learn it 
 thoroughly you will learn it when you marry." 
 
 "Then you know that I am not married." 
 
 "I divined it instantly. You cannot keep such a 
 secret from a woman. You are not married, and 
 you are coming to the Chateau de Nivres imme- 
 diately. Oh, my dear man, you won't leave me to 
 die of ennui?" 
 
 "I am very sorry, Countess my friend here 
 
 
 
 "But he will come, too. It will give me the great- 
 est pleasure. Let us see, to-day is Wednesday I 
 
 273
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 shall expect you both at the Chateau on Saturday 
 night." 
 
 "But " 
 
 She laughed, rising upon the word. 
 
 "There is no 'but' in a woman's dictionary, cher 
 Monsieur. I shall expect you on Saturday night 
 and you will not disappoint me. Now good night. 
 I have been to all the tragedies and I am tired out. 
 At Nivres we will learn to live again." 
 
 She left them with a smile, passing as a born 
 grande dame through the admiring throngs to the 
 great staircase and her bedroom. The men, for 
 their part, staring foolishly at each other, sat down 
 maladroitly and feared, each in his turn, to speak of 
 it. It may even be that rapid and searching ques- 
 tions were asked by both Canning deceiving him- 
 self with ready replies to the interrogatories of ex- 
 cuse; Hobby perplexed by those of wisdom. For 
 be sure that this kindly creature guessed already 
 something of the truth. "There is a woman," he 
 was saying, "who may be the enemy of this man's 
 peace I will go with him to Nivres." 
 
 "You see," exclaimed Canning at last, as one 
 speaking his thoughts aloud, "we could go to Paris 
 to-morrow and I could trot you round the city on 
 Friday. Saturday would take us to Nivres. I don't 
 know any place where a man of your profession 
 would learn as much." 
 
 274
 
 THH FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Hobby laughed out loud. 
 
 "Look here, Canning 'you're not thinking about 
 architecture you're thinking about that woman." 
 
 "If so, my thoughts will do her no discredit." 
 
 "I hope not well, I'll come with you if you like. 
 I've never seen much of France and you certainly 
 want a chaperon. Oh, yes, I'll go, all right." 
 
 "My dear Hobby, you would make an excellent 
 mother-in-law." 
 
 "The very thing you told me on the island when 
 I spoke to you about little Jesse. I wonder what she 
 is doing to-night, Canning." 
 
 Canning stood up immediately. 
 
 "Oh, I'm in no mood for philosophic specula- 
 tions. She would be sleeping, I suppose." 
 
 "Or dreaming, old chap eh ? These young girls 
 know how to dream. It's only when you have 
 chateaux in France that you begin to sleep soundly, 
 eh? Well, we'll go to Nivres and come back 
 
 soon." 
 
 They shook hands upon it and went to their re- 
 spective rooms; but it was long before either slept. 
 The few clever words dropped by Hobby were not 
 lost upon his friend, nor did he fail to recall them 
 often during that long night of wakefulness. How 
 disastrous hacl been his attempts to anchor himself 
 securely to the rock of a good woman's love ! How 
 cruelly the world had dealt by him, that his stigma 
 
 275
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 of failure should brand him to the end! And it 
 must always be so, he thought, in such a case as his. 
 Society neither forgets nor forgives. The solemn 
 words spoken by a judge who knows nothing of the 
 criminal before him, the dark years of the prison 
 life are but the beginning of the reaping. The true 
 punishment comes afterward, and has no end but 
 in death. 
 
 He warred against the world in those hours 
 warred against all social codes and the common 
 faiths. What forbade him quitting such an exist- 
 ence and turning to that sun of pleasure which 
 would shine upon him in a new country, among a 
 people who knew him not, or knowing, would not 
 care? Who could judge him for that or hold him 
 guilty? He had the best years of his life yet to 
 live if his own country had no use for them, if 
 the very villages must ring with the story of his in- 
 famies, what heritage of duty forbade him to go 
 forth to the wilderness? A sense of culminating 
 injustice answered "none." The night tempted him 
 with the dream pictures of a glowing sensualism; 
 of cities and fair women and golden palaces; of 
 mountains girding a promised land; of kings and 
 peoples who would honor him; of riches which 
 could purchase all human joys. And he submitted 
 to them, battling with sleep for their enjoyment and 
 surrendering none of them until the dawn, When 
 
 276
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 at last he slept, these visions passed to give place to 
 others but not of the East nor of the voluptuary's 
 dominion. For now he dreamed of Jesse Fearney 
 and her name was upon his lips when they waked 
 him to the day which should carry him from Eng- 
 land upon an uncertain pilgrimage. 
 
 277
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 JESSE HEARS THE TRUTH 
 
 THE cruiser Marathon returned to its anchorage 
 at Bell Island three days after Japhon Fearney's 
 flight; but not until the afternoon of the following 
 day could Philip Blake get leave to go ashore, and 
 hear the strange news which a dozen willing gos- 
 sips about the harbor gates were only too ready to 
 tell him. 
 
 "Be you going up to the farm, sir? Well, there be 
 rare goings on. 'Tis said the police are in the 
 house and the old man in Holland. We don't 
 rightly know ourselves, but 'tis extraordiner strange 
 to be sure. Mr. Moss, he came across late las' night. 
 We don't 'xactly know what such as 'ee be a-doing 
 up there, but 'tis after old Japhon for sure. Ay, a 
 mighty secret man he were and keepin' it cleverly, 
 too, from his friends and naybers. But 'tis all give 
 over now, sir, and the darter in a sad plight, as 
 you'll learn for yourself if you be going up." 
 
 The speaker was old Tom Weede, standing back 
 to the wall and smoking his pipe as unconcernedly 
 as though the arrest of half the population would 
 
 278
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 not trouble him at all. Others betrayed no more 
 feeling, and were chiefly anxious to hear what the 
 lieutenant would say. Had he not been "courting" 
 up at the farm ever since the Marathon came round 
 to the Bristol Channel why, surely he should 
 know? When he professed a healthy ignorance, 
 their astonishment was undisguised. 
 
 "What do you all mean?" he asked them. "The 
 police, you say? What have the police to do with 
 Japhon Fearney?" 
 
 "Ay, maister, that's what a good many on us 
 would like to know. Ye see, he were a secret man 
 and uncanny and that's the sort the police do well 
 to look after when the trouble begins " 
 
 "Has he escaped them ? Has he gone ?" 
 
 "Sailed for Holland three days ago and no more 
 heard of. The lifeboat went out but could not find 
 'ee. Belike the old man is where the King's writ 
 can't touch him. 'Twere a dreadful night and not 
 for such a bit of a boat as he put out in. Ay, 
 Japhon were not the man to be took by the law, sir 
 he knowed summat, he did and if alive he is, it 
 won't be Moss of Bide ford as will clap hands upon 
 'him, take it from us, sir." 
 
 Philip Blake could make nothing of it. What in 
 Heaven's name were they chattering about? He 
 would have staked his life on Japhon Fearney 's 
 honesty but this story of a secret voyage was 
 
 279
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 another thing altogether. He remembered what a 
 night of wind and sea it had been. If the old man 
 were drowned and the mainland had the story, of 
 course, the police would bring it over. And this, 
 he said, was the origin of all this callous talk, these 
 attitudes of wonder, these "I would's and I could's." 
 A pitiful people, a sordid, callous company from 
 which any man might pray to be delivered. 
 
 "Do you say that Miss Jesse is alone in the 
 house?" he asked them. Abe Benson answered 
 him. 
 
 "She be in the house, all right, leastwise if she've 
 lost her fancy for roving when decent folk be in 
 their beds. Arst my son Frank he'll tell you she 
 slept up in Whiterock coppice the night the old man 
 sailed away. Her fancy man be off to England 
 'twere like a woman to be out all night in a nor'- 
 wester to call him back again. But you'll be going 
 up presently yourself, sir," he added sagely "and 
 no doubt correcting some of us if we be wrong." 
 
 This was a far from subtle attempt to get the 
 news first hand; for, in truth, these people knew 
 little but what their eyes told them, and even Frank 
 Benson, who had extorted the truth about the quar- 
 rel from Hannah, the maid, had not, despite his 
 cunning, succeeded in forcing his way into the 
 farmhouse. All that Bell Island could tell you 
 truly was that Japhon Fearney sailed away from 
 
 280
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 the northern creek sixty hours ago, that the lifeboat 
 had searched for, but had not found him, and that 
 the police in company with the Customs officer 
 was now at the farm, on a mission which could be 
 surmised, but not stated. The rest was the crude 
 fretwork of ill-governed tongues. It failed to con- 
 vince any of them it certainly failed to convince 
 Philip Blake. 
 
 He walked on quickly to the farm, not a little 
 curious, not a little sad. Disaster is often a ready 
 excavator of buried thoughts, dragging them from 
 the graves which self-justification has digged, and 
 setting them fearfully under God's blue sky. Such 
 a skeleton now stood before Philip Blake and asked 
 him troublesome questions. Why had he visited 
 Kearney's farm so often ? What was the meaning of 
 his visits? Why did he intrude there when he knew 
 full well that Jesse Fearney loved another man? 
 Had his intentions toward her been honorable or 
 dishonorable? She must have suffered much if this 
 tale were true endured those secret sorrows which 
 are a woman's heaviest burden. Had he, Philip 
 Blake, added to those burdens, been the foe to her 
 happiness, nay worse, the chief among her ene- 
 mies? These matters he did not dare to sift to the 
 bottom. A man knows when all is not well, and 
 must be deaf indeed if the voice of shame has noth- 
 ing to say to him. 
 
 281
 
 THB FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 He accused himself and yet could be thankful for 
 the accusation. No harm had been done. This 
 lonely, friendless girl, whose bright eyes had so 
 often made his heart dance, she should find a friend 
 in him, even if he came but at the eleventh hour. 
 Her father's disgrace, if disgrace it were, must 
 make no difference. He would stand in Japhon 
 Fearney's place until the old fellow returned he 
 would delight in such service as a man can give 
 honestly and disinterestedly. So, at least, said Sir 
 Valiant as he hurried up the cliff path to the farm- 
 house door. The bright eyes must tempt him no 
 more alas, that bright eyes refuse so often to do 
 a brave man's bidding! 
 
 In such a mood as this came Philip to the farm 
 and knocked softly at the door. The appearance of 
 a burly sergeant of police in no way surprised him 
 after what he had heard in the village. It was- 
 clear now that the worst had happened, and he was 
 glad to think that he might yet be in time to help 
 Jesse. 
 
 "Is she at home ?" he asked for it was very nat- 
 ural to mention no names. The sergeant, who 
 knew the officers of the Marathon very well and 
 had an official respect for them, replied without any 
 subterfuge 
 
 "The lady's in the orchard, I think, sir. This is 
 a bad business, Mr. Blake, and I fear it will be 
 
 282
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 worse. They say the old man never reached Hol- 
 land alive but you'd like to walk in, sir ; you might 
 wish to see Miss Fearney." 
 
 Philip said that he did. A few questions to the 
 sergeant obtained plain, if unpleasant, answers. It 
 was quite true that a warrant had been issued for 
 old Japhon's arrest. He and Holly Angus had been 
 running a doubtful business for some years, and this 
 saccharin smuggling was the meanest part of it. 
 The lawyers would prove embezzlement and fraud 
 to a large degree Angus was booked for ten years' 
 penal servitude, and if old Fearney were caught he 
 would certainly get five. 
 
 "But he'll never be caught, sir," the sergeant 
 added sagely; "he's where no warrant will touch 
 him, and glad I am for that. When a man has such 
 a daughter we may be glad to see disgrace passing 
 him by and visiting others. I daresn't tell the 
 young lady so but we don't believe her father's 
 alive, and that's the truth of it." 
 
 Philip said that he supposed it must be so. 
 
 "But we must do our best for the rest of them," 
 he rejoined, "and we needn't say more than is nec- 
 essary, sergeant. I'm sure you won't do that." 
 
 The sergeant said: "Oh, no indeed, sir." He 
 had children of his own and could afford to be a 
 man, as well as an officer of police. The search 
 then being made among Fearney's papers was nec- 
 
 283
 
 THH FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 essary, but would be done with as much delicacy as 
 possible and afterward one of them must remain 
 at the farm such were their instructions, which he 
 hoped would embarrass Miss Fearney as little as 
 possible. "But perhaps you will see her for your- 
 self and tell her so," he concluded. "It's difficult 
 for the likes of us to do that kind of work, as you 
 will very well understand, sir." 
 
 Philip agreed and went straight through the 
 farmhouse to the yard beyond, and thence to the 
 orchard. He found Jesse sitting upon an old bench 
 near the swing which had played so large a part in 
 the story of her childhood; and he perceived at 
 once how great a surprise this visitation had been, 
 for she still wore the apron which served for her 
 household duties and he could detect no emblem of 
 a woman's vanity in her appearance. 
 
 And then her welcome. The fervor of it, the 
 sudden understanding that a friend had come to the 
 house, that here was a man who would help a 
 woman in the hour of her need. Philip Blake 
 found this the most difficult part of it Sir Valiant 
 trembled before the touch of those hot hands, be- 
 fore the tear-stained eyes which the light of hope 
 had kindled to sudden brightness, before the mu- 
 sical words of thanks and recognition. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Blake, Mr. Blake! oh, it is indeed you! 
 And I have been alone so many, many hours." 
 
 284
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Philip took both her hands in his and looked into 
 the laughing eyes, laughing despite their sadness. 
 
 "I knew nothing, Miss Jesse how could I ? We 
 only came in last night this is the first time I have 
 been ashore. But of course I came up here at once 
 you know that I did." 
 
 She ignored it, beginning to tell him quickly of 
 her troubles and of the woe which had come upon 
 their house. 
 
 "My father sailed away three nights ago we 
 had quarreled about about Mr. Canning. I did 
 not see him oh, Mr. Blake! he went without a 
 word to me and I have received neither letter nor 
 message since. And now the police have come here. 
 They say they are looking for some papers which 
 belong to Mr. Holly Angus but I don't under- 
 stand that. Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do ? 
 and my father gone from me like this oh, Mr. 
 Blake ! gone and I alone what shall I do ?" 
 
 He drew her toward the seat and began to talk 
 to her quietly. 
 
 "Is Canning back at the Castle yet?" he asked 
 her. She shook her head, but did not answer. 
 
 "Do you know where he is living in London?" 
 
 "He did not tell me why should he have 
 done?" 
 
 "Then there is no chance that your father sailed 
 over to the mainland and went on to London?" 
 
 285
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Her eyes lighted at this here was something she 
 had never thought upon. 
 
 "It might be and yet but no, he would not let 
 me see him, he forbade me to go to the house 
 after it was known. It could not be that, Mr. 
 Blake." 
 
 "Then he may have gone there on other business 
 perhaps to see the lawyers. What I cannot un- 
 derstand is his silence. He would have written to 
 you, I should think, that is if he crossed in safety. 
 It was a dreadful night the whole village is talk- 
 ing about it." 
 
 He avoided her glance now, and for a little while 
 neither spoke. Jesse had thought of this terrible 
 possibility, but had not dared to speak her thoughts 
 to any one. 
 
 "Do you believe my father is dead, Mr. Blake?" 
 
 "God forbid I'll believe no such thing. He was 
 a fine sailor he would have run for shelter when 
 he saw how the wind was rising. I should say he 
 might have had to lie up somewhere for a day or 
 two but you will hear soon, perhaps to-morrow. 
 In any case, it won't be long before Canning re- 
 turns that I'm sure of." 
 
 She flushed at this, wondering why he would 
 speak of it for she knew that he loved her and 
 that talk of John Canning must be hateful to 
 him. 
 
 286
 
 THE FORTUNATE, PRISONER 
 
 "I don't believe he'll ever come to Bell Island 
 again," she said thoughtfully. 
 
 "But you wish him to come tell me that, Jesse 
 you wish him to come?" 
 
 She did not answer him. Flushed cheeks, the 
 averted face, the quick beating of her heart were 
 answer enough. Had Philip Blake confessed the 
 truth, he would have said that this was the greatest 
 hour of temptation he had lived through. Oh, how 
 easy it would have been to have played the role of 
 some worshiping Knight Errant, who would have 
 taken all her burdens upon his stout shoulders, 
 whispered stories of new lands and a new home, . 
 bidden her rise up and follow him to an Eldorado 
 where all but his love and worship should be for- 
 gotten! This many another would have done. He 
 believed that he had but to put the picture before 
 her in sufficiently glowing colors to win a victory 
 beyond all his hopes. For what would such a child 
 think of form and ceremony in such an hour ? What 
 would be her scruples in the face of this tragedy of 
 death and shame? "Tell her the truth and she will 
 go with you," a voice whispered in his ear. It 
 needed all Sir Valiant's courage to cope with 
 that. 
 
 Long he sat silently wrestling with this supreme 
 temptation. How beautiful she was ! What a picture 
 of English girlhood in its maturity ! How winning 
 
 287
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 were all her gestures, even those of her sorrow! 
 And he had but to speak the word, the canting 
 word, alike hypocritical and veracious. Let him but 
 say to her, "Your father is a felon, the law is seek- 
 ing him, he fled from you to escape shame and a 
 prison" and who would doubt her answer? If he 
 forbore, the lessons of a life of discipline and of 
 duty helped him to the victory. And their help was 
 noble. Long years afterward Philip Blake remem- 
 bered that hour and thanked God for it. 
 
 "Jesse," he said at last, "do you remember my 
 telling you that the old guv'nor knew the true story 
 of John Canning and his trial?" 
 
 She looked up at him, a new light altogether in 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Oh, yes, yes, I remember it perfectly." 
 "Well, I managed to get home for half a day 
 last week and I had it out with the guv'nor. There 
 is a clerk in our office at home who knows a good 
 many things Canning would like to hear, if some 
 one would only tell him as much. Now, why don't 
 you do that?" 
 
 "Oh, but, Mr. Blake is it about his trial?" 
 "It is about the particular charges they brought 
 against him when his company went down. My 
 father thiiiks he would have got off, if he had 
 known then as much as old Fred Willing, our clerk, 
 knows now. Of course it may not all be true, but 
 
 288
 
 FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 I think we ought to let Mr. Canning know, and 
 you're the one to do it." 
 
 Her face clouded did he forget what had hap- 
 pened, then? 
 
 "But how can I write to him, Mr. Blake he has 
 gone away, you know how could I send a letter?" 
 
 "There should be half a dozen ways. I'm going 
 up to town next week when our work is done here, 
 and I'll find out all about it for you. I suppose 
 they'll keep us hanging around another day or two, 
 for the Admiral is keen about a lot of things and 
 we don't join the fleet for another fortnight. I 
 ought to get a few days' leave when we do go, and 
 I'll use them to discover all about Canning and to 
 let you know. You must tell him everything you 
 must ask him to come back here and help you, 
 Jesse " 
 
 "Help me oh, I would never ask him to do 
 that." 
 
 "He'll do it without any asking. I wish I had 
 his opportunities." 
 
 He sighed a little wistfully. Honest in truth 
 was that expression, and spoken from his heart. 
 But it fell upon deaf ears. He watched Jesse's face 
 narrowly, and failed to perceive even a glance 
 which should bid him to hope. This confession 
 obsessed her. The idea that John Canning might 
 return, that he might hear good news from her lips, 
 
 289
 
 THB FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 oh, was it not some atonement for all that she had 
 suffered in the darker hours? Nay, her eyes told 
 Blake as much, and he had no courage to persist. 
 
 "We shall be off here more or less until the be- 
 ginning of next week," he said; "if I can get ashore 
 I'll be here like a shot and, be sure, I'll write to 
 old Fred Willing this very day and bring you his 
 answer myself. Meanwhile, if there is anything I 
 can do for you here, Miss Jesse, you won't forbid 
 me to do it, I know. Please treat me as your 
 brother it would be so kind of you." 
 
 She gave him a vague promise, the new hope still 
 animating her. When he left her it was upon a 
 renewal of the promise that he would write to Lon- 
 don, and bring her the letter which might mean so 
 much to John Canning and his fortunes. The po- 
 lice had finished their search by this time, and but 
 one remained upon a plausible excuse posted as a 
 sentry about the house and very kind and tactful in 
 all his expressions. To him Blake said "Good 
 night," and slipped half a sovereign in his hand. 
 
 "There will be no need to tell the young lady 
 anything," he suggested, . and the constable agreed 
 with him. "The old man has not been taken, sir," 
 he rejoined, "and if God Almighty has judged him, 
 there's no need for us to do anything." 
 
 "Except to help in a very sad case, and not to 
 forget that we may have children of our own. I 
 
 290
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 shall be to and fro during the next few days, ser- 
 geant don't hesitate to send down to the ship if 
 you think I can help." 
 
 "I will not, sir from all I hear you're not the 
 first young gentleman that has been wishful to do 
 so and some of 'em not so welcome here. There's 
 that young Benson, for instance the brother of 
 him that first informed on Fearney you would do 
 well to say a word to him, I think." 
 
 Philip's face grew dark. 
 
 "What has he been doing, sergeant?" 
 
 "Ay, that's what a good many are asking, but 
 he'll do precious little while I'm in the house, and 
 that I promise him." 
 
 He said no more and they parted upon it. Half 
 w r ay down the cliff road, however, Philip met Frank 
 Benson face to face, and was instantly recognized 
 by that crafty youth, who had haunted the farm 
 during the last two days, and purposed so to haunt 
 it until Japhon Fearney should return. 
 
 "Why, it's Lieutenant Blake," he exclaimed 
 and added, "Then you've been up to the farm, eh, 
 lieutenant?" 
 
 Blake looked him over from head to foot. 
 
 "My business, sir I do not ask yours." 
 
 "Oh, you needn't apologize. The police have 
 told you all about it, I'm sure. This is Mr. Can- 
 ning's work, this is. He and Jesse were going off 
 
 291
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 together, but the old man got wind of it. Last 
 Monday night she never went back to the farm at 
 all. That's a fine thing to hear, isn't it? Pretty 
 goings on for such a place as Bell Island, you must 
 say?" 
 
 Blake drew a step nearer to him. 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" he asked. 
 
 "What you like to make of it. She was engaged 
 to me once I'm jolly glad I didn't marry her." 
 
 "You hound! You liar!" 
 
 He struck him full in the face, the youth reeling 
 backward from him and lying in craven terror upon 
 the grass. Now was Sir Valiant wearing his 
 armor firmly, hot in just anger and nerved to sound 
 judgments. But he remembered, as he hurried on 
 toward the ship, that yesterday his own intention 
 might have provoked just such words as these, and 
 that but for that silent knight, Sir Conscience, who 
 had gone up to the lonely farmhouse with him, he, 
 too, might have been as little worthy of men's re- 
 spect as the coward he had left on the cliffside be- 
 hind him. 
 
 292
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 AT THE CHATEAU DE NIVRES 
 
 MADAME DE FAILES had gathered an odd com- 
 pany beneath her husband's splendid roof, and right 
 well they amused her during that bright month of 
 October, when "urgent business" still detained the 
 Count in New York. 
 
 Here you would find an actor from the Bouffes 
 cheek by jowl with a Marquis from the Basque 
 provinces; a priest of the Sorbonne rubbing shoul- 
 ders with a professor from Boston; a dozen aristo- 
 crats whose united ages would not have aggregated 
 a hundred years whispering undoubted words of 
 wisdom to nymphs of like juvenility. Here, a 
 veritable human otta podrida kept the pot of humor 
 boiling all the day and, for that matter, all the 
 night, when occasion offered. For it was Madame's 
 first principle of existence that her guests must 
 amuse her ; and she cared not whence they came did 
 they but bring laughter in their train. 
 
 And so her house was filled by those whom her 
 husband in his anger had not hesitated to brand as 
 canaille. Let her be on nodding acquaintance with 
 any merry fellow and he was sure of an invitation 
 
 293
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 to the chateau. Americans who knew her but by 
 name presented their cards at the gates and were 
 often impressed into her service. She delighted in 
 the very novelty of it all, in this melange of bishops 
 and counts, actors and artists, singers and dancers. 
 Pleasure was her watchword, and pleasure must she 
 reap whatever the season. Did she not suffer 
 enough when her husband was at home? she would 
 ask pathetically. Be sure that he would have none 
 of these folk. They vanished as the mists upon his 
 return for he was an aristocrat of the older school, 
 and even Madame had grown to be frightened of 
 him. 
 
 Now, John Canning and Ernest Hobby had been 
 plunged into this sorry whirlpool just upon three 
 weeks, when next their doings concern us and 
 cordial indeed had been Madame's welcome of 
 them. Canning himself interested her with his 
 pungent talk as few Englishmen she had met she 
 felt convinced that he would provoke argument of 
 an exciting kind at her table while as for his little 
 friend, he who bowed like a tailor and apologized 
 upon all occasions, was not he as amusing as an 
 actor from the Robiniere and far more obliging? 
 If to this must be added the foolish conviction that 
 her personal charms made no little impression upon 
 a man who had a physical attraction for many 
 women, the secret of her hospitality is not far to 
 
 294
 
 THB FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 guess. She had invited John Canning to the cha- 
 teau that she might add one to her many conquests, 
 a phase of amusement which did not fail to enter- 
 tain her, and for which the years fostered a keener 
 inclination. 
 
 So here he was in the thick of it all, the foremost 
 figure in the fetes, the desired among few desira- 
 bles and here was Ernest Hobby, going meekly 
 and a-tiptoe over the velvet pile, wondering at his 
 amazing popularity, half fearing, half ashamed 
 but at heart the same simple, honest fellow that we 
 have always known him to be. As for the rouged 
 and powdered women who chaffed or made mock 
 love to him, Hobby did not care a snap of the fin- 
 gers for them. He ate, drank and made moderately 
 merry, but chiefly he followed his friend as a faith- 
 ful slave of the lamp, who would keep the flame of 
 his friendship bright whatever the consequences. 
 
 The latter errand brought him to Canning's bed- 
 room early on the morning of the twenty-first day, 
 and set him in a big armchair by the window, 
 wherefrom he could look out over the shallow wa- 
 ters of the beautiful River Loire, and watch the 
 gardeners among the parterres below. Canning 
 himself was but just awake. A budget of letters 
 from England lay unopened on his bed. Hobby 
 glanced at them aside, but did not dare to speak all 
 his thoughts. 
 
 295
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "I expect you're tired after what went on last 
 night," he began with some hesitation "I must 
 say these people do keep it up, Canning. They'd 
 kill me if I stopped here long enough." 
 
 Canning stretched himself, and glancing in his 
 turn at the letters, admitted that they were rather 
 lively. 
 
 "Let me see, Hobby what did we do after sup- 
 per? I remember the swans on the lake, and some 
 ass dubbing me the son of Parzival. After that we 
 had the dancers from Smyrna and the fiddlers from 
 Trieste. Was there anything else which was par- 
 ticularly agitating?" 
 
 "Of course there was you were on the island 
 half the night with Madame. I saw you. I was 
 supping with a fairy in one of the pavilions. I say, 
 Canning, don't you think we have had enough of 
 all this? I like a dance as well as any man, and I 
 can eat a good supper when I want one but sup- 
 ping at five o'clock in the morning and then play- 
 ing bridge until half-past eight, now do they really 
 like it, do you like it, does any one like it? Isn't 
 it merely the same sort of foolery which sends a 
 hundred sheep through a gate because one has 
 fallen into the ditch on the other side ?" 
 
 Canning laughed, and lay back on the pillow 
 again. 
 
 "These people are like Dickens' cab horse," he 
 296
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 said; "they would fall down if you took them out 
 of the shafts. I admit it's all moonshine and mad- 
 ness, but you're none the worse off for having seen 
 it, and I'll show you something better before many 
 weeks are passed " 
 
 "Weeks ! 'you're not going to stop here weeks 
 why, I should be turned into a marionette if I didn't 
 go soon. Let's get back to London, old chap 
 we're safer there." 
 
 "Safer, Hobby?" 
 
 "I mean what I say. This kind of madness is 
 infectious. You can catch it, and when you catch it, 
 you want another kind of madness to cure you. 
 Let's go to-morrow, Canning; I'm sure it's better." 
 
 "Impossible, my dear Hobby. Chardon comes 
 here to sing to-morrow and there is the bal masque 
 afterward. I have sworn great oaths I cannot go 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "Then the day after I'm sure you would like 
 to hear the news from Bell Island. I know you 
 would." 
 
 "What news can I expect from that hole?" 
 
 "Ah, that's what I don't know. But I believe 
 there is news, and that it is good news. Shall we 
 say the day after to-morrow?" 
 
 "If Madame agrees you see, we owe something 
 to her." 
 
 "I suppose we do, Canning. One fool always 
 297
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 owes something to another who led him to make an 
 ass of himself. Well, I shall go back anyway. I've 
 seen enough of what you call the world to last me 
 half a lifetime. The rest can wait I'm going 
 round the universe on the instalment plan, and this 
 is the first year's payment as far as I am concerned. 
 My dear man, such a crew of brainless idiots I 
 never imagined let loose on the earth all the 
 women shrieking like parrots, all the men trying to 
 shut them down, and not half as much honest en- 
 joyment as a farm hand gets at a fair. Oh, you 
 may keep your high life for me I'd sooner be a 
 tram conductor, upon my word I would." 
 
 "But, Hobby think of your educational possi- 
 bilities. Are you not going to hunt the wild boar 
 to-day " 
 
 "They say I am. It seems to me I've been hunt- 
 ing him for the last three weeks." 
 
 "Learning to be a cynic, too. Well, give me a 
 few hours to think it over. I'm not sure you are 
 not right, and if I come to the conclusion that you 
 are " 
 
 "If you do?" 
 
 "We'll be in Rome in sixty hours and in Venice 
 a week afterward." 
 
 Hobby was a little disappointed. He knew the 
 whole story of Canning's flight from Bell Island by 
 this time, perceived its significance and the moment 
 
 298
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 of it so far as his friend's future was concerned. 
 A true diplomat, he would risk nothing by prema- 
 ture action ; but he kept the end in sight and was as 
 determined that his friend should marry Jesse Fear- 
 ney as ever he was about anything in the whole 
 story of his determined life. Here, he thought, sal- 
 vation lay; certainly it did not lie in this fetid at- 
 mosphere of musk and patchouli, of garden fetes 
 and masked balls, of suppers when men should be 
 breakfasting and of breakfasts when men should be 
 supping. Hobby's subtirbanism was elated by none 
 of these things. He took them at their true value 
 no costly estimate where such a reckoning was to 
 be made. 
 
 We find him, then, content with John Canning's 
 vague promises, and an apparently indifferent par- 
 ticipator in the sports of the ensuing day. These 
 were to consist chiefly of a wild-boar hunt in the 
 forest of Nivres, an event of which young men 
 spoke as though some dangerous arena were to be 
 invaded, and the spirits of dead gladiators sum- 
 moned to their assistance. Nay, the whole court- 
 yard reeked of this mock pageantry when the Eng- 
 lishman appeared there some half an hour later, and 
 discovered a scene which would have delighted the 
 heart of old Rabelais himself. What a curving and 
 pirouetting of magnificent horses ! What grotesque 
 effigies of sportsmen ! What laughing, ogling, sigh- 
 
 299
 
 _ THE FORTUNATE. PRISONER 
 
 ing dames come out to bid these vain cavaliers God- 
 speed! And behind them all the massive walls of 
 the old chateau, which had husbanded the sighs of 
 the Pompadour and had echoed the tread of the 
 great Cardinal himself. Here was something, for a 
 modern keeper of the chroniques scandaleiises 
 even John Canning laughed, admitted its drollery. 
 
 There is no particular reason why a young man 
 who would hunt the wild boar should wear a suit of 
 black and white checks, a Tyrol hat in a fine shade 
 of green, leggings of a brilliant yellow, and suede 
 gloves of even a more alarming tint. This ap- 
 peared to be the common costume. There were full 
 a dozen of such valiants, to say nothing of my Lady 
 Diana praying for the groves, and of the more se- 
 date members of the company thinking already of 
 dejeuner within and not of the forest without. 
 Prominent among the latter was the Bishop of 
 Nivres himself a fine white-haired old courtier and 
 a very descendant of that Nicolas Jean de Dieu 
 Soult, who was Duke of Dalmatia and a Marshal 
 of France. He moved leisurely amid the throng, 
 the purple stock relieving the sombre black of his 
 cassock and a gentle smile of pity adding benig- 
 nity to a classic face. For each and all he had the 
 same greeting "You go to the chase. Ah, my 
 brave, good luck go with you !" 
 
 Brave, truly, at the outset and what a gaudy 
 300
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 cavalcade to quit the chateau gates and plunge into 
 the heart of the sylvan forest, grown a little sad 
 these autumn days, but still showing you many a 
 patch of sunshine in the intervals of trees! Here, 
 said history, the eternal Diana, she of Poictiers and 
 the salamander, had roved afar with Henry and 
 with Francis; here the Due de Guise had hunted 
 but a few short weeks before they slew him at Blois, 
 and the King his master remarked coldly, upon see- 
 ing his corpse, that he had thought he had been 
 taller and here, now at the beginning of the twen- 
 tieth century, went Madame la Comtesse de Failes, 
 nee Judith Cartwright of Philadelphia, upon a 
 prancing white horse which had come out of Araby, 
 and clothed in a gown which even the critics of 
 Paris would style le dernier cri. No pageant, for 
 sure, had inspired a finer energy since Madame 
 DuBarry led the frolics in these very glades and a 
 King was named the "well-beloved" at her bidding. 
 The gay laughter, the gaudy dresses, the ambling 
 horses, the fine greenswards, rough woodlanders in 
 stout homespuns, the burns splashing amid gnarled 
 trunks and distant, but never long hidden from 
 their view, the fine turrets and matchless spires of 
 the Chateau de Nivres oh, it was well enough, as a 
 cynic would have admitted. 
 
 Now Madame took care to keep Canning in her 
 train, and, as they went, she told him something of 
 
 301
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 the hunting which was to follow. Butts had been 
 built, it appeared, to shelter this gallant company. 
 Whatever the glories of sport in other lands, Sir 
 Lord Pig must go at some disadvantage in this. 
 No sticking here no wild gallops not, at any rate, 
 until the boar was dead and the keepers were deal- 
 ing with his carcass. 
 
 "Why, there isn't a man of them would come if I 
 didn't," she said, referring to the butts; "do you 
 know that Monsieur le Marquis de San Rosas 
 spent two hours yesterday morning shooting black- 
 birds, and brought one home tied to the end of a 
 stick? We send the keepers into the wood to drive 
 the boars out and then we shoot at them. Now, 
 isn't that fine?" 
 
 "For the keepers?" Canning asked. She didn't 
 like that. 
 
 "You English think you are the only sportsmen 
 in the world. I guess that's your vanity. Why 
 should we be gored by pigs if we don't feel like it? 
 I don't see the necessity." 
 
 "Most prudent, Countess. This is an age which 
 takes to butts generally when there is any trouble 
 about. I am very glad of it. Credit me with no 
 desire at all to become a martyr I'll be first into 
 the shelters when the fun begins." 
 
 "Then it's going to begin now. This is the Gorge 
 of the Three Cascades we shall find a boar here if 
 
 302
 
 THE, FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 we have any luck. Of course they won't let the 
 girls come they say it's too dangerous." 
 
 "A noble sentiment. Does the boar appear upon 
 the particular scene they choose for him?" 
 
 "Well, I hope so I should have a fit if he came 
 my way." 
 
 She laughed and summoned the head keeper to 
 her side. The scene they had chosen disclosed a 
 rugged cliff on the right hand, down which there 
 trickled three considerable cascades. A wood lay 
 beyond on the higher ground and a big grassy 
 mound on the left. Here the ladies of the party 
 were to be anchored, lusty keepers protecting them, 
 while the men circumvented the thicket and took 
 up their stations on the hither side of it. The latter 
 proceeding evidently was not much to the taste of 
 some of the gallant sportsmen who went a-tiptoe 
 and with caution. The premature appearance of a 
 slinking fox caused a veritable hullabaloo, some of 
 the cavaliers running like athletes, others crying 
 "Ciel !" But this alarm soon passed the ladies were 
 herded on the green mound, my lords conducted to 
 the distant butts before the wood from which the 
 lordly pig should be driven. And once within the 
 sheltering bulwarks the old ferocity of demeanor 
 was easily reassumed. Ah, there were fierce ejacu- 
 lations now ! 
 
 So behold twenty check-suited men, one resem- 
 
 303
 
 THH FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 bling the other as a pea resembles a brother pea, 
 herded together in this pen for the applause of 
 Diana upon the mountain. The bold keepers had 
 plunged into the copse by this time and were shout- 
 ing their resonant cries of "Marchez! En avant! 
 Allez done !" until the very welkin rang. The sports- 
 men, thrusting cartridges into their rifles, peered 
 from the fastness as though cavalry was about to 
 debouch from the wood. Anon comes the boar 
 slowly, with meditative step, snout still rooting, 
 wicked little eyes turning this way, that way, every 
 way. What the devil does all this commotion 
 mean? He has not sensitive nerves but really at 
 twelve o'clock of the day! Are these men drunk? 
 He has seen them often in the forest from the se- 
 clusion of his cave which brigands of long ago were 
 good enough to build him. He could tell tales 
 perchance of mademoiselle yonder with the witch- 
 ing eyes and that frowsy poet who is her faithful 
 cavalier, of Madame la Marquise and the painter 
 Andreot; of these and of many another but he 
 has never said a word. Bless him, he would not 
 open his lips, on any account yet here are all these 
 people staring at him, and what a din! Young 
 man, he seems to say, be careful of that gun, for if 
 it goes off it will kill somebody. 
 
 Now, Master Boar had hardly showed himself on 
 the fringe of the wood when, contrary to all the 
 
 304
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 rules of the game, the Chevalier Orson, a meek 
 sportsman of thirty years, let fly at him, to the im- 
 minent danger of the beaters behind and the exas- 
 peration of the head keeper in front. Wild shouts 
 and cries rent the air. The ladies, penned on the 
 mound, clapped their hands altogether and cried 
 "Bravo !" The fierce pig, snout upward, eyes blazing, 
 turned sharply to re-enter the wood and sent twenty 
 of the groundsmen to the shelter of twenty trees. 
 Ay, now is the hullabaloo at its best! The con- 
 cealed army of sharpshooters fire like an infantry 
 squad. The guns go off in numbers bark flies 
 from the trees ; the gravel is scoured, the leaves are 
 torn. Wounded in a dozen places, the wretched 
 beast begins to run round and round. A dog ap- 
 proaches him and is instantly ripped up as a sack 
 by a knife. He charges the trees blindly, believing 
 in his madness that these are the enemies. And all 
 the time the firing does not cease the crack of 
 rifles resounds, the bullets wing their hadardous 
 way until, with a mighty shout of triumph, my lord 
 falls headlong and the beaters are upon him. Ah, 
 the glory of it! Ah, the ecstasy of the sportsman's 
 life! 
 
 There was but a single pig in this copse and 
 much shouting failed to disclose another. This did 
 not disturb the company, of which each man be- 
 lieved that his bullet had found a billet, and that 
 
 305
 
 he was the hero of the death cry. Hunger, a pow- 
 erful rival, began also to press his claim, since it was 
 commonly admitted that adequate glory had been 
 achieved, and that soles a la Victoria might have 
 their turn. So, emerging, the valiants made for 
 the striped marquee in which Chef Andre from a 
 famous restaurant had prepared his wares and 
 here dejeuner at well-placed tables soon made 
 amends for danger and the strife. What a con- 
 tention now for places! The laggards had driven 
 over from the chateau, be it known, and Mon- 
 seigneur with them but no one seemed desirous to 
 establish a menage d qitatre with him when he 
 took his rightful place at Madame's table Judith 
 must tolerate the dear good man for her husband's 
 sake besides, as she added naively, had not Provi- 
 dence already inflicted him with that tolerant blind- 
 ness which sees little beyond the end of the nose 
 and is not desirous of seeing further? She could 
 accept any episcopacy on such terms her case 
 would undoubtedly have been harder had the Rev. 
 Joshua Wagg, her own minister from Philadelphia, 
 arrived unexpectedly at the chateau. 
 
 It was a dainty repast, elegantly served and 
 owing not a little to a day of soft sunshine and gen- 
 tle breezes. The rains of autumn had given place to 
 this St. Martin's summer, permitting unexpected 
 pageantry and many a woodland romance that 
 
 306
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 would never have survived the umbrellas. And 
 when it was done what more natural than that the 
 company should break up not into units, to be 
 sure, but a choix, as the catalogues say, and done 
 with an artless simplicity which spoke both of free- 
 dom and of habit. God help my lord Bishop now, 
 for no one wants him and he must walk back 
 through the forest with young Vambret, the penni- 
 less poet of the Butte, who will try to borrow a 
 hundred francs of him as they go. For the rest, 
 Madame is with Canning, of course and that little 
 Ernest Hobby, has not he gone off by himself to 
 make a drawing of Joan of Arc's tower, as he had 
 no shame to confess? Here was discretion, to be 
 sure Canning wondered at Hobby and so did 
 Madame. 
 
 "Why, what can you have in common with such 
 a dear, good, foolish little man as that?" she asked 
 as they rode away. "I'm sure a fox terrier would 
 be just as useful." 
 
 "I suppose he would he is my confessor, you 
 must know. Whenever I do anything foolish I go 
 to Ernest Hobby, and tell him what an ass I have 
 been. Then he apologizes." 
 
 "Are you really going to take him to Rome and 
 to Venice he told me so yesterday." 
 
 "It's quite true I am going to walk the aisles 
 of St. Peter's and talk of the archilids as many 
 
 307
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 of them as I remember. We shall dine at seven 
 o'clock every night and go to bed at ten. Perhaps 
 we shall hire guides. I am a very ignorant man, 
 and while I remember the pictures I have no head 
 for the painters. It will be the day after to-morrow 
 that we shall leave with your gracious permis- 
 sion." 
 
 "Then it will not be the day after to-morrow at 
 all. Why should you go? Are you really perish- 
 ing to do Rome? It will still be there if you go 
 next month. And I want you here I shall cer- 
 tainly forbid it." 
 
 She looked charming, Canning thought, in her 
 close-fitting green habit and the dainty hat which 
 had come from the Faubourg St. Honore. A 
 woman of mature figure and clear open eyes, of a 
 high brow and brown hair swept well back from it 
 of fine rounded limbs and shapely hands but, 
 above all, a woman who had learned how to com- 
 mand and had profited by her lessons. Canning ad- 
 mitted all this as he strode at her side, he knew not 
 whither and cared less. Surely the world had not 
 done so well by him that he needed to remember 
 to-morrow. 
 
 "If you don't permit it," he said slowly, "I shall 
 have to break the news to my warm-hearted friend. 
 But he will never forgive you for not letting him 
 escape he is that kind of man and you frighten 
 
 308
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 him. I can see it whenever he is at your table. He 
 g-oes in awe of you, Countess he is just like a boy 
 in a class who may be called upon to construe pres- 
 ently and doesn't know the text. He may even 
 think that you are going to box his ears." 
 
 "Perhaps I shall if he continues to be obstinate. 
 Why, you have only been at the chateau a few days 
 and I want you so much. Say, Mr. Canning, 
 isn't that something you know already that I want 
 you here very much ?" 
 
 She pressed her horse quite close to him and laid 
 a little hand upon his arm. They had drawn away 
 from the others to a lonely place of the forest to a 
 leafy glade through which the sunlight streamed at 
 hazard, and the song of the burn rang musically in 
 their ears. As a sound afar, there came to them 
 the voices of the huntsmen, the lighter laughter of 
 girls and even the murmur of songs. This place 
 had been called the River of Dark Waters by the 
 old romancers if it had been named the River of 
 Sighs the style would have been more apposite. 
 And to such a spot Madame had led her victim for 
 one of those aimless flirtations which delighted 
 her. 
 
 "Now, don't you know it, Mr. Canning?" she per- 
 sisted ; and he was not flattered, but amused, for he 
 knew women well. 
 
 "I have just said that I am a most ignorant man. 
 
 309
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 You must begin upon my education, Countess. You 
 say that you want me here well, here I am. Isn't 
 that something to begin upon ?" 
 
 "But I want to tell you all about myself, my diffi- 
 culties, my ambitions. You are just such a friend 
 as I have been looking for a long while the man 
 a woman can talk' to without any reserve. You 
 know my husband leaves me very much alone?" 
 
 "Do you ever tell him that?" 
 
 She looked at him almost angrily. 
 
 "When a man leaves a woman alone, she is a 
 coward to call him back. He married me to rebuild 
 the chateau, and he has done it. He says tkat 
 America owes France her independence and ought 
 to pay the bill. Why, I've paid it twice over and 
 he's gone to America now to see if he can have the 
 money a third time. That's romance as the novel- 
 ists write it. Oh, if you knew the scenes we have 
 in this old chateau which the guide-books tell you 
 is the most peaceful place in all France. Even the 
 servants won't stay with me. Now do you wonder 
 if I want a friend?" 
 
 "You have many friends, I am sure. Am I the 
 least devoted of them?" 
 
 "I believe that you are. There's not a more diffi- 
 cult man in France. You can be everything a 
 woman desires, I know it but since you have been 
 here you have been less than nothing at all. Now, 
 
 310
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 truthfully and between friends, didn't you leave 
 England because of a woman ?" 
 
 He was staggered by the question. No shaft 
 could have gone home with aim more unerring. 
 
 "Who told you that?" he asked, hiding his face 
 from her "who has been gossiping about me?" 
 
 "A woman's instinct. Do you suppose any man 
 could hide that from me? You quarreled with her 
 and came here in a huff. Perhaps it's an old story. 
 What have you been doing in London all these 
 years? I have neither seen nor heard of you. 
 Why, that's the answer in itself. She didn't like 
 London, perhaps it was a romance in a wood and 
 the farmer sent the vegetables. Do be kind and tell 
 me. It will be better than a novel." 
 
 He mumbled an incoherent answer. Oddly 
 enough, it had never occurred to him that the story 
 of his life might follow him even to these glades. 
 They had left London upon an impulse, just raced 
 away as boys at a call, without thought or reckon- 
 ing and now came the breathing space. He looked 
 at Judith de Failes and determined that she knew 
 nothing. "But she will learn the truth," he said 
 and the fear haunted him. 
 
 How if some one proclaimed him felon even in 
 that company of irresponsibles? What shame! 
 What humiliation! And why should he not be re- 
 venged upon mere possibility by anticipation? 
 
 3"
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 What forbade him to make love to this woman, to 
 throw prudence, honor, respect to the winds? Did 
 he owe anything to society which had made of him 
 an outlaw? In truth, he owed nothing. 
 
 "I will tell you where I have been, and what I 
 have been doing, when I am convinced that you 
 will keep my secret," he exclaimed suddenly. This 
 was a thrust indeed. 
 
 "Why do you think so badly of me as that?" 
 
 "Convince me that even one woman is to be 
 trusted, and I will tell you perhaps." 
 
 "How shall I convince you? Why, of course I 
 will if you will show me how." 
 
 He laughed hardly. 
 
 "Oh, you must find the way. I am merely stating 
 the conditions." 
 
 "Do you mean that you doubt my friendship?" 
 
 "I doubt the sympathetic note in the gamut of the 
 feminine emotions. Why compel me to say so ? Is 
 it not much better not to know all about your 
 friends? For instance, my dear lady, how very lit- 
 tle I know about you." 
 
 She laughed now, a sudden perception declaring 
 her opportunity. 
 
 "Come, and you shall be my confessor. There's 
 my little Pavilion of Roses where I make 'five 
 o'clock' when the weather is warm enough. We'll 
 go and have tea now, and I will tell you a tale oh, 
 
 312
 
 THH FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 of course you have the right to know everything. 
 I never thought of it." 
 
 Ah, delicious comedy, to the man alarming, to the 
 woman a harvest of possibilities! What lies she 
 would tell him presently and how fine a figure 
 should the little god Love play in them ! She would 
 speak of passion with tears in her eyes, whimper a 
 mock confession with her hand in his, sigh upon a 
 tragedy with half-closed lids and murmuring lips. 
 The Pavilion of the Roses was the very place. She 
 had carried him there for no other reason. 
 
 Now, this was a little building of timber in the 
 very heart of the forest, girt about with trailing 
 roses and full of sweetness. Here Madame took tea 
 with her friends when the sun permitted, here she 
 had languished and sighed many a time and oft 
 but never with such a masterful cavalier or one so 
 difficult. John Canning, for sure, was no knight of 
 the picture-books. Perchance but for her questions 
 she would have found him the sorriest of lovers 
 but opportunity had befriended her, opportunity 
 and a man's bitterness, his revolt against the civi- 
 lized order, his defiance of the fates which bade him 
 suffer. And he went with her, asking what forbade 
 him to play the comedy to the end. Was it not 
 some reward to watch these large eyes beaming 
 upon him, to be with the voluptuous Judith as she 
 busied herself about the Pavilion, setting great arm- 
 
 313
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 chairs to the table, boiling her little tin kettle, bar- 
 ing her fine arms as a kitchen maid, laughing al- 
 ways and promising to confess? Oh, this was the 
 dangerous hour, and God knows where it would 
 have led him but for that blundering little friend of 
 his, who came knocking at the door presently and' 
 crying to come in. 
 
 Madame started at the sound, and drew back 
 from the table in some affright. Her Knight, how- 
 ever, already guessed the truth and made haste to 
 open. 
 
 "Why, Hobby where have you sprung from?" 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry, Canning, I lost my way do 
 you mind showing me how to get back to the 
 chateau ?" 
 
 Of course Madame invited him in at once. Noth- 
 ing else was to be done. He had lost his way the 
 poor, simple, good-natured little man and losing it, 
 he had pointed out a better road to him he served 
 with so faithful a friendship.
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 THE RIDDLE OF THE CHARADE 
 
 THEY rode home together, avoiding all reference 
 to the nature of the encounter and treating it with 
 that proper abandon which is a woman's surest de- 
 fence. If Madame believed that the intrusion was 
 an unhappy accident, Canning knew better, and 
 was not ungrateful to his friend. None the less a 
 certain defiance warred upon gratitude, and for- 
 bade the expression of his thoughts whatever the 
 opportunities. It had come to something if this 
 man must wafch him as a tutor watches a boy. 
 Was he not old enough to know his own mind, well 
 schooled enough to choose his own path? None 
 but a bourgeois would have done such a thing, he 
 said and did not disguise his pleasure. 
 
 Here was the secret of his after acts. A cool, 
 clear head should have sent him from the chateau 
 at once it mattered not whither. But pride de- 
 tained him. He must show the blunderer that he 
 was master of himself, that he needed no common 
 platitudes to guide him and resented espionage as a 
 vulgarity. Obstinately refusing even to mention 
 the matter to Hobby, he flirted outrageously with 
 
 315
 
 THE FORTUNATE, PRISONER 
 
 Madame that night; was her constant companion 
 in the forest and the gardens next day, and openly 
 declared at her dinner table that he would not leave 
 the chateau for a month. This resolution he might 
 have made good but for the simplest of happenings, 
 indeed but for one of those obvious domestic acci- 
 dents which even the disingenuous might anticipate. 
 There had been a mock gymkhana that day, a 
 motor tournament upon the great grass plateau by 
 the river, and much chopping of Turks' heads and 
 assaults upon inoffensive lemons. Judith, herself, 
 was a skilled driver and could fling her mecanicien 
 out of the car upon a sharp corner as well as any 
 chauffeur in Touraine. To-day she drove a fine 
 Itala, which a strong man might have envied her, 
 and none was cleverer or more self-possessed. Es- 
 pecially did the passengers' race amuse Judith, and 
 the attempts of the lady drivers to get the males 
 quickly to their seats. Some we must admit solved 
 the difficulty by permitting mere men to pick them 
 up in their arms and carry them. Others, scarcely 
 less sedate, raced hand in hand like children and 
 tumbled into their seats breathless and disarrayed. 
 For this was a business whose success lay in the 
 swiftness with which you drove a car two hundred 
 yards, then raced for a sitting passenger, got him 
 into your car and raced again for the winning post. 
 And being such a race the young approved of it 
 316
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 highly, playing the game with laughter and even 
 with sighs. 
 
 Later on came Cimmerian darkness, a cold wind 
 of eventide and a flight to the house for children's 
 pastimes, for such they played in the stolen hours > 
 until the gong of bells called them to the great hall 
 where Frangois Premier had inscribed his salaman- 
 der and Henry Deux had not failed to imitate him. 
 This was a more stately meal an interregnum of 
 the imbecilities. Monseigneur had his chance now, 
 and would discourse learnedly of Pascal and the 
 poets, even of Saint-Beuve and of Balzac. It mat- 
 tered not that no one listened Monseigneur was 
 satisfied. 
 
 And afterward to the charades. This was Ju- 
 dith's great idea. She would have the charades be- 
 loved of her ancestors costumes from the house of 
 Berliet Freres at Paris, music by an orchestra from 
 La Scala, wonderful gifts to the guessers aright 
 and afterward the bal masque wherein the frivoli- 
 ties should culminate. If Monseigneur had been 
 neglected these twenty days and more, here he was 
 not neglected at all. Had not his wit planned the 
 thing? Had not his been the brain which evolved the 
 pictures? And he was here, there and everywhere 
 at the appointed hour, behind the scenes and before 
 them a bustling, smiling Bishop, who had not an 
 enemy in all the world. 
 
 317
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Canning came late to the little theatre, for he 
 had been writing a secret letter to Abraham Wesson 
 in London, asking that worthy to get him all the 
 news of Bell Island there was to be had, and to for- 
 ward it to the Ritz Hotel, at Paris. He had seen 
 nothing of Madame Judith at the dinner table, for 
 she put him purposely vis-&-vis to that vastly un- 
 entertaining beauty, Mademoiselle Denouf of the 
 Comedie Franchise, and he had not been so bored 
 for a month. Here, in the theatre, his spirits 
 warmed a little. He was quite sure that the cha- 
 rades would be very childish and very silly, but he 
 could not deny himself the pleasure of gazing upon 
 her ladyship in the guise of a Turkish beauty, nor 
 of hailing her attendant pasha in the ridiculous fig- 
 ure of the Marquis de Bonnes Delices. So he went 
 down about ten o'clock, when the fiddlers were just 
 thumbing their fiddles and the "wind" were quarrel- 
 ing about the pitch in a way that fiddlers will and 
 the "wind" are in the habit of doing. 
 
 Now here, to be honest, a charming picture was 
 to be enjoyed, a scene which would have done no 
 shame to the days of a greater glory and a truer 
 aristocracy. The little theatre itself, built by 
 DuBarry for the delectation of her far from merry 
 monarch, was lighted by hundreds of shell-like lamps 
 depending from the rarest chandeliers of old Vene- 
 tian glass. Pink and golden in scheme, the ladies
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 declared that it suited their complexions to perfec- 
 tion and were incessant in its praises, as well they 
 might be when the cost of it was reckoned. For 
 Madame Judith had spared nothing. Banks of 
 flowers, roses, though the season was November, 
 the rarest palms and shrubs from the African 
 shores, lent their aid to that kaleidoscope of glow- 
 ing colors and heroic figures. And the dresses! 
 Ah, bon Dieu, as the servants' hall exclaimed next 
 day, the dresses! Was ever such a wealth of lace 
 and chiffon, of silk and costly stuffs, of blazing 
 diamonds and monster pearls, was ever such a treas- 
 ure house opened before at a woman's bidding and 
 at the dictates of her vanity? 
 
 Upon such a scene John Canning descended some 
 few minutes before the curtain should have been 
 lifted. A man of many moods, to-day this mood 
 was restless and cynical. The letter just despatched 
 to old Abraham Wesson could not be forgotten, be- 
 cause the post had engulfed it. He was angry with 
 himself because he had been angry with his friend, 
 and yet not unwilling to laugh at the episode. Oh, 
 be sure vanity had wounded him lightly enough 
 and merely annoyed him now. He was dwelling 
 in this house of farce, he said, because a good man 
 had dared him not to do so. Nothing amused him 
 here. He walked in hourly dread of discovery, 
 saying to himself, "Good God! if they knew, if she
 
 WHH FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 knew!" His desire to quit the house upon the first 
 decent opportunity warred perpetually upon his de- 
 termination to establish his prerogative to remain. 
 For Judith Cartwright, become Madame la Com- 
 tesse de Failes, he had none of that sentiment which 
 is really dangerous. He could leave her to-morrow 
 without a sigh as she could permit him to go with 
 an emotion no more overpowering. A prisoner for 
 the time being pride in his own will power de- 
 tained him. That he should be lectured by Sub- 
 urbia in the person of Ernest Hobby! It was too 
 ridiculous. 
 
 And so here he sat amid a babel of tongues, be- 
 fore an orchestra already at the death grip with the 
 erring but forgiven Tannhauser a lonely man 
 turning from the very friendship which should have 
 been his consolation. When the music rolled away 
 in that massive crescendo of the Pilgrims' Chorus 
 when the instruments were put down and nothing 
 but a raucous echo of voices came from the other 
 side of the curtain, he was interested for the first 
 time. Were these fools quarreling behind the cur- 
 tain and would they quarrel presently before it? 
 That would be a delightful interlude as comic as 
 anything in Labiche and as unexpected ! 
 
 Now, the house perceived the hitch and fell in- 
 stantly to expectant silence. Whatever it might be, 
 something clearly had happened. Daring to breathe 
 
 320
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 in the hush, a youth suggested that Monseigneur had 
 been marshaling the shepherdesses from Cyprus, 
 perhaps, and that one of them might have boxed 
 his ears. Another, not less venturesome, and he 
 from the distant Americas, "guessed that the ma- 
 chinery wasn't fixed," but was silenced immediately. 
 Finally and quite unexpectedly, the curtain went up 
 with a bound and there stood, not a Turkish beauty 
 from the harem gate, not a pasha fresh from the 
 Holy War, but the figure of Monsieur le Comte 
 himself, of Madame Judith's husband, his red hair 
 bristling, his mouth atwitch in anger, and such a 
 look of disgust upon his far from handsome face 
 that a shout of laughter went up, loud enough to 
 bring down the very goddesses from the ceiling. 
 
 Oh, it was all up now, be sure of it. True, the 
 master of the house was too much of a gentleman 
 to quarrel with his guests openly. He had gone to 
 the stage to find out what was happening in his 
 house, and the amateur scene shifters, failing to rec- 
 ognize him, had demanded his instant expulsion. 
 When just anger overtook him and his wrath found 
 immediate and far from grave expression, a wag 
 raised the curtain unexpectedly, and there he stood 
 declared, to the delight of his uninvited guests and 
 the absolute amazement of Madame. Oh, the in- 
 tolerable cruelty of it! to return from America 
 without so much as a cable. Oh, the obtuseness of 
 
 321
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 a man who fails to see that he may not be welcome in 
 his own house! Madame could have beaten Mon- 
 sieur le Comte with her fan at that moment. Never 
 was such humiliation even the good Bishop 
 blushed to have been found in. 
 
 Be it said that the entertainment went on, but not 
 as Madame planned it. Every one seemed to un- 
 derstand that this was the last night of carnival, 
 and that to-morrow would disperse the party. Ju- 
 dith herself made the most mournful Turkish 
 beauty that ever trod an amateur stage. Gone were 
 all her high spirits; she acted mechanically and by 
 rote 'the very lover in the dashing fez might have 
 been glad to be quit of her. And then the supper 
 oh, doleful repast ! You could hear the very crumbs 
 fall on the cloth, as Monseigneur himself declared. 
 Of all the company but one man wore an unvarying 
 smile of amusement, and he a stranger. Ernest 
 Hobby had never enjoyed himself so well. That 
 the Count should return unexpectedly! The little 
 man grinned to the ears when that word "unex- 
 pectedly" was mentioned. Did he know more than 
 he would have confessed to any living soul? Was 
 it possible that he had sent a secret cable to New 
 York? Out on the infamy we at any rate know 
 nothing of it, and refuse to believe so preposterous 
 a suggestion. 
 
 Be that as it may, Hobby derived much satis fac- 
 322
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 tion from the circumstance and when he found 
 himself alone with Canning and they fell to talk 
 about it, he did not hesitate to say as much. He 
 had made up his mind to return to London at an 
 early date and could have happened upon no more 
 reasonable excuse. 
 
 "It will be to-morrow, now, I suppose," he said, 
 as he closed the dressing-room door and puffed 
 away at the remnant of a cigarette "we can't be 
 indecent enough to hang on here any longer now 
 can we, old chap?" 
 
 Canning admitted it. He, too, was vastly amused. 
 The Count's return had been as a douche upon his 
 follies. He could laugh with Hobby, and he did 
 not neglect to do so. 
 
 "To-morrow if you like, Hobby. I've nothing to 
 say against it. Of course the man was a fool to 
 come home like that. If he will put his nose into 
 the hive without so much as a 'by your leave,' he 
 must expect to be stung. If ever I marry, I shall 
 certainly send telegrams. To do less is to argue 
 that a woman has no liberty. She may have plans 
 as private as our own, and there may be no harm 
 in them whatever. Why should she not entertain 
 in our absence the friends we do not like? I see 
 no reason." 
 
 "No more do I, if she takes good care that they 
 are not friends we may have reason to dislike. I'm 
 
 323
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 not going to argue about it, Canning. The Count's 
 come home and a jolly good thing, too. What I 
 want to know is, when do we start for London?" 
 
 "For London why London? Are you forgetting 
 our plans?" 
 
 "Every one of them. You're going to forget 
 them, too, when you read those. I'd have given 
 them to you before, but I didn't want to spoil your 
 evening. Now, what do you think of them, old 
 chap?" 
 
 He passed two cuttings from the recent news- 
 papers, one a vast and florid account of a tragedy, 
 common to all the great dailies; the other an ex- 
 cerpt from a Devon newspaper. Canning read the 
 latter first, read it with close attention and silent 
 testimony to its import. The tragedy appeared to 
 interest him less. He skimmed the dramatic and 
 flowing narration here unfolded, such a narration 
 as catastrophe demands in these days of newspaper 
 competition and taking up the puny paragraph he 
 read it for the third time. 
 
 "This is very terrible, Hobby." 
 
 "It's very pathetic, old chap." 
 
 "In a way, yes. I knew something of the sac- 
 charin young Benson put me on the track. But 
 the other story matters. They say the old man is 
 probably drowned at sea." 
 
 "Yes, I took it that way." 
 
 324
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "Then Jesse Fearney will be quite alone ?" 
 
 "She will be so, until we arrive. If we start very 
 early in the morning and catch the mail at Tours, 
 we shall be in Paris to-morrow night and in London 
 on the following morning." 
 
 "There is a shorter way that that, Hobby." 
 
 Hobby raised his eyebrows. "A shorter way?" 
 
 "Yes, I shall charter a fast launch at Cherbourg 
 and run round by sea. Did you think of that?" 
 
 "Indeed, no I was not sure well, that you 
 would go at all." 
 
 "I am just the man to stay away at such a time. 
 Thanks for your warm opinion of my chivalry." 
 
 Hobby was much upset. 
 
 "Oh, no, you misunderstand me, Canning but I 
 thought perhaps well, that you would rather I 
 went." 
 
 "We will go together, Hobby as fast as train 
 and ship can carry us. God grant that we shall not 
 be too late." 
 
 He knew not why he added that earnest prayer. 
 Perhaps a voice of fatality whispered the truth 
 that delay had undone him and that this golden 
 opportunity of service and of love had melted away 
 in the mocking sunshine which had lured him to the 
 chateau. Nemesis, indeed, if that were so. Can- 
 ning remembered that he was no stranger to Neme- 
 sis, and the lesson had been well learned. 
 
 325
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 He did not. sleep that night. A motor car carried 
 him from the chateau at seven o'clock upon the 
 following morning, and he went without any fare- 
 well to Madame or expressions either of apology or 
 regret. The tragi-comedy was played to its end 
 time, indeed, to put the puppets in the box. 
 
 326
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 THE SHIP OF FATE 
 
 THE sergeant of police remained as a matter of 
 form upon Bell Island, but, when a week had passed, 
 no one believed that the old man was alive or that 
 the law would ever put its hands upon him. Why 
 should they? Had not the police sent their tele- 
 grams to all the ports where such a fugitive might 
 seek refuge ? Had not the hither and the further seas 
 been scoured by willing seamen, very susceptible to 
 the emotions of pity and having, as they would tell 
 you sadly, "childer of their own" ? 
 
 These knew very well what had happened to 
 Japhon of the "Pharos." "He were ower-venture- 
 some," they would tell you; "trouble had driven 
 him clean daft." 
 
 How, otherwise, could such a wise sailor have put 
 forth upon such a foolish voyage? "There warn't 
 no half-decked lugger between Avonmouth and the 
 Lizard which could have rode out such a night." 
 Japhon was dead for a certainty though strange, 
 to be sure, that none of them had discovered any 
 traces of his boat, not so much as a single spar in 
 all that wide survey. 
 
 327
 
 THB FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Now, this would be the talk down by the mole 
 when the October nights fell soft and stilly and 
 the inner channel was aglow with the lanterns of 
 the fleet. It was the season of the herring, too, 
 when countless "strangers" sailed down from the 
 North, and even Bell Island could display activities 
 which savored of the strenuous life. 
 
 Old in their love of gossip, the islanders delighted 
 in their long recitals how that Japhon Fearney 
 had been King's man and parson, farmer and mer- 
 chant these many years; how shrewd he must have 
 been to run that sugary stuff, saccharin, when they 
 themselves were risking their savings for plugs of 
 tobacco and kegs of brandy; what a thing it would 
 have been if he had gone to 'sizes the whole story 
 in brief, set out with wonderful ornament and not 
 to be related without many glasses. So highly col- 
 ored were the pictures that many a stranger went 
 up the cliff part at their instigation, gazing at the 
 shuttered windows of the farm and asking, "Is that 
 the lass?" if Jesse appeared. None thought of the 
 Castle in those days the rumor of the crime was 
 bruited too loudly abroad that the feebler voice of 
 mere curiosity should obtain a hearing. 
 
 To Jesse, mercifully, these stories never came. 
 She had shut herself up in the farmhouse at least, 
 the people would tell you so and whether she 
 shared their gloomy beliefs or dared more coura- 
 
 328
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 geously to hope, they could but surmise. Once or 
 twice, it is true, Frank Benson had waylaid her go- 
 ing up to the headland at a late hour and had 
 guessed the errand that took her there. 
 
 "You are looking for your bully in blue buttons," 
 he said chivalrously ; "it was the other chap a month 
 ago." To which she disdained an answer and 
 fearful of the consequences if he molested her, he 
 let her go in peace. 
 
 Yes, she was looking for Philip Blake and look- 
 ing ardently. A woman's instinct for friendship is 
 sure, and Jesse knew perfectly well that this young 
 sailor would befriend her. Dazed by her father's 
 continued absence, but believing against her reason 
 that his skill had saved him from the sea, she re- 
 fused to harp upon the possibilities of another story, 
 and turned with beating heart to this hope for the 
 man she loved and the day of its consummation. 
 
 Had not Philip promised her that he would re- 
 turn to Bell Island almost immediately? How long 
 the hours seemed ! What intolerable vigils she kept 
 upon the cliff-head, spying out the fretting sea and 
 complaining upon the void horizon! Why did not 
 Philip write to her? she could ask. Had his prom- 
 ise been a myth, then? Oh, never would she believe 
 that! 
 
 Her faith endured during the sunny days of Oc- 
 tober. No Crusoe upon a desolate isle could have 
 
 329
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 waited and watched for the coming of a ship with a 
 larger hope or a surer confidence. Philip Blake 
 would return, and in his return she would find sal- 
 vation. Thus argued her woman's logic; thus 
 courage carried her to the headland each day at 
 dawn, and found her there again when the harbor 
 lights first flashed out over the hither sea and the 
 sun was sinking into the mighty ocean void. Philip 
 would come and tell her, not only of her father's 
 safety, but of the welfare of the man she loved. So 
 much she believed ardently. Alas, that the fact re- 
 warded her so ill! 
 
 Now, it would have been upon the eighth day, 
 shortly after five o'clock of the morning, that the 
 Marathon returned to Bell Island. A night of pre- 
 mature winter gave place to a dawn of mists, cul- 
 minating anon in a veritable sea fog, which swept 
 about the island in monster clouds of drenching 
 mist and hid the very shape of the headlands from 
 those afloat. Jesse, a light sleeper always, was one 
 of the first to hear the blast of the siren which 
 warned the seamen of this visitation and but half 
 comprehending its meaning and continually anx- 
 ious concerning all that happened at sea, she rose at 
 once and went down toward the Pharos. Such a 
 journey was hazardous enough even to one who 
 knew the island as she knew it but hope and cour- 
 age carried her bravely, and although the mists 
 
 330
 
 THB FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 drenched her and the path was often hidden from 
 her sight, she made the village street at last, and 
 happed upon old Tom Weede at the door of the 
 very first house whose lights she could distin- 
 guish. 
 
 This worthy was full of the news, be sure of it. 
 Luck alone had saved him from being at sea with 
 the others of the fleet but he knew the meaning of 
 the siren's blasts and did not hesitate to say so. 
 
 "There be a ship on the Spanish Rock that's 
 what there be," he cried, forgetting that she was a 
 woman and hailing her with all a seaman's fa- 
 miliarity, "three blasts and two why, the childer 
 knows the meanin' o' that. Now, what in hell are 
 we to do, with not enough hands to man a barrel, 
 and half the boys beyond the Lizard? Ay, that be a 
 masterpiece, that be. I'm d d if ever I heard 
 anything like it since the Wolfhound were wrecked 
 on the Galland Rock. A ship ashore and me the 
 only man that's worth a threepenny ay, there's 
 summat to talk about." 
 
 He stumped up and down before his cottage 
 door, smoking his pipe furiously and crying "Hark!" 
 whenever the siren's blast came shrieking over the 
 hills. Jesse, for her part, could but stare at him 
 with eyes wide open, while such a sense of help- 
 lessness and despair overtook her as she had never 
 known in all her life. A ship ashore on the Span- 
 
 331
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 ish Rock. What ship could that be if not the 
 Marathon! 1 Oh, this were fate indeed! 
 
 "A ship ashore on the Spanish Rock," she cried 
 amazed; "then what ship is it not the Marathon, 
 Mr. Weede; you wouldn't tell me it is the Mara- 
 thon?" He took his pipe from his mouth with one 
 hand and laid the other gently upon her arm. 
 
 "Listen here," he said; "she were to return and 
 pick up her moorin's sometime atween midnight 
 and daybreak. Well, here she be sure enough. 
 And what did I say to 'em not ten days gone? 'You 
 may come your blarsted navigashun horficers over 
 me,' says I, 'but the man as can pick up a moorin* 
 by Bell Island in a d d sea fog is fit ter be wrote 
 of in the books and have the statute set up.' Well, 
 here he be, miss, to be sure and that's the guns 
 he's a-firin' of now. As if I couldn't hear him loud 
 enough without them there. Does he think I can 
 pull the boat single-handed? Blarst me, if that 
 wouldn't be a miracle same as the prophets." 
 
 He bade her listen again, and the thunder of the 
 great guns boomed loud and weirdly in the seething 
 fog. Now, also, some of the women came running- 
 from the cottages and began to ask what the matter 
 might be. Lads grouped themselves about Tom 
 Weede and heard him with awe. One of the girls 
 with a woman's instinct offered Jesse a cup of tea 
 and begged her to come into the cottage a little while. 
 
 332
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "Well, miss," she said, "wishing won't help them 
 poor souls, to be sure. Oh, this is a dreadful day 
 and none of us will forget it I must say but we 
 poor women have enough of our own to put up 
 with without other people's. Do you come in and 
 rest yourself a little while. Tis dreadful cold and 
 fit to perish a body. If there's anything to be done 
 my Will will do it when he comes ashore but I 
 don't look for him until the fog's lifted, and that's 
 sure and certain. Come in, miss, and we'll make a 
 cup of tea." 
 
 Jesse went with her as one in a dream. The girl 
 was but eighteen and had been married some two 
 years. Her Will Benning was one of the best sea- 
 men on the island ah, he would have helped the 
 poor folk if he had been ashore but that Tom 
 AVeede, why, a babe in arms would be of more use. 
 "You see, miss," she said, "the wind's dropped and 
 they won't be in danger yet a while. We'll have 
 some of the boats in just now and there'll be plenty 
 willing to go. Do you rest till that happens I'm 
 sure you're sorry enough, as we all must be at such 
 a time. That's what we poor women were made 
 for, I do believe to be sorry for others and never 
 to think about ourselves at all. We'd help gladly 
 enough if we could, but wishing isn't doing, as all 
 the world knows." 
 
 Jesse sipped her tea, grateful for its warmth. 
 
 333
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 She had answered the girl but in monosyllables 
 hitherto, and now she sat as one spellbound, to listen 
 to the muted thunder of the distant guns and to 
 imagine that scene which the fog veiled so merci- 
 fully. A ship on the Spanish Rock the ship of 
 fate she had waited for so ardently in dire peril at 
 the very foot of the giant headland. What child 
 would not understand the meaning of those words? 
 And she, Jesse, had been thinking but of herself 
 during these moments most precious ; her own hopes 
 had dictated all her questions, all her venturings, 
 while brave men were fighting for their lives and 
 longing eyes were searching that shore from which 
 help should come. Oh, this were self-condemnation 
 indeed and she the daughter of a man who would 
 have risked his life a hundred times to drag one 
 fellow creature from the sea. 
 
 "Mrs. Bennings," she said at last, setting the cup 
 upon the clean white table and rising purposely, "if 
 there are not men at home to go out with the life- 
 boat, we, the women, must go." 
 
 "Oh, miss, what a thing to say !" 
 
 "It is what we would all say if we thought of it. 
 Have they not wives and children at home waiting 
 for them? Would you not wish them to go if your 
 husband were on board the Marathon? Oh, answer 
 me yes say that you will help me. Have we not 
 been the wives and sisters and the children of such 
 
 334
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 as these all our lives ? What forbids us to go ? Say 
 that you are ready say that you will help them as 
 you would wish others to help your husband when 
 his day comes." 
 
 The girl stared in blank amazement. What, that 
 women should put forth in the great lifeboat which 
 they had always regarded fearfully and with a 
 woman's dread! She was terrified by the sugges- 
 tion. Her words stuck in her throat she licked her 
 lips as one who is trying to speak, but whose tongue 
 refuses its office. 
 
 "Do you really mean, miss >" she stammered 
 
 at last 
 
 "I mean what I say," cried Jesse, her eyes bright 
 with the daring of it, her brain aflame; "we must 
 go to their help now, immediately. The women 
 must go. Shall we be called cowards to all time? 
 You say the sea is calm, there is no wind. Oh, 
 what forbids us, what forbids us to do God's work 
 when there are no men to do it ?" 
 
 This and much more was her argument. She 
 spoke proudly, and other women coming to the cot- 
 tage when they knew she was there, she turned to 
 them with arguments no less eloquent. The women 
 of Bell Island must go. They must do this thing. 
 There were twenty willing before the clock struck 
 again thirty in the great lifeboat when old Tom 
 Weede and such of the lads as had the strength 
 
 335
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 to say nothing of the police sergeant let it go 
 down the slip and it cut its rippling wake upon the 
 glasslike surface of the still sea. 
 
 Oh, they were a brave company, a wonderful 
 company, and the world has honored them ! Picture 
 that scene in the gray of the morning, the rolling, 
 shifting wraith of the fog alternately hiding and 
 disclosing their set but womanly faces wives, sis- 
 ters, daughters of those who went down to the sea 
 in ships; women who an hour gone were lighting 
 the fires and boiling the kettles against their hus- 
 bands' home-coming. And now they sat, willing 
 slaves of this great crimson galley, pulling it awk- 
 wardly but with no mean strength across the har- 
 bor bar, trying to obey the pompous voice of old 
 Tom Weede at the tiller as he cried, "Steady, my 
 girls!" or "Bravely done!" or "Now she takes it!" 
 Anon they passed the little lighthouse at the head of 
 the mole and were shrouded instantly in the en- 
 veloping mists. The land, the houses, the very 
 stones of the harbor were hidden from their sight. 
 Voices came to them as sounds muffled afar. They 
 were afraid to speak the very splash of the oars 
 echoed weirdly on the still air. 
 
 A strange world this a world of uncanny shapes, 
 
 of water glistening beneath the fog, of that sense of 
 
 peril which the sea mist rarely fails to inspire. 
 
 Some of these brave women were crying now. Ah, 
 
 336
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 if they should never see their homes again. To 
 these Jesse spoke bravely as she plied the stoutest 
 oar or, bidding them go easy, listened to Tom 
 Weede and waited for him while he took his bear- 
 ings. They were about to restore husbands and 
 fathers to other women's houses. Should they count 
 the cost? The fog would be gone anon and their 
 own husbands there to help them. So they pressed 
 on, the great guns calling them. Ah, those guns 
 whose booming echoed in many an ear that never 
 again would be conscious of the great world or its 
 voices the guns which seemed to say "doom," 
 "doom." An hour ago this proud ship had been 
 steaming up the Bristol Channel upon the begin- 
 nings of that voyage which should lead to home 
 and holiday. The year's work was done. Many 
 of its seamen were to be paid off presently. And it 
 steamed majestically as to a joyous home-coming; 
 every man full of his own hopes some speaking 
 openly of the girls who waited for them ; some with 
 a tender word for little children. 
 
 Look up high to the bridge and you may see a 
 young officer strutting there, cocksure of his own 
 superiority and of the inferiority of all others the 
 admiral of the fleet not excepted. The commander 
 himself is in his cabin snatching a brief rest richly 
 deserved. There is content, certainty, conviction 
 for what cares a King's ship for a little fog and by 
 
 337
 
 FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 what miraculous mishap is she to be destroyed? 
 So these good fellows would have argued, had ar- 
 gument been their amusement and so among them 
 stalked Master Humility, looking for a victory. 
 They were nineteen miles from Bell Island, said 
 the reckoning ah, the mischief of it, since the 
 Spanish Reef is not a mile distant and they are 
 heading straight for it. 
 
 And now behold the drama of awakening. There 
 is a harsh sound heard as of rasping of iron with 
 a mighty file the whole ship trembles as though 
 with fear; plunges forward dizzily; shakes herself 
 as a hound returning to a shore and settles down 
 heavily upon the bosom of the rock. The prevail- 
 ing sound is one of scalding steam and hissing 
 valves you can hear the water pouring heavily 
 through the breach, the rasping of the steel upon 
 the jagged rocks ; the crashing of freed booms and 
 of heavy iron torn from the lashings. But for a 
 brief instant no human voice. The commander 
 and the navigating officer stagger together from 
 their cabins; the boy upon the bridge is cocksure 
 no longer, but pale, motionless, awaits his orders. 
 
 Good God! what happening is this? They are 
 nineteen miles from Bell Island they must be, and 
 the sea has smitten them miraculously. So their 
 thoughts run but the navigating officer knows bet- 
 ter. As in a flash it comes to him that there has 
 
 338
 
 THE, FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 been an error. Some one has blundered has been 
 befooled by the fog the ship has struck. Ruin 
 stares him in the face, but he looks upon it boldly. 
 Duty is here to be done a fine duty despite the 
 knowledge that the end of many careers has come. 
 
 And so the ringing command is heard at last 
 above the muttering of ship and ocean. Bulkhead 
 doors are closed ; collision mats prepared. A signal 
 gun summons help from the shore ; seamen and sol- 
 diers are mustered on deck; the boats are made 
 ready. None work more methodically or with finer 
 will than the engineers; but what is their skill 
 against this enemy of the passionless rock, ripping, 
 tearing, rending? There are minutes of sagging 
 life before a great ship that has cost the nation 
 nearly a million of money minutes yet when she 
 may lift a proud head and say "I am." Then comes 
 tragic submission. She lists heavily to port, the 
 steel plates buckle and give way ; the decks are rent, 
 monster guns crash from their turrets and go head- 
 long to the rocks below; steam foams above the 
 reef as the spume of a volcano; live coals are vom- 
 ited from the half -submerged funnel and fall hiss- 
 ing into the whirlpool of the waters. But all this 
 with a stately deliberation which no master of tragic 
 pageantry could surpass deliberate, piecemeal, in- 
 evitable, terrifying. 
 
 What meanwhile of the men drawn up there upon 
 
 339
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 the streaming decks? What of their thoughts as 
 the great ship lists and the water, rising as a thin 
 green line above the port bulwarks, descends at last 
 in a monstrous wave, engulfing and irresistible? 
 Gone is all order now. The wild cry, the despair- 
 ing shriek echo across the waste. Some die in grim 
 silence, fighting stubbornly with death; others sur- 
 render to their doom as children to sleep a few, 
 and these the swimmers, strike out to the right, to 
 the left, losing all sense of locality in the fog and 
 believing that help must be at hand. These can hear 
 the siren's blast long after the booming of the guns 
 is stilled. They make for it blindly, amid the chaos 
 of wreckage and of human bodies. There is a 
 haven at hand, but no ship has put out to their res- 
 cue. Oh, the cruelty of it, the torture of this mad 
 hope, the frenzied prayer to God, the wild uplifting 
 of eyes to that heaven which is hidden from their 
 sight! And what courage goes with them to the 
 end! Is there a spar here, a very raft of fortune, 
 Jack will call his brother to it. Brave exhortations 
 help the laggards. There are jesters still to be 
 heard, ay, best of friends and finest of men, who 
 declare the girls will never know them when they 
 get ashore and express the hope that breakfast will 
 be ready. Such as these the still sea mocks. 
 "Hush!" it seems to say, "here is the ocean of death; 
 do not desecrate these holy waters." 
 
 340
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 JESSE GOES TO LONDON 
 
 THE sea fog is at all times a fine impresario, 
 contriving its effects of drama with magic swift- 
 ness; but never more bewitchingly than when the 
 sun is its ally, and a morning of golden autumn lies 
 hid behind the silver curtain. 
 
 Those who have told of the wreck of the Mara- 
 thon make much of the natural contrasts which that 
 scene of tragedy presented. They tell with reason 
 of a grim irony which sent a great ship to her 
 doom upon a fog-bound coast, when, had she de- 
 layed but an hour, she would have picked up her 
 moorings amid such a scene of radiant sunshine as 
 can be surpassed for picturesqueness nowhere in 
 the world. For thus, in truth, it befell at Bell Is- 
 land upon that October morning. The dawn 
 brought the drenching, penetrating fog but at 
 eight o'clock the heaven was sunny and the sky of 
 unclouded blue; the waters were dancing with life; 
 the houses shone gloriously white upon the cliffs; 
 the pastures added a lustre of green and gold to the 
 spreading landscape. 
 
 Now, fogs disperse in many ways. Some are
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 blown asunder by winds into little companies of the 
 mists ; others march off in cloudy battalions others 
 again, the fogs of autumn, are drawn up by the 
 heat as it were to the very bowels of the heavens, 
 kaving but wisps upon the water and these soon to 
 be absorbed as the sun gains power and the day 
 grows older. Such was the fog in which the Mara- 
 thon was wrecked. 
 
 Let us stand upon the southern headland, which 
 is Bell Island's glory, and watch this splendid 
 drama as the seascape unfolds it for us. We are 
 enshrouded by a blinding mist ; can scarcely see our 
 hands before our faces; are utterly ignorant of all 
 that is happening around, above, below us. But 
 now, behold; this silent impresario is busy! There 
 is a faint breath of wind. The mists are cleaved 
 we begin to see a haze of light; the path takes 
 shape; the cliffs are outlined to our view; we dis- 
 tinguish the deserted Castle; the great lighthouse 
 below it and then, as in a twinkling, the whole sea 
 is declared the glassy water; the fleet of fishing 
 boats returning and down yonder the familiar 
 harbor; the winding village street. And we say 
 that the day will be a day of autumn in all her 
 beauty ; we know that the night has passed indeed. 
 
 This would be upon a common occasion; but the 
 dawn of drama would change our picture beyond 
 all knowledge. Then, as heretofore, the sea is de- 
 
 342
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 clared suddenly, the shores revealed ; the lighthouse 
 made known to us. But hardly is the fog lifted 
 before the true story of the night is ours. What 
 movement, what commotion upon the hither wa- 
 ters! And how unfamiliar that scene about the 
 Spanish Rock, the great gray ship standing up 
 above the ebbing tide; the wreckage all about it; 
 the fishing boats hurrying to the place; the sea it- 
 self alive with the attendant satellites. Now, in- 
 deed, is the story known even upon the mainland. 
 Tugs, as vultures of the deep, appear upon a far 
 horizon. Fishing boats are propelled by giant 
 sweeps upon a work of mercy. From shore to 
 shore the message is flashed until the story of dis- 
 aster is known at Falmouth, at Plymouth, even in 
 Whitehall. Not a man, a woman or a child upon 
 Bell Island who is not there at the cliffhead, watch- 
 ing the drama in silent stupefaction. This is a 
 story for the children's children; who will miss a 
 line of it? 
 
 Let it be said at once that of all the details of 
 that fateful event none has remained in the memory 
 of the people so surely as the picture of the life- 
 boat, and of the brave women who rowed it to the 
 wreck at Jesse Fearney's bidding. Sitting out 
 blindly in the fog, uncertain at the beginning even 
 of the nature of the disaster, the Mary Ann went 
 among the drowning seamen as a ship of salvation 
 
 343
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 sent almost miraculously upon this crowning work 
 of mercy. Many a despairing wretch about to sur- 
 render to cold and the terror of the sea clutched the 
 strong hand thrust out to him from this all unex- 
 pected apparition of the waters; many a woman 
 blessed Jesse Fearney's name that night and mut- 
 tered it in her prayers. And if the work were but 
 pitiful when the reckoning were made, let this at 
 least be said that no crew of men would have done 
 better, and that but for one woman's courage and 
 good faith, no less than forty brave seamen would 
 have made their last voyage upon any ship. 
 
 It had been seven o'clock of the morning when 
 the lifeboat put out upon its first voyage; it was 
 after midday when it returned from its last. Bell 
 Island then witnessed such a scene of life and ex- 
 citement as never had been known in all its story. 
 Every house boasted its drenched guests there 
 were seamen going to and fro in small boats con- 
 stantly tugs had come over from the mainland 
 and were cruising in the deep waters beyond the 
 mole; the fishing fleet had returned and the little 
 harbor became a forest of masts. Not prone to 
 acclaim heroism, none the less the good fellows 
 about the harbor could bestir themselves at the life- 
 boat's return, and give it a rousing cheer you might 
 almost have heard across the Channel. Ay, they 
 were glad that their women should prove stout 
 
 344
 
 THE FORTUNATE, PRISONER 
 
 hearts but they would not make overmuch of 
 them, and the good souls tramped back to their 
 homes as unconcerned and unaware of their own 
 fame as any housewife in the kingdom. Let the 
 newspapers cackle of this affair to-morrow. What 
 mattered it to them, and what did newspapers know 
 of the sea and its sacrifices? 
 
 Jesse Fearney, be it said, was one of the first 
 ashore, and Jo, the nigger, her father's boatman, one 
 of the first who greeted her there. Guessing noth- 
 ing of the curiosity which inspired, in some measure, 
 this daring venture, he told her in a word that of 
 which the island had been talking this hour or more. 
 
 Philip Blake was dead. His body had been car- 
 ried to the chapel; it was one of the first to be 
 brought on shore. Every one was sorry for "Massa 
 Blake," and he was much liked. Jesse heard him 
 with inclined head and averted eyes. She knew that 
 it could not be otherwise ; she had been sure of this 
 when her keen glance searched the fretting waters 
 about the wreck and no trace of Philip had been 
 discovered. He was dead! He would never be- 
 friend her more. This must be the end of all that 
 new and sudden hope. He was dead this friend 
 who had wished so well to her. 
 
 She returned to the farm ; avoiding converse with 
 all, interesting herself no more in that work of 
 mercy which so many willing hands were ready to 
 
 345
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 do. To Hannah, the maid, she said nothing of the 
 events of the morning, save to tell her that the 
 Marathon was wrecked upon the Spanish Rock 
 and that she feared many had perished. Possessing 
 a nature truly womanly and wholly unsympathetic, 
 she wondered at this euthanasia of pity which had 
 overtaken her at the quiet survey she could make 
 both of her own possession and of others. All the 
 horror and the dread of the things happening down 
 there upon the shore but drove her more surely to 
 the seclusion of the farm and the refuge of her 
 thoughts. She must find her father, she said; she 
 must find John Canning. A great yearning to go to 
 the man she loved, to say "Help me," sustained her 
 and animated all her actions. Ah, if she could be- 
 gin such a journey to-day, set out that very mo- 
 ment. Pride was done with now. The woman in 
 her said, "You have the right to go to him ; he will 
 hear you." And this instinct of her womanhood 
 she was all willing to obey, could they but point the 
 road to her. 
 
 Women are clever in sorrow and often resource- 
 ful. Jesse could wonder now why she had accepted 
 all the events of the past few days so unquestion- 
 ingly; why her father's absence had not awakened 
 her to action ; why she had relied upon poor Philip 
 Blake to do for her that which her own wit must 
 contrive. Was she not the mistress of the island 
 
 346
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 in so far as her father had been the master of it? 
 Suddenly conscious of the meaning of the term, she 
 locked herself in old Japhon's poor sanctum and 
 began methodically to examine his papers. No 
 sense of sanctity restrained her; no hesitation as to 
 the nature and scope of her duty; but quietly, per- 
 sistently she went through the dusty pile of letters; 
 examined the books and the ill-written letters, 
 turned out the drawers ; laid bare the cupboards. It 
 was five o'clock of the afternoon when she had fin- 
 ished the task, and Hannah was calling her to tea. 
 Never had the hours of a mean employment passed 
 so swiftly. 
 
 They will tell you on Bell Island how that Jesse 
 left them that night to go to London; with what 
 astonishment the news was heard even by those to 
 whom the day had been memorable beyond all ex- 
 perience. She had gone at eight o'clock, the men 
 said, and would catch the night mail. Jo, the nig- 
 ger, and Isaacson, the Swede, sailed the boat which 
 had carried her father so often upon his secret mis- 
 sions. Her purpose, however, was known to none. 
 Some thought she had gone to tell Mr. Blake of 
 his son's death others hinted that she knew where 
 Japhon was hiding and would seek him out in this 
 hour of the disaster. But all quickly forgot the 
 circumstance for why should they remember it 
 upon such a night? 
 
 347
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Was not the island a wild scene enough that they 
 should think of others? Ay, the strange changes, 
 the comings and goings of poor bereaved people 
 the black ships anchored off the reef; the flares 
 burning brightly to make the night as day. Here 
 was something of which England would speak in 
 whispers to-morrow this tale written upon the wa- 
 ters of the glassy sea ; this holocaust so overwhelm- 
 ing and unaccountable. Ay, a tale to be winged 
 through the length and breadth of the land not 
 any pitiful account of women at the oars or any 
 nonsense of that sort. 
 
 Bell Island, be sure, would have laughed at those 
 who told of a brave thing done by women. Even 
 the reporters who came to get some account of it 
 were mocked to their faces. Was not there news 
 enough that such an affair should be remembered? 
 
 348
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 ABRAHAM WESSON RETURNS FROM HIS HOLIDAY 
 
 OLD Abraham Wesson entered his office in Old 
 Broad Street at ten o'clock precisely; and having 
 hung his very respectable frock coat upon the ac- 
 customed nail and donned the alpaca jacket which 
 his own laws demanded of him, he glanced at the 
 pile of letters upon his desk and rang for his clerk, 
 Muller. 
 
 Now, Abraham had been away from London for 
 ten days, almost an unknown happening in a life 
 which lacked event. Possibly he was, upon his re- 
 turn, justly anxious to know how the City had con- 
 tinued to exist without him and if the Lord Chan- 
 cellor still occupied the woolsack. In any case, he 
 awaited his confidential fellow with no little impa- 
 tience, and when that worthy, Muller, appeared he 
 plunged instantly into a maze of talk which would 
 have been worse than Greek to the layman. For it 
 was all of acts and deeds and covenants and con- 
 veyances; of actions impending and actions to be 
 put down in the list; of opinions upon this case and 
 counter-opinions upon that; in brief, of that exact 
 and yet befogging science by which, as the philoso- 
 
 349
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 pher has told us, the king decides 'twixt those who 
 would do much better to agree to differ. 
 
 Abraham Wesson was not of this opinion. He 
 loved the law, loved its mustiness, its vellum, its 
 very sealing wax. Human beings did not exist for 
 him ; they were plaintiffs or defendants, as the case 
 might be. When he asked Muller if any one had 
 called during his absence he hardly expected to hear 
 a Christian name in answer. It would be "Meggs 
 versus Wild," or "Bogg versus Knipp," or any one 
 of the numerous cases which rarely failed to fill his 
 head with shrewd thoughts and his purse with 
 guineas. An exception, perhaps, we should admit, 
 and that was his reference to an interesting client in 
 whom he had never lost faith. Had John Canning 
 called? He was all ears when he put this question 
 the answer interested him strangely. 
 
 "We have heard nothing, sir, since we had the 
 order not to proceed at the island." 
 
 "And there's no news of him in any of the pa- 
 pers?" 
 
 "Except as to what happened to the ship at Bell 
 Island, sir." 
 
 "To what ship ? What are you talking about ?" 
 
 Muller sighed, but was not surprised. Old Abra- 
 ham rarely knew anything of the day's news. He 
 could tell you which party was in office and how 
 England lost yearly by buying foreign wheat, but 
 
 350
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 in other matters he was as guileless as a child. Let 
 a man speak of a new hotel in Piccadilly, of sport 
 at Ranelagh or at Lords, of an earthquake in the 
 Pacific, or an eruption of Vesuvius, and Abraham 
 would stare at him resentfully. Why talk of these 
 things when "Mole versus Burrow" was before the 
 courts ? Were men mad to fuddle their brains with 
 such trivialities ? 
 
 So here was Muller telling the old fellow the 
 whole story of it, how that the ship had struck upon 
 the Spanish reef ; how many of the seamen had been 
 rescued by a lifeboat which the women rowed; how 
 there had been brave but futile efforts to raise the 
 wreck, the whole story in short as we know it, but 
 as Abraham Wesson heard it for the first time upon 
 that November morning. 
 
 "Astonishing!" he exclaimed, "and these things 
 cost the nation more than half a million, to say 
 nothing of what we pay to the foreigners. I won- 
 der that Canning was away from home at such a 
 time ; he's missed a great opportunity. Do you say 
 that nothing has been heard from the place at all ?" 
 
 "I won't say that, sir a young lady has called." 
 
 "A young lady why, who would she be?" 
 
 Muller shook his head. 
 
 "She would leave no name, sir. She wished to 
 see you alone. It's about Canning's affairs, though, 
 for she told me so."
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 Abraham was doubtful. The Law does not love 
 young ladies who frequent lawyers' offices unless 
 they come as plaintiffs. This might be anything 
 from blackmail downward. He hoped that Muller 
 had not been foolish. 
 
 "You didn't give Mr. Canning's address or any 
 nonsense of that sort?" 
 
 "Oh no, sir, I am not quite so foolish as that." 
 
 "That's right, that's right never give an address 
 to a woman it's dangerous, it's most dangerous." 
 
 Muller answered that he supposed it was, and, 
 being a married man, he could speak with some 
 conviction. His further observations, however, 
 were arrested by the appearance of a small boy in 
 the office, a red-haired, impudent youth who knocked 
 upon the door with the fist of Vulcan and spoke 
 with the accents of Stratford-atte-Bow. 
 
 "The lidy agen," was all he said even Abraham 
 understood that. 
 
 "Would it be the girl herself?" he asked Muller. 
 The clerk replied that he thought it must be so, for 
 this was the hour at which she had presented her- 
 self hitherto. 
 
 "Then I'll see her at once don't let me be inter- 
 rupted." 
 
 And so he met Jesse of the Pharos for the first 
 time grown so much older these latter days, but 
 losing nothing of her natural beauty, and carrying 
 
 352
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 herself with such dignity that even the lawyer could 
 admit it. "Ha," said the old rogue, "so this is what 
 he wanted with that bit of a rock in the Bristol 
 Channel well, I might have known it, I might 
 have known it." 
 
 Outwardly, to be sure, he was all bustling polite- 
 ness and bending humility. Thirty years ago he 
 had known weaknesses of this kind himself and 
 he could still dust a chair and set a table for a lady 
 with any lawyer in the neighborhood. Jesse thought 
 him an odd old man. She had always been taught 
 by her father to dread the Law but who could be 
 afraid of this? 
 
 "I am Jesse Fearney, the daughter of Japhon 
 Fearney, of the Home Farm upon Bell Island," she 
 said quietly; "my purpose in coming to London is 
 to meet Mr. John Canning and to bring him some 
 news of great importance." The old lawyer nodded 
 his head. Strangely enough he was listening, but 
 ill. Some memory of what he had been reading in 
 the newspaper concerning the wreck of the Mara- 
 thon, some vague idea that the nation had been 
 honoring a woman's name and that this woman sat 
 before him, occurred to him despite other interests. 
 
 "Pardon me," he said, lifting up the sheet as he 
 spoke, "but before we speak of other matters, may 
 I ask you if you are the Miss Fearney mentioned 
 here?" 
 
 353
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 She looked at him in wonder. Of small concern 
 to her had any newspaper been since she arrived, 
 friendless, in this great city, seeking but one of all 
 its millions, hoping but to one end during all the 
 dark days. Oh, be sure Jesse knew nothing of the 
 newspapers. 
 
 "I do not know what you mean," she stammered ; 
 "but I am the only Jesse Fearney on Bell Island." 
 
 "Then I am proud to make your acquaintance, 
 young lady; I consider it an honor that you should 
 come to this office." 
 
 She knew not what he meant. How different 
 from the lawyers of whom her poor father had 
 spoken ! This old man surely would listen patiently 
 to her. 
 
 "I came to you," she said, "to tell you that the 
 father of the late Lieutenant Blake, whose son was 
 drowned in the accident, knows something which 
 may be of great service to Mr. Canning. I went to 
 the Castle, but there is no one there who could help 
 me. My father is also away, and so I thought it 
 best to come to you." 
 
 "Then you had heard of me, Miss Fearney?" 
 
 "Indeed, no. I learned your name by reading my 
 father's correspondence in his absence." 
 
 He regarded her with open admiration. 
 
 "And so you put two and two together and came 
 to London. That was a very brave thing to do." 
 
 354
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "It was a very obvious thing to do, Mr. Wesson." 
 
 He liked that, liked this pretty child in every 
 mood. True she had discovered a mare's nest, he 
 thought, and he doubted if any mere desire to help 
 John Canning with information had carried her to 
 London. "She is in love with him, and here will be 
 a story," he said, and so he temporized still. 
 
 "Well," he exclaimed presently, "I don't know 
 where Mr. Canning is at present, though I don't 
 suppose it will be long before I see him again. You, 
 I suppose, are returning immediately?" 
 
 "Indeed, no ; I am going to Belgium." 
 
 "To Belgium?" 
 
 "Yes, to find my father, who, I have reason to 
 suppose, is living there." 
 
 Wesson opened his eyes at this. Fearney 
 Fearney, where had that name occurred to him in 
 connection with things appertaining to the Law? 
 Ah, he remembered it. Was not there a Fearney 
 wanted by the police in connection with the frauds 
 at Barnstaple? Impossible to believe that this was 
 the man whose daughter sat before him. 
 
 "Are you leaving London immediately, Miss 
 Fearney?" 
 
 "I propose to go to-morrow if you will give me 
 your promise that my message shall be sent to Mr. 
 Canning to-day." 
 
 "It shall be sent upon the first possible oppor- 
 
 355
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 tunity. Meanwhile, should anything occur, is there 
 no address which will find you?" 
 
 She hesitated an instant a flush of color suffus- 
 ing her cheeks. 
 
 "No," she said at last, "I do not wish to leave my 
 address. I prefer to trust to your interest in Mr. 
 Canning and his affairs." 
 
 And this was all. Neither argument nor cajolery 
 could move that simple, stately girl, who treated this 
 old man with such dignity and defied him by her 
 candor. "She did not wish to leave her address." 
 Another would have made excuses, the old fellow 
 said, as he bowed her down the stairs and opened 
 the private door for her with his own hands. And 
 she, if the papers were to be believed, was little 
 short of a national heroine whom the country 
 would honor if it could. A strange affair indeed 
 a fine mystery to greet him upon his return. 
 
 Very slowly and full of thought he climbed the 
 office stairs again and rang his bell. When Muller 
 appeared he gave that imperturbable fellow some 
 earnest, almost vehement, instructions in a tone and 
 with a manner quite foreign to him. 
 
 "We must find Canning," he cried in a voice 
 grown hoarse with its own energies; "find him at 
 any cost. Send telegrams everywhere to his ho- 
 tels, to Bell Island, to Mr. Hobby's office. I have 
 urgent news it will not wait." 
 
 356
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir but I think that's Mr. 
 Canning now I hear his voice downstairs." 
 
 Abraham Wesson listened with ear intent. There 
 was no doubt about it. John Canning, newly re- 
 turned from France, had come straight to Old 
 Broad Street to hear the lawyer's news and to re- 
 late his own. 
 
 "Good God!" exclaimed the old lawyer, "and I 
 have let the woman go. Run after her, Muller > 
 fetch her back she can't be twenty steps away." 
 He danced with excitement, frothed with the inten- 
 tions of pursuit; but the clerk, snatching up a hat 
 at hazard, ran straight into John Canning's arms. 
 
 357
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 THE PRISONER IS TO BET CALLED FORTUNATE 
 
 A QUESTION from the impetuous traveler to the 
 agitated clerk extorted the information that Jesse 
 Fearney had just called at the office, and had left it 
 but two minutes at the most. 
 
 "I am running after her, sir," the amiable Muller 
 declared. 
 
 "Then I'll come with you," said John Canning, 
 and he turned and left the office regardless of old 
 Abraham Wesson, who was calling him at the 
 stairs head. 
 
 Which way had she gone ? Which of all those per- 
 plexing streets would she have followed? How 
 well Canning knew them all! Had not they been 
 the scenes of his triumph in the old days ? Was not 
 it here that Fortune smiled upon and mocked him 
 in turn? And now he followed them as a man 
 possessed followed neither riches nor fame, but 
 just a face of his dreams, blindly, as one who be- 
 lieved that this was his goal, this the master key 
 of the Fate which had so long derided him. 
 
 She would have gone toward the Exchange, he 
 358
 
 THE FORTUNATE, PRISONER 
 
 said. Naturally her lodging would be somewhere 
 in the West End of London and she would make 
 for the Mansion House. It was a torture to think 
 that she might escape him after all, that the quest 
 was futile at the best, and that a man might as well 
 look to pick a diamond from the stones as to dis- 
 cover her in that press. None the less he hurried 
 on, a figure to be remarked and laughed at bare- 
 headed, running, scanning every face, fretting at 
 all delay hoping, believing always. When he 
 came to the corner of Threadneedle Street, to the 
 door of the house which had expelled him with ig- 
 nominy, he must stand a while and curse his luck. 
 What a vast concourse of people now forbade him 
 to pass ! He heard a great sound as of many voices 
 cheering, he was carried on by the mob despite his 
 endeavor to free himself. What a fretting throng 
 here was gathered together, laughing, cheering, 
 leaping, man upon the shoulders of man! Old 
 knowledge told him that some crisis had happened, 
 some news come to hand to move the markets to 
 this frenzy. But he must pass, whatever it was he 
 implored them to let him through. 
 
 They told him, many voices speaking together. 
 
 "Don't you know," they said, "that's Jesse Fear- 
 ney who took the lifeboat. Cheer, man, cheer 
 have you no heart?" 
 
 He stood quite still now and listened to the cries 
 
 359
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 as to some music from a distant shore. Of course 
 they would act in this way. Some one had pointed 
 her out, he said perhaps one of the boys in the 
 office. She had been followed from Old Broad 
 Street, the news flashing from mouth to mouth 
 "Yonder goes Jesse Fearney, who took the lifeboat 
 out." And now these good fellows of the Stock 
 Exchange had made her their prisoner and were 
 showering gifts upon her. 
 
 Ah, what madness, and yet what well-meant mad- 
 ness! How big men dance and yell like children! 
 Merchants, brokers, jobbers you may put them all 
 in the same boat. They are remembering their 
 birthright and honoring Jesse of the Pharos. One 
 snatches a great diamond pin from his scarf and 
 thrusts it into the fur of her boa; others run into a 
 neighboring jeweler's shop and bring out diamonds 
 in their hands ; there is not a flower stall within two 
 hundred yards that is not gutted by feverish hands. 
 Oh, rich is their opportunity to prove themselves 
 children of the great heritage of the sea ! They will 
 bear this image of brave womanhood aloft, wor- 
 shiping in their rough psalmody which is none the 
 worse for its city rhythm. "Jesse, Jesse of the 
 Pharos!" they cried. And the shout is taken up 
 and echoes in far streets, and thousands press in to 
 the shrine, and thousands upon the outskirts bewail 
 their isolation. 
 
 360
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 She was very pale through it all; understanding 
 their meaning but vaguely, and greatly frightened 
 by their devotion. Presently she fell to weeping, 
 and this disconcerted them. Ashamed and afraid, 
 she begged them to let her go, and in the pause at- 
 tending, John Canning fought his way to her side. 
 Ah, that was a rendezvous indeed, and the City will 
 tell you of it as a sacred thing the hatless, dishev- 
 eled, breathless man, his coat half gone from his 
 back, his face crimson, his arms outstretched, and 
 before him the amazed Jesse knowing not what to 
 say or to do, but a very picture of girlish beauty in 
 her distress. 
 
 He caught her to his heart and, some one recog- 
 nizing him, the name of John Canning was passed 
 from lip to lip. Presently a fellow bolder than the 
 others raised a cheer, and this was quickly taken 
 up. Well did the House know now that this man 
 had been unjustly accused and unjustly convicted. 
 They would begrudge nothing of such a moment as 
 this, deny him no admission, withhold from him no 
 just tribute. And they cheered him roundly, 
 cheered when he caught Jesse in his arms, cheered 
 when he lifted her to a cab, raced after them still 
 cheering until the vast traffic enveloped them and the 
 cab was lost in its vortex. 
 
 Now, Canning had given the driver of the cab a 
 direction at hazard, and for a little while the man 
 
 361
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 drove wildly, enjoying the humors of pursuit and 
 understanding the situation perfectly. When, how- 
 ever, they had passed the Mansion House and come 
 almost to St. Paul's, he ventured to ask for a direc- 
 tion and was astonished to hear that he was to drive 
 to the Carlton Hotel. 
 
 "We must stop there until I find out where your 
 father is," Canning said to Jesse, when he had 
 spoken to the man. "All the news seems to say 
 that he is with Count Gabrielle in Bruges you 
 know, of course, that the Count's launch picked him 
 up, after all. There is not another man in the Bris- 
 tol Channel who would have come through that 
 night safely, Jesse." 
 
 She said that she thought it must be so, and that 
 some instinct had told her from the first that all was 
 well with her father. Very quiet, sobbing a little 
 still, she sat by his side and heard him as some com- 
 forter sent by a miracle to her side. Whither or 
 why, she did not ask. What woman would have 
 done otherwise at such an hour? 
 
 "We shall find your father and bring him back 
 with us. I hear from Scotland Yard that the Holly 
 Angus affair is all rubbish, and the rest is a matter 
 of money, Jesse. I am glad that it is so. I am glad 
 to be able to tell you this with conviction." 
 
 She answered him with averted face that her 
 father was a poor man and would never be able to 
 
 362
 
 THE FORTUNATE PRISONER 
 
 pay such a fine as the Government would demand. 
 But here for the first time he laughed at her. 
 
 "Do you not know that I am rich, little girl?" 
 
 "My father would never let any one else help 
 him." 
 
 "Oh, Jesse, Jesse what will he not do for the 
 daughter he loves? Are we not going to him to- 
 gether ?" 
 
 He put his arm about her and drew her head 
 down upon his shoulder. 
 
 "Six months ago," he said, "you promised me 
 that you would not forget have you forgotten to- 
 day, Jesse?" 
 
 She did not answer him. Some who passed them 
 by laughed as they went but Canning, forgetting 
 all the world, stooped and kissed her lips. 
 
 Ah, this London it had given him fortune after 
 all, then. 
 
 For here was the Master Key, which vainly he 
 had sought and, finding, would not surrender to 
 his life's end. 
 
 THE END 
 
 363
 
 THE LION AMD THE MOUSE 
 
 Tin Gnat Story by Arthur Hornblow. Noveliaed from Charto* 
 Stein's Play. A timely and thrilling story of American life 
 and conditions to-day. The home and family life of the world's 
 richest citizen the menace of the Money Peril the heroic 
 etrugglfi of a daughter to save her father, a judge of the Supreme 
 Court, from the clutches of the giant Trusts the barter of the 
 United States Senate the money value of a human heart 
 all this is woven into a fascinating story that never lags a 
 moment from cover to cover. It it more than a novel. It it a 
 book to make men and women think. Beautiful illustrations. 
 Richly bound in red and gold. (60th thousand.) 31.50. 
 
 THE END OF THE GAME. A Story of American Life 
 By Arthur Homblow, author of the novel "The Lion and the 
 Mouse," from Charles Klein's Play. A powerful and admirably 
 written story of intense human interest, dealing with the 
 complex game of life its vicissitudes, its sorrows, its joys, its 
 disappointments and its triumphs. This masterful novel 
 is likely to meet with even greater success than Arthur Horn- 
 blow's last book, "The Lion and the Mouse," which is in its 
 60th thousand. 12mo, cloth bound, illustrated, $1.50. 
 
 CHAMPION. The Story of a Motor Car 
 
 By John Colin Dane. The story, which is a varied one of villainy, 
 treachery, fun, frolic, and love, is told by the car itself. The 
 treacherous love of one woman, and the crowning truthful love 
 of another, lend sentiment to the throbbing interest of a telling 
 tale. How the car is stolen, how it comes into the service 
 of thieves and swindlers, how it descends into genteel poverty, 
 how it becomes the toy of a charming American beauty all 
 is told entrancingly in this autobiography of an automobile. 
 With 8 illustrations, $1.50. 
 
 THE MARRIAGE OF MRS. MERLIN 
 
 By Charles Stokes Wayne. The remarkable originality at this 
 storv, through the author's deft art, is sure to command at- 
 tention. Mrs. Merlin, a rich widow, with no thought of love, 
 bargains for a second husband for companionship in her 
 travels abroad. The complex occurrences and final resulte 
 are woven together in a brilliant manner, making it a book to 
 be read with exquisite pleasure. Illustrations by Louis F. 
 Grant. 12mo, cloth bound, $1.25. 
 
 FRINGE KARL 
 
 By Archibald Cla vering (footer. Noveli zed from the play fa 
 which Richard Mansfield appeared before more than two 
 million people. With a strong heart interest, brimful of 
 humor, it is a story not to be laid aside until finished. It* 
 great popularity as a play must give the book an immense tale. 
 12mo. doth bound, with frontiprwoe Ohxtration. Sl.26.
 
 MVOCA 
 
 By Augusta Evan* WUnQ. A poigiiaht'tratxiy ta the HVM of 
 two persona a man of ststMiig character and a proud woman 
 who are separated through a misunderstanding and kept apart 
 by the woman's obstinacy, only to become reconciled afte? 
 many yean by the woman mastering her pride at the dictates 
 of humanity, coming to the man she has wronged to plead for 
 a criminal's prjdon. This beautiful story is properly classed 
 a literary cameo. 12mo, beautifully printed in two colors, 
 illustrated from f ur color drawings by Stuart Travis, richly 
 bound in cloth, $1.50. 
 
 THE ROCK OF CHICKAMAUGA 
 
 By General Charles King. An historical story of the Civil Wat 
 in which General George H. Thomas, the ideal soldier, is the 
 central figure. This is General King's masterpiece. The 
 actual facts and details of the story cover several years of 
 careful work of what has been to the author a labor of love. 
 12 mo, cloth bound, illustrated, $1.50. 
 
 THE MAKING OF A SUCCESSFUL HUSBAND 
 
 By Casper S. Tost. Neither a text book nor a story, but a aerie* 
 of letters from a father to his son. In it are the practical 
 questions of "spending and saving," "boarding or keeping 
 house," "the wife'safiowance," '^dollars and debts," ^the 
 wife's relations," etc. It is filled with witty epigrams. It is 
 a book that should find a place in every home. 12mo, cloth 
 bound, $1.00. 
 
 THE MAKING OF A SUCCESSFUL WIFE 
 
 By Casper S. Tost. A companion book to "The M*lring of a 
 Successful Husband." With the same quaint humor and 
 homely wisdom that characterized his letters to his son in 
 "The Making of a Successful Husband," John Snced has 
 written to his daughter. In a series of ten fatherly communi- 
 cations he gives her the results of his experience and observa- 
 tion. His advice is sage and practical. Being a man he 
 naturally looks at the subject from a man's standpoint, a view 
 which no woman can possibly secure of heiself. 12mo, clotb 
 bound, $1.00. 
 
 GARRISON'S FINISH 
 
 By W. B. M. Ferguson. A racing story of intense human interest 
 Garrison, the jockey, is accused of "throwing a race/' but in 
 the ead vindicates himself and rides a remarkable race, winning 
 favor and fortune and the girl he loves. Illustrations by 
 Charles Grnnwald. 12mo- beautifully bound in cloth. $1.50
 
 CHIP OF THE FLYING U 
 
 By B. M. Bow. From the opening chapter to ite last page an 
 eminent critie pronounce* it as "equal if not better than the 
 'Virginian.' " The name of B. M. Bower will stand for 
 something readable in the estimation of every man and almost 
 every woman who reads this story of Montana ranch and it* 
 dwellers. Illustrated, 12mo, cloth bound, $1.25. 
 
 THE RANGE DWELLERS. A Thrilling Western Story 
 By B. M. Bower, author of "Chip of the Flying U." It is a 
 thoroughly live story, with plenty of local color well laid on. 
 Its people have marked characteristics, its scenes change 
 rapidly, it possesses breeziness and a wealth of wholesome love, 
 and its conclusion is satisfying. 12mo, cloth bound, illus- 
 trated, $1.25. 
 
 HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT 
 
 By B. M. Bower, author of "Chip of the Flying U," "The Range 
 Dwellers," etc. A breezy, western ranch story. It sparkles 
 in reproducing the atmosphere of the West. Strong heart 
 interest and a beautifully pictured love story make it a most 
 charming book and a fit companion to "Chip" and "The 
 Range Dwellers." 12rno, cloth bound, with illustrations in 
 three colors, $1.25. 
 
 THE LURE OF THE DIM TRAILS 
 
 By B. M. Bower, author of "Chip of the Flying U," "Her Prairie 
 Knight," "The Range Dwellers," etc. A living, breathing 
 story of the West, out beyond the Mississippi, where the trails 
 of men are dim and far apart. This is the best story that the 
 author of "Chip of the Flying U " has written, and the three 
 full-page three-color drawings, and over thirty pen and ink mar- 
 ginal pictures by Charles M. Russell (the cowboy artist), with 
 which the book is embellished, make it a handsome book. 
 12mo, cloth bound, decorative cover, $1.50. 
 
 WHERE THE RED VOLLEYS POURED. A Romance 
 of the Civil War 
 
 By Charles W. Dahlinger. The patriotism, chivalry, and romance 
 of the most eventful period in American history, vividly 
 presented in the character and experiences of a typical soldier 
 of the time Paul Didier, a German revolutionary exile, who 
 enlists in the Union cause. The story begins with reminiscence 
 of the same nature and in the same charming vein as Carl 
 Schurz's recent autobiography. It insidiously develops into a 
 love romance, which is complicated by the hero's provoking 
 susceptibility to feminine charms. A solution is finally reached 
 amid the thunders of Gettysburg, a battle which the author 
 describes with the pen of a duvnatic historian. 12mo, doth, 
 
 fl.5O
 
 UC SOWERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FAOUTJ 
 
 A 000 045 221 9 
 
 University of California 
 
 SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 Return this material to the library 
 
 from which it was borrowed. 
 
 - 
 
 J AN 1 5 
 
 NOVl o 198S