HER EYES TURNED TOWARDS IT MECHANICALLY BECAUSE IT CON- 
 TAINED . . . THE MAN OF WHOM SHE WAS THINKING "
 
 PRISONERS 
 
 FAST BOUND IN MISERY AND IRON 
 
 BY 
 MARY CHOLMONDELEY 
 
 Author of 
 
 "Red Pottage" 
 
 'But for failing of love on our 
 part, therefore is all our travail." 
 JULIAN OF NOBWICH. 
 
 DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 
 NEW YORK ....'.. MCMVI
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1905, 1906, BY 
 COLVEB PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 COPTBIGHT, 1906, BY 
 
 MARY CHOLMONDELY 
 
 Published, September, 1906
 
 To 
 
 My Brother 
 
 2134884
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 " Her eyes turned towards it mechanically 
 because it contained . . . the man of 
 whom she was thinking " . . . Frontispiece 
 
 " A 'deathlike silence followed the delegate's 
 
 words" r., Page 36 
 
 " * Is she worth it ? ' he said with sudden 
 
 passion " r .- ........ "46 
 
 " * You are all blinder one than the other, that 
 
 it's Andrea I'm grieving for '" . . . " 80 
 
 " If Fay had come in then he would have killed 
 her, done her to death with the chains he 
 had worn so patiently for her sake " . . "146 
 
 " Fay noticed for the first time how lightly 
 Wentworth walked, how square his shoulders 
 were" " 184
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Grim Fate was tender, contemplating you, 
 
 And fairies brought their offerings at your birth; 
 
 You take the rose-leaf pathway as your due, 
 Your rightful meed the choicest gifts of earth. 
 
 ARTHUR C. LEGGE. 
 
 FAY stood on her balcony, and looked over the ilexes 
 of her villa at Frascati; out across the grey-green of 
 the Campagna to the little compressed city which goes 
 by the great name of Rome. 
 
 How small it looked, what a huddled speck with a 
 bubble dome, to be represented by so stupendous a 
 name! 
 
 She gazed at it without seeing it. Her eyes turned 
 towards it mechanically because it contained somewhere 
 within its narrow precincts the man of whom she was 
 thinking, of whom she was always thinking. 
 
 It was easy to see that Fay the Duchess of Colle 
 Alto was an Englishwoman, in spite of her historic 
 Italian name. 
 
 She had the look of perfect though not robust health, 
 the reflection over her whole being of a childhood spent 
 much in the open air. She was twenty-three, but her 
 sweet fair face, with its delicate irregular features, 
 was immature, childish. It gave no impression of ex- 
 perience, or thought, or of having met life. She was 
 obviously not of those who criticise or judge them- 
 selves. In how many faces we se the conflict, or the
 
 2 PRISONERS 
 
 remains of conflict with a dual nature. Fay, as she was 
 called by her family, seemed all of a piece with herself. 
 Her unharassed countenance showed it, especially when, 
 as at this moment, she looked harassed. Anxiety was evi- 
 dently a foreign element. It sat ill upon her smooth 
 face, as if it might slide off at any moment. Fay's 
 violet eyes were her greatest charm. She looked at you 
 with a deprecating, timid, limpid gaze, in which no guile 
 existed, any more than steadfastness, any more than 
 unselfishness, any more than courage. 
 
 Fay had come into the world anxious to please. She 
 had never shown any particular wish to give pleasure. 
 If she had been missed out of her somewhat oppressed 
 and struggling home when she married, it is probable 
 that the sense of her absence was tinged by relief. 
 
 She had never intended to marry the Duke of Colle 
 Alto. It is difficult to say why that sedate distinguished 
 personage married her. 
 
 Fay's face had a very sweet and endearing promise 
 in it which drew men's eyes after her. I don't know 
 what it meant, and they did not know either, but they 
 instinctively lessened the distance between themselves 
 and it. A very thin string will tow a very heavy body 
 if there is no resistance, and the pace is slow. The 
 duke looked at Fay, who was at that moment being 
 taken out for her first season by her grandmother, Lady 
 Bellairs. Fay tried to please him, as was her wont 
 with all except men with beards. She liked to have him 
 in attendance. Her violet eyes lighted up with genuine 
 pleasure when he came to see her. 
 
 It is perhaps difficult for the legions of women who 
 do not please easily, and for the handful whose interests
 
 PRISONERS 3 
 
 lie outside themselves, and who are not desirous of pleas- 
 ing indiscriminately, it is difficult for either to realise 
 the passionate desire to please which possesses and 
 saps the life of some of their sisters. Admiration with 
 them is not a luxury, any more than a hot-water bottle 
 is a luxury to the aged, or a foot rest to a gouty foot. 
 It is a necessity of life. After a becoming interval, 
 the interstices of which had been filled with flowers, 
 the duke proposed to Lady Bellairs for Fay's hand. 
 Fay did not wish to marry him. He was not in the least 
 her ideal. Neither did she wish to remain unmarried, 
 neither did she wish to part with her grave, distinguished 
 suitor who was an ornament to herself. And she was 
 distinctly averse to living any longer in the paternal 
 home, lost in a remote crease in a Hampshire down. 
 Poor women have only too frequently to deal with these 
 complicated situations, with which blundering, egotistic 
 male minds are seldom in perfect sympathy. 
 
 Fay had never willingly relinquished any of the men 
 who had cared for her, and some had cared much. These 
 last had as a rule torn themselves away from her, leav- 
 ing hearts, or other fragments of themselves, behind, 
 and were not to be cajoled back again, even by one of 
 her little gilt-edged notes. But the duke did not break 
 away. He had selected her, she pleased him, he desired 
 to marry an Englishwoman. He had the approval of 
 Lady Bellairs. 
 
 The day came when Fay was suddenly and adroitly 
 confronted with the fact that she must marry him, or 
 lose him. 
 
 Many confirmed bachelors who openly regret that 
 they have never come across a woman to whom they
 
 4 PRISONERS 
 
 cared to tie themselves for life might be in a position 
 to descant on the inability of wives to enter into their 
 husbands' inmost feelings, if only they the bachelors 
 had known on a past occasion how to act with sudden 
 promptitude on the top of patience. 
 
 The duke played the waiting game, and then hit 
 hard. He had coolly allowed himself to be trifled with, 
 until the moment arrived when it did not suit him to be 
 trifled with any longer. 
 
 The marriage had not proved a marked success, nor 
 an entire failure. The duke was an irreproachable hus- 
 band, but, like many men who marry when they are no 
 longer young, he aged suddenly after marriage. He 
 quickly became bald and stout. His tact except in these 
 two particulars remained flawless. He never allowed 
 his deep chagrin to appear when, three years after his 
 marriage, he still remained without a son to continue 
 his historic name. 
 
 He was polite to his wife at all times, mildly sarcastic 
 as to her extravagance. Fay was not exorbitantly ex- 
 travagant ; but then the duke was not exorbitantly rich. 
 One of Fay's arts, as unconscious as that of a kitten, 
 was to imply past unhappiness, spoken of with a cheer- 
 ful resignation which greatly endeared her to others 
 and to herself. The duke had understood that she 
 had not had a very happy home, and he had honestly 
 endeavoured to make her new home happy. In the early 
 days of his marriage he made many small experiments 
 in the hope of pleasing the pretty creature who had 
 thrown in her lot with his. Possibly also there may 
 have been other subtle, patient attempts to win some- 
 what from her of another nature. Possibly there may
 
 PRISONERS 5 
 
 have been veiled disappointments, and noiseless retreats 
 under cover of night. 
 
 However these things may have been, after the first 
 year Fay made the discovery that she was unhappily 
 married. The duke was kind, in kindness he never 
 failed; but he was easily jealous at least she 
 thought so ; and he appeared quite unable to see in 
 their true light her amicable little flirtations with his 
 delightful compatriots. After one or two annoying 
 incidents, in which the compatriots had shown several 
 distinctly un-English characteristics, the duke became, 
 in his wife's eyes, tiresome, strict, a burden. Perhaps, 
 also, she felt the Englishwoman's surprise at the in- 
 adequate belief in a woman's power of guarding her 
 own virtue, which remains in some nations an hereditary 
 masculine instinct. She felt that she could take care 
 of herself, which was, in reality, just what she could 
 not do, as her imperturbable, watchful husband was well 
 aware. 
 
 But was he aware of the subject of her thoughts at 
 this moment? It was more than probable that he was. 
 But Fay had not the faintest suspicion that he had 
 guessed anything. 
 
 One of her many charms was a certain youthful inno- 
 cence of mind, which imputed no evil to others, which 
 never suspected that others would impute it to her. 
 Her husband was wearisome. He looked coldly on her 
 if she smiled on young men, and she had to smile at 
 them when they smiled at her. But, she reasoned, of 
 course all the time he really knew that he could trust 
 her entirely. There was no harm in Fay's nature, no 
 venom, there were no dark places, no strong passions,
 
 6 PRISONERS 
 
 with their awful possibilities for good and evil. She 
 had already given much pain in her short life, but inad- 
 vertently. She was of that large class of whom it 
 may truly be said when evil comes, that they are more 
 sinned against than sinning. They always somehow 
 gravitate into the places where people are sinned 
 against, just as some people never attend a cricket- 
 match without receiving a ball on their persons. 
 
 And now trouble had come upon her. She had at 
 last fallen in love. I would not venture to assert that 
 she had fallen in very deep, that the " breakers of the 
 boundless deep " had engulfed her. Some of us make 
 shipwreck in a teacup tempest, and when our serenity 
 is restored there is nothing calmer than a teacup after 
 its storm our experience serves, after a decent inter- 
 val, as an agreeable fringe to our confidential con- 
 versation. 
 
 Anyhow, Fay had fallen in love. I feel bound to add 
 that for some time before that event happened life had 
 become intolerably dull. The advent to Rome of her 
 distant connection, Michael Carstairs, had been at this 
 juncture a source of delight to her. She had, before 
 her marriage, flirted with him a very little not as much 
 as she could have wished; but Lady Bellairs, who was 
 fond of him, had promptly intervened, and the young 
 man had disappeared into his examinations. That was 
 four years ago. 
 
 In reality Fay had half -forgotten him; but when 
 she saw him suddenly, pale, handsome, distinguished, 
 across a ballroom in Rome, and, after a moment's un- 
 certainty, realised who he was, she felt the same pleas- 
 urable surprise, soft as the fall of dew, which pervades
 
 PRISONERS 7 
 
 the feminine heart when, in looking into an unused 
 drawer, it inadvertently haps upon a length of new 
 ribbon, bought, carefully put away, and forgotten. 
 
 Fay went gently up to Michael, conscious of her 
 beauty and her wonderful jewels, and held out her hand 
 with a little deprecating smile. 
 
 " And so we meet again at last," she said. 
 
 He turned red and white. 
 
 " At last," he said with difficulty. 
 
 She looked more closely at him. The dreamy, poetic 
 face had chahged during those four years. She became 
 dimly aware that he had not only grown from a youth 
 into a man, but that some other transformation had 
 been painfully wrought in him. 
 
 Instinctively her beaming face became grave to match 
 his. She was slow to see what others were feeling, but 
 quick to reflect their mood. She sighed gently, vaguely 
 stirred, in spite of herself, by something she knew not 
 what in her companion's face. 
 
 " It is four years since I saw you," she said. 
 
 And from her lowered voice it seemed as if her life 
 were rooted in memory alone. 
 
 " Four years," said Michael, who, promising young 
 diplomat as he was, appeared only able to repeat par- 
 rot-wise her last words after her. 
 
 A pause. 
 
 " Do you know my husband? " 
 
 " I do not." 
 
 " May I introduce him to you? " 
 
 Fay made a little sign, and the duke approached, 
 superb, decorated, dignified, with the polished pallor as 
 if the skin were a little too tight, which is the Cha-
 
 8 PRISONERS 
 
 rybdis of many who have avoided the Scylla of 
 wrinkles. 
 
 The elder Italian and the grave, fair, young English- 
 man bowed to each other, were made known to each 
 other. 
 
 That night as the duke drove home with his wife he 
 said to her in his admirable English : 
 
 " Your young cousin is an enthusiast, a dreamer, a 
 sensitive, what your Tennyson calls a Sir Galahad. In 
 Italy we make of such men a priest, a cardinal. He is 
 not an homme d'affaires. It was not well to put him 
 into diplomacy. One may make a religion of art. One 
 may even for a time make a religion of a woman. But 
 of the English diplomacy one does not make a religion." 
 Fay lay awake that night. From a disused pig- 
 eon-hole in her mind she drew out and unfolded to 
 its short length that attractive remnant, that half- 
 forgotten episode of her teens. She remembered every- 
 thing I mean everything she wished to remember. 
 Michael's face had recalled it all, those exquisite days 
 which he had taken so much more seriously than she 
 had, the sudden ruthless intervention of Lady Bellairs, 
 the end of the daydream. Fay, whose attention had 
 been adroitly diverted to other channels, had never won- 
 dered how he took their separation at the time. Now 
 that she saw him again she was aware that he had taken 
 it to heart. 
 
 During that sleepless night Fay persuaded herself 
 that Michael had not been alone in his suffering. She 
 also had felt the parting with equal poignancy. 
 
 They met again a few days later by chance in an old 
 cloistered, deserted garden. How often she had walked
 
 PRISONERS 9 
 
 in that garden as she was doing now with English 
 friends ! His presence gave the place its true sig- 
 nificance. They met as those who have between them 
 the bond of a common sorrow. 
 
 " And what have you been doing all these four 
 years? " she asked him, as they wandered somewhat 
 apart. 
 
 " I have been working." 
 
 " You never came to say good-bye before you went 
 to that place in Germany to study." 
 
 " I was told I had better not come." 
 
 " I suppose grandmamma told you that." 
 
 " She did, most kindly and wisely." 
 
 A pause. 
 
 She was leaning in the still May sunshine against an 
 old grey tomb of carved stone. Two angels with 
 spread wings upheld the defaced inscription. Above it, 
 over it, round it, like desire impotently defying death, 
 a flood of red roses clambered and clung. Were they 
 trying to wake some votary who slept below? A great 
 twisted sentinel cypress kept its own dark counsel. 
 Against its shadow Fay's figure in her white gossamer 
 gown showed more ethereal and exquisite even than in 
 memory. She seemed at one with this wonderful, pas- 
 sionate southern spring, which trembled between rapture 
 and anguish. The red roses and the white irises were 
 everywhere. Even the unkept grass in which her light 
 feet were set was wild with white daisies. 
 
 " Do you remember our last walk on the down that 
 day in spring? " she said suddenly. 
 
 She had forgotten it until last night. 
 
 " I remember it."
 
 10 PRISONERS 
 
 " It was May then. It is May again now." 
 
 He did not answer. The roses left off calling to the 
 dead, and suddenly enfolded the two young grave 
 creatures leaning against the tomb, in a gust of hot 
 perfume. 
 
 " Do you remember," Fay's voice was tremulous, 
 " how you gave me a bit of pink may? " 
 
 " I remember." 
 
 " I was looking at it yesterday. It is not very pink 
 now." 
 
 It was true. In all shallow meanings, and when she 
 had not had time to get her mind into a tangle, Fay 
 was perfectly truthful. She had yesterday been turn- 
 ing over the contents of a little cedar box in which she 
 kept her childish possessions, and she had found in an 
 envelope a brown unsightly ghost of what had once 
 been a may-blossom on a Hampshire down. She had 
 remembered the vivid sunshine, the wheeling seagull, the 
 soft south wind blowing in from the sea. Michael had 
 kissed her under the thin dappled shade of the flower- 
 ing tree, and she had kissed him back. 
 
 Michael's eyes turned for a long moment to the yellow 
 weather-stained arches of the cloister, and then he 
 looked full at Fay with a certain peculiar detached 
 glance which had first made her endeavour to attract 
 him. There is a look in a man's face which women like 
 Fay cannot endure, because it means independence of 
 them. 
 
 " I thought," he said, with the grave simplicity which 
 apparently was unchangeable in him whatever else 
 might change, " that it was only I who remembered. 
 It has always been a comfort to me that any unhappi-
 
 PRISONERS 11 
 
 ness which my want of forethought, my my culpable 
 selfishness may have caused, was borne by myself alone." 
 
 " I was unhappy too," she said, speaking as simply 
 as he. She looked up at him suddenly as she said it. 
 There was a wet glint in her deep violet eyes. She be- 
 lieved absolutely at that moment that she had been as 
 unhappy as he for four years. There was no suspicion 
 in her mind that she was not genuine. Only the sincere 
 ever doubt their sincerity. Fay never doubted hers. 
 She felt what she said, and the sweet eyes turned on 
 Michael had the transparent fixity of a child's. 
 
 They walked unsteadily back to the others and spoke 
 no more to each other that day. Conscience pricked 
 Fay that night. 
 
 " Leave him alone," it said. " You have both suf- 
 fered. Let the dead past bury its dead." 
 
 Fay's conscience was a wonderfully adaptable one 
 with a tendency to poetic quotation. It showed con- 
 siderable tact in adopting her point of view. Never- 
 theless from that generally fallacious standpoint it 
 often gave her quite respectable advice. " Leave him 
 alone," said the hoodwinked monitor. " You are mar- 
 ried and Andrea is easily jealous. Michael is sensitive, 
 and has been deeply in love with you. Don't stir him 
 up to fall in love with you again. Leave him alone." 
 
 The young British matron waxed indignant. Was 
 she, Fay, the kind of woman to forget her duty to her 
 husband? Was Michael the kind of man to make love 
 to a married woman? Such an idea was preposterous, 
 unjust to both of them. And people would begin to 
 talk at once if she and her cousin (Michael was only 
 a distant connection) were studiously to avoid each
 
 12 PRISONERS 
 
 other, if they could not exchange a few words simply 
 like old friends. No one had suggested an attitude of 
 rigid avoidance; but throughout life Fay had always 
 convinced herself of the advisability of a certain wished- 
 for course by conjuring up, only to discard it, the ex- 
 treme and most obviously senseless opposite of that 
 course as the only alternative. 
 
 She imagined her husband saying: "Why won't you 
 ask Mr. Carstairs to dinner? He is your cousin and 
 he is charming. What can the reason be that you so 
 earnestly refuse to meet him? " And then Andrea, who 
 always " got ideas into his head," would begin to sus- 
 pect that there had been " something " between them. 
 
 No. No. It would be far wiser to meet naturally 
 now and then, and to treat Michael like an old friend. 
 Fay had a somewhat muffled conception of what an old 
 friend might be. After deep thought she came to the 
 conclusion that it was her duty to ask Michael fre- 
 quently to the house. When Fay once recognised a 
 duty she performed it without delay. 
 
 She met with an unexpected obstacle in the way of 
 its adequate performance. The obstacle was Michael. 
 
 The young man came once, and then again after an 
 interval of several months, but apparently nothing 
 would induce him to frequent the house. 
 
 Fay did not recognise her boyish eager lover in 
 the grave sedate man, old of his age, who had replaced 
 him. His dignified and quite unobtrusive resistance, 
 which had not indifference at its core, added an intense, 
 a feverish, interest to Fay's life. She saw that he still 
 cared for her, and that he did not intend to wound him- 
 self a second time. He had had enough. She put out
 
 PRISONERS 13 
 
 all her little transparent arts during the months that 
 followed. The duke watched. 
 
 She had implied to her husband with a smile that she 
 had not been very happy at home. She implied to 
 Michael with a smile that it was not the duke's fault, 
 but that she was not very happy in her married life, 
 that he did not care much about her, and that they had 
 but few tastes in common. Each lived their own life 
 on amicable terms, but somewhat apart from each other. 
 She owned that she had hoped for something rather 
 different in marriage. She had, it seemed, started life 
 with a very exalted ideal of married life, which the 
 duke's 
 
 coarse thumb 
 And finger failed to plumb. 
 
 Michael remained outwardly obdurate, but Inwardly 
 he weakened. His tender adoration and respect for 
 Fay, wounded and mutilated though they had been, 
 had nevertheless survived what in many minds must have 
 proved their death-blow. He still believed implicitly 
 all she said. 
 
 But to him her marriage was the impassable barrier, 
 a barrier as enfranchisable as the brown earth on a 
 coffin lid. 
 
 After many months Fay at last vaguely realised 
 his attitude towards her. She told herself that she 
 respected it, that it was just what she wished, was in 
 fact the result of her own tactfully expressed wishes. 
 She seemed to remember things she had said which 
 would have led him to behave just as he had done. And 
 then she turned heaven and earth to regain her personal
 
 14 PRISONERS 
 
 ascendency over him. She never would have regained 
 it if an accident had not befallen her. She fell in love 
 with him during the process. 
 
 The day came, an evil day for Michael, when he 
 could no longer doubt it, when he was not permitted to 
 remain in doubt. Who shall say what waves of bound- 
 less devotion, what passionate impulses of protection, 
 of compassion, of intense longing to shield her from 
 the fire which had devastated his own youth, passed 
 in succession over him as he looked at the delicate little 
 creature who was to him the only real woman in the 
 world all the rest were counterfeits and who now, as 
 he believed, loved him as he had long loved her. 
 
 Michael was one of the few men who bear through 
 life the common masculine burden of a profound ignor- 
 ance of women, coupled with an undeviating loyalty 
 towards them. He supposed she was suffering as he 
 had suffered, that it was with her now beside the foun- 
 tain, under the ilexes of her Italian garden, as it had 
 been with him during these five intolerable years. 
 
 How Fay wept! What a passion of tears, till her 
 small flower-like face was bereft of all beauty, of every- 
 thing except a hideous contraction of grief! 
 
 He stood near her, not touching her, in anguish far 
 deeper than hers. At last he took her clenched hand 
 in his. 
 
 " Do not grieve so," he said brokenly. " It is not 
 our fault. It is greater than either of us. It has 
 come upon us against our wills. We have both strug- 
 gled. You don't know how I have struggled, Fay, 
 day and night since I came to Rome. But I have 
 been in fault. I ought never to have come, for I
 
 PRISONERS 15 
 
 knew you were living near Rome. But I did not know 
 it had touched you, and for myself I had hoped I 
 thought that it was past in as far as it could pass 
 that I was accustomed to it. Listen, Fay, and do not 
 cry so bitterly. I will leave Rome at once. I will not 
 see you again. My poor darling, we have come to a 
 hard place in life, but we can do the only thing left to 
 us our duty." 
 
 Fay's heart contracted, and she suddenly ceased sob- 
 bing. She had never thought of this horrible possibility 
 that he would leave her. 
 
 She drew the hand that clasped hers to her lips and 
 held it tightly against her breast. 
 
 " Don't leave me," she stammered, trembling from 
 head to foot, from sheer terror at the thought ; " I will 
 be good. I will do what is right. We are not like other 
 people. We can trust each other. But I can't live 
 without seeing you sometimes, I could not bear it." 
 
 He withdrew his hand. They looked wildly into each 
 other's eyes. His convulsed face paled and paled. 
 Even as he stood before her she knew she was losing 
 him, that something was tearing him from her. It was 
 as certain that he was going from her as if she were 
 standing by his deathbed. 
 
 He kissed her suddenly. 
 
 " I shall not come back," he said. And the next mo- 
 ment he was gone.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Nous passons notre vie a nous forger des chaines, et a 
 nous plaindre de les porter. VALTOUR. 
 
 FOB, a long time Fay had stood on her balcony looking 
 out towards Rome, while the remembrance of the last 
 few months pressed in upon her. 
 
 It was a week since she had seen Michael, since he had 
 said, " I shall not come back." 
 
 And in the meanwhile she had heard that he had re- 
 signed his appointment, and was leaving Rome at once. 
 She had never imagined that he would act so quickly, 
 with such determination. She had vaguely supposed 
 that he would send in his resignation, and then remain 
 on. In novels in a situation like theirs the man never 
 really went away, or if he did he came back. Fay knew 
 very little of Michael, but nevertheless she instinctively 
 felt and quailed before the conviction that he really 
 was leaving her for ever, that he would reconstruct a 
 life for himself somewhere in which she could not reach 
 him, in which she would have no part or lot. He might 
 suffer during the process, but he would do it. His 
 yea was yea, and his nay, nay. She should see him no 
 more. Some day, not for a long time perhaps, but some 
 day, she should hear of his marriage. 
 
 Suddenly, without a moment's warning, her own life 
 rose up before her, distorted, horrible, unendurable. 
 The ilexes, solemn in the sunset, showed like foul shapes 
 
 16
 
 PRISONERS 17 
 
 of disgust and nausea. The quiet Campagna with its 
 distant faintly outlined Sabine hills was rotten to the 
 core. 
 
 The duke passed across a glade at a little distance, 
 and, looking up, smiled gravely at her, with a slight 
 courteous gesture of his brown hand. 
 
 She smiled mechanically in response and shrank back 
 into her room. Her husband had suddenly become a 
 thing to shudder at, repulsive as a reptile, intolerable. 
 Her life with him, without Michael, stretched before her 
 like a loathsome disease, a leprosy, which in the inter- 
 minable years would gradually eat her away, a death 
 by inches. 
 
 The first throes of a frustrated passion at the stake 
 have probably seldom failed to engender a fierce re- 
 bellion against the laws which light the faggots round it. 
 
 The fire had licked Fay. She fled blindfold from it, 
 not knowing whither, only away from that pain, over 
 any precipice, into any slough. 
 
 " I cannot live without him," she sobbed to herself. 
 " This is not just a common love affair like other peo- 
 ple's. It is everything, my whole life! It is not as if 
 we were bad people ! We are both upright ! We always 
 have been ! We have both done our best, but I can't 
 go on. What is reputation worth, the world's opinion 
 of me? nothing." 
 
 It was not worth more to Fay at that moment than it 
 has ever been worth to any other poor mortal since 
 the world's opinion first clashed with love. 
 
 To follow love shows itself time and time again alike 
 to the pure and to the worldly as the only real life, 
 the only path. But if we disbelieve in it, and framing
 
 18 PRISONERS 
 
 our lives on other lines become voluntarily bedridden 
 into selfishness and luxury, can we when that in which 
 we have not believed comes to pass can we suddenly 
 rise and follow Love up his mountain passes? We try 
 to rise when he calls us from our sick beds. We even 
 go feverishly a little way with him. But unless we have 
 learnt the beginnings of courage and self-surrender 
 before we set out, we seem to turn giddy, and lose our 
 footing. Certain precipices there are where only the 
 pure and strong in heart may pass, at the foot of which 
 are the piled bones of many passionate pilgrims. 
 
 Were Fay's delicate little bones, so subtly covered in 
 soft white flesh, to be added to that putrefying heap? 
 But can we blame anyone, be they who they may, placed 
 howsoever they may be, who when first they undergo a 
 real emotion try however feebly to rise to meet it? 
 
 Fay was not wholly wise, not wholly sincere, but she 
 made an attempt to meet it. It was not to be expected 
 that the attempt would be quite wise or quite sincere 
 either. Still it was the best she could do. She would 
 sacrifice herself for love. She would go away with 
 Michael. No one would ever speak to her again, but 
 she did not care. 
 
 Involuntarily she unclasped a diamond Saint-Esprit 
 from her throat which the duke had given her, and 
 laid it on her writing-table. She should never wear it 
 again. She no longer had the right to wear it. It was 
 a unique jewel. But what did she care for jewels now! 
 They had served to pass the time in the sort of waking 
 dream in which she had lived till Michael came. But 
 she was awake now. She looked at herself in the glass 
 long and fixedly. Yes, she was beautiful. How dread-
 
 PRISONERS 19 
 
 f ul it must be for plain women when they loved ! They 
 must know that men could not really care for them. 
 They might, of course, respect and esteem them, and 
 wish in a lukewarm way to marry them, but they could 
 never really love them. She, Fay, carried with her the 
 talisman. 
 
 A horrible doubt seized her, just when she was becom- 
 ing calm. Supposing Michael would not ! Oh ! but he 
 would if he cared as she did. The sacrifice was all on 
 the woman's side. No one thought much the worse of 
 men when they did these things. And Michael was so 
 good, so honourable that he would certainly never desert 
 her. They would become legal husband and wife 
 directly Andrea divorced her. 
 
 From underneath these matted commonplaces, Fay's 
 muffled conscience strove to reach her with its weak 
 voice. 
 
 " Stop, stop ! " it said. " You will injure him. You 
 will tie a noose round his neck. You will spoil his life. 
 And Andrea! He has been kind in a way. And your 
 marriage vows ! And your own people at home ! And 
 Magdalen, the sister who loves you. Remember her! 
 Stop, stop! Let Michael go. You were obliged to 
 relinquish him once. Let him go again now." 
 
 Fay believed she went through a second conflict. 
 Perhaps there lurked at the back of her mind the image 
 of Michael's set face set away from her; and that 
 image helped her at last to say to herself, " Yes. It 
 is right. I will let him go." 
 
 But did she really mean it? For while she said over 
 and over again, " Yes, yes ; we must part," she decided 
 that it was necessary to see him just once again, to
 
 20 PRISONERS 
 
 bid him a last farewell, to strengthen him to live with- 
 out her. She could not reason it out, but she knew that 
 it was absolutely essential to the welfare of both that 
 they should see each other just once more before they 
 parted for ever. The parting no longer loomed so 
 awful in her mind if there was to be a meeting before it 
 took place. She almost forgot it directly her mind 
 could find a staying point on the thought of that one 
 last sacred interview, of all she should say, of all they 
 would both feel. 
 
 But how to see him ! He had said he would not come 
 back. He left Rome in a few days. She should see him 
 officially on Thursday, when he was in attendance on 
 his chief. But what was the use of that? He would 
 hardly exchange a word with her. She might decide 
 to see him alone; but what if he refused to see her? 
 Instinctively Fay knew that he would so refuse. 
 
 "We must part." Just so. But how to hold him? 
 How to draw him to her just once more? That was the 
 crux. 
 
 In novels if a woman needs the help of the chivalrous 
 man ever kneeling in the background, she sends him a 
 ring. Fay looked earnestly at her rings. But Michael 
 might not understand if she sent him one, and if the 
 duke intercepted it he would certainly entirely miscon- 
 strue the situation. 
 
 Fay sat down at her writing-table, and got out her 
 note-paper. Truth compels me to state that it was of 
 blue linen, that it had a little gilt coronet on it, and 
 that it was scented. 
 
 She thought a long time. At least she bit the little 
 silver owl at the end of her pen for a long time. She
 
 PRISONERS 21 
 
 tore up several sheets. At last she wrote in her large, 
 slanting, dashing handwriting: 
 
 " I know that we must part. You are right and I 
 wish it too. It is all like a terrible dream, and what will 
 the awakening be? " (Fay did not quite know what she 
 meant by this, but it impressed her deeply as she wrote 
 it, and a tear dropped on " the awakening " and made 
 it look like " reckoning." She was not of those, how- 
 ever, who having once written one word ever think it can 
 be mistaken for another ; and really reckoning did quite 
 as well as awakening.) " But I must see you once before 
 you go. I have something of urgent importance to 
 say to you." (It was not clear to Fay what the matter 
 of importance was. But has not everyone in love 
 laboured daily under a burden as big as Christian's, of 
 subjects which demand instant discussion, or the bearer 
 may fall into a state of melancholia? Fay was con- 
 vinced as she wrote that there was something she ached 
 to say to him: and also the point was to say something 
 that would bring him.) '* Don't fail me. You have never 
 failed me yet. You left me before when it was right 
 we should part. Did I try to keep you then? Did I say 
 one word to hold you back? " (Fay's heart swelled 
 as she wrote those words. She saw, bathed in a new 
 light, her own courage and uprightness in the past. She 
 realised her extraordinary strength of character. She 
 had not faltered then.) " I did not falter then. I will 
 not do so now, though this time is harder than the first" 
 (It certainly was.) " You have to come to my little 
 party on Thursday with your chief. I cannot speak 
 to you then. I am closely watched. When the others
 
 22 PRISONERS 
 
 have gone come back through the gardens. The dooi 
 by the fountain will be unlocked, and come up the 
 balcony steps to my sitting-room. The balcony window 
 will be open. You know that I should not ask you to 
 do this unless it was urgent. Will you fail me at the 
 last? For we shall never meet again, Michael! " 
 
 Fay closed the note, directed it, pinned it into the 
 lace of her inmost vest the wife of an Italian distrusts 
 pockets and postal arrangements and then wept her 
 heart out, her vain, selfish little heart, which for the 
 first time in her life was not wholly vain, nor wholly 
 selfish. Perhaps it was not her fault if she was cruel. 
 It takes many steadfast years, many prayers, many 
 acts of humble service before we may hope to reach the 
 place where we are content to bear alone the brunt of 
 that pang, and to guard the one we love even from 
 ourselves.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 There will no man do for your sake, I think, 
 
 What I would have done for the least word said. 
 
 I had wrung life dry for your lips to drink, 
 Broken it up for your daily bread. 
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE. 
 
 A WITTY bishop was once heard to remark that one of 
 the difficulties of his social life lay in the fact that all 
 women of forty were exactly alike, and it was impossi- 
 ble to recall their individual label, to which archdeacon, 
 or canon, or form of spinster good works, they be- 
 longed. It would be dangerous, irreverent, to pry 
 further into the recesses of the episcopal, or even of 
 the suffragan, mind. There are snowy peaks where 
 we lay helpers should fear to tread. But it may be 
 stated, without laying ourselves open to a suspicion of 
 wishing to undermine the Church, that when the woman 
 of forty in her turn acidly announces, as she not in- 
 frequently does, that all young men seem to her exactly 
 alike, she is in a parlous condition. 
 
 Yet many women had said that Michael was exactly 
 like every other young man. And to all except the 
 very few who knew him well he certainly did appear to 
 be not an individual at all but only an indistin- 
 guished unit of a vast army. 
 
 His obvious good looks were like the good looks of 
 others. He looked well bred, but to look that is as 
 common in a certain class as it is rare in another. He 
 
 23
 
 24 PRISONERS 
 
 had the spare, wiry figure, tall and lightly built, square 
 in the shoulders, and thin in the flank ; he had the clear 
 weather-beaten complexion, the clean, nervous, capable 
 hand, and the self-effacing manner, which we associate 
 with myriads of well-born, machine-trained, perfectly 
 groomed, expensively educated, uneducated English- 
 men. Our public schools turn them out by the thou- 
 sand. The " lost legion " is made up of them. The 
 unburied bones of the pioneers of new colonies are 
 mostly theirs. They die of thirst in " the never never 
 country," under a tree, leaving their initials cut in its 
 trunk; they fall by hundreds in our wars. They are 
 born leaders where acumen and craft are not needed. 
 Large game was made for them, and they for it. They 
 are the vermin destroyers of the universe. They throw 
 life from them with both hands, they play the game of 
 life with a levity which they never showed in the busi- 
 ness of cricket and football. 
 
 They are essentially not of the stuff of which those 
 dull persons, the thinkers, the politicians, the educa- 
 tionalists, are made. No profession knows them except 
 the army. They have no opinions worth hearing. Only 
 the women who are to marry them listen to them. They 
 are sometimes squeezed into Parliament and are borne 
 with there like children. About one in a hundred of 
 them can earn his own living, and then it is as a land 
 agent. 
 
 They make adorable country squires, and picturesque, 
 simple-minded, painstaking men of rank. They know 
 by a sort of hereditary instinct how to deal with a 
 labouring man, and a horse, and how to break in a dog, 
 They give themselves no airs. We have millions of
 
 PRISONERS 25 
 
 men like this, and it is doubtful whether the nation 
 finds much use for them, except at coronations, where 
 they look beautiful; or on county councils, where they 
 can hold an opinion without the preliminary fatigue 
 of forming it; and on the bloodstained fringes of our 
 empire, where they serenely meet their dreadful deaths. 
 
 In the ranks of that vast army I descry Michael, 
 and I wonder what it is in him that makes me able to 
 descry him at all. He is like thousands of other men. 
 In what is he unlike? 
 
 I think it must be something in his expression. Of 
 many ugly men it has been said with truth that one 
 never observes their ugliness. Something in the char- 
 acter redeems it. With Michael's undeniable good looks 
 it was the same. One did not notice them. They were 
 not admired, except, possibly, for the first moment, or 
 across a room. His rather insignificant grey eyes were 
 the only thing one remembered him by, the only part of 
 him which seemed to represent him. 
 
 It was as if out of the narrow window of a fortress 
 our friend for a moment looked out ; that " friend of 
 our infinite dreams " who in dreams, but, alas ! never 
 by day, comes softly to us across the white fields of 
 youth ; who, later on, in dreams but never by day, over- 
 takes us with unbearable happiness in his hand in which 
 to steep our exhaustion on the hillside; who when our 
 hair is grey comes to us still in dreams but never by day, 
 down the darkening valley, to tell us that our worn out 
 romantic hopes are but the alphabet of his language. 
 
 Such a look there was in Michael's eyes, and what 
 it meant who shall say? Once and again at long inter- 
 vals we pass in the thoroughfare of life young faces
 
 26 PRISONERS 
 
 which have the same expression, as if they saw beyond, 
 as if they looked past their own youth across to an im- 
 mortal youth, from their own life to an unquenchable, 
 upwelling spring of life. When Michael spoke, which 
 was little, his words verged on the commonplace. He 
 explained the obvious with modest directness. He had 
 thought out and made his own a small selection of plati- 
 tudes. It is at first a shock to some of us when we dis- 
 cover that a beautiful spiritual nature is linked with a 
 tranquil commonplace mind and narrow abilities. 
 
 When Michael's eyes rested on anything his still 
 glance seemed to pass through it, into its essence. An 
 inscrutable Fate had willed that his eyes should not 
 rest on any woman save Fay. 
 
 Was her little hand to rend his illusions from him; 
 or did he perhaps see her as she was, as her husband, her 
 shrewd old grandmother, her sister even, had never seen 
 her? Fay had revealed to Michael that of which many 
 men who write glibly of passion die in ignorance, the 
 wonder and awe of love, clothed in a woman's form, 
 walking the earth. And in a reverent and grateful 
 loyalty Michael would have laid down his life for her, 
 as gladly as Dante would have done for " his lady." 
 But Michael would have laid down his in silence, as one 
 casts off a glove. He had never read the " New Life." 
 It is improbable that it would have made any impression 
 on him if he had read it. He never associated words 
 or books or poetry with feelings. What he felt he held 
 sacred. He was unconsciously by nature that which 
 others of the artistic temperament consciously are in a 
 lesser degree, and are doomed to try to express. 
 Michael never wanted to express anything, had no im-
 
 PRISONERS 27 
 
 pulse of self-revelation, no interest in his own mental 
 experiences. 
 
 While Fay was turning over her little bric-a-brac 
 assortment of feelings, her toy renunciations, her imi- 
 tation convictions, Michael was slowly making the 
 great renunciation without even taking himself into 
 his confidence. To go away. To see her no more. 
 This was death by inches. As he sat hour after hour 
 in his little room behind the Embassy it seemed to him 
 as if, by some frightful exertion of his will, he were 
 wading with incredible slowness out to sea, over endless 
 flats in inch-deep water, which after an interminable 
 journey would be deep enough to drown him at last. 
 
 The nausea and horror of this slow death were upon 
 him. Nevertheless, he meant to move towards it. And 
 where Michael's eye was fixed there his foot followed. 
 He was not of those who rend themselves by violent 
 conflict. If he had ever been asked to give his reason 
 for any action of his life, from the greatest to the 
 smallest, he would have looked at the questioner in mild 
 surprise, and would have said: " It was the only thing 
 to do." 
 
 To him vacillation and doubt were unknown. A cer- 
 tain wisdom could never be his, for he saw no alter- 
 natives. He never balanced two courses of action 
 against each other. 
 
 " There were no two ways about it," he said to his 
 godfather, the Bishop of Lostford, respecting a de- 
 cision where there were several alternatives, which he 
 had endeavoured to set before Michael with imparti- 
 ality. But Michael saw only one course, and took it. 
 
 And now again he only saw one course, and he meant
 
 28 PRISONERS 
 
 v 
 
 to take it. He sickened under it, but his mind was 
 made up. Fay's letter which duly reached him only 
 made him suffer. It did not alter his determination to 
 go. Certainly, he would see her again, if she desired 
 it so intensely, and had something vitally important to 
 tell him, though he disliked the suggestion of a clandes- 
 tine meeting. Still it was Fay's suggestion, and Fay 
 could do no wrong. But he knew that nothing she 
 could do or say, nothing new that she could spring upon 
 him would have power to shake his decision to leave 
 Rome on Friday. It was the only thing to do.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 L'on fait plus souvent des trahisons par faiblesse que 
 par un dessein forme de trahir. LA ROCHEFOUCAULD. 
 
 FAY'S evening-party was a success. Her parties gen- 
 erally were. It was a small gathering, for as it was 
 May but few of the residents had come down to the 
 villas. Some of the guests had motored out from Rome. 
 My impression is that Fay enjoyed the evening. She 
 certainly enjoyed the brilliancy which excitement had 
 momentarily added to her beauty. 
 
 All the time she was saying to herself, " If people 
 only knew. What a contrast between what these peo- 
 ple think and what I really am. Perhaps this is the 
 last time I shall have a party here. Perhaps I shall 
 not be here to-morrow. Perhaps Michael will insist on 
 taking me away with him, from this death in life, this 
 hell on earth." 
 
 What large imposing words ! How well they sounded ! 
 Yes, in a way Fay was enjoying herself. 
 
 Often during the evening she saw the grave, kindly 
 eyes of the duke upon her. Once he came up to her, 
 and paid her a little exquisite compliment. Her dis- 
 gust and hatred of him were immediately forgotten. 
 She smiled back at him. She did not love him of course. 
 A man like that did not know what love was. But Fay 
 had never yet felt harshly towards any man who ad- 
 mired her. The husband who did not understand her 
 watched her with something of the indulgent, protect- 
 
 29
 
 30 PRISONERS 
 
 ing expression which we see on the face of the owner 
 of an enchanting puppy, which is ready to gallop on 
 india rubber legs after any pair of boots which appears 
 on its low horizon. 
 
 The guests had ebbed away by degrees. Lord John 
 Alington, a tall, bald, boring Englishman, and one or 
 two others, remained behind, arranging some expedition 
 with the duke. 
 
 Michael's chief had long since gone. Michael did 
 not depart with him, but took his leave a few moments 
 later. Michael's departure from Rome the following 
 day on urgent affairs was generally known. The duke 
 had watched him bid Fay a mechanical farewell, and 
 had then expressed an urbane regret at his departure. 
 The thin, pinched face of the young man appealed to 
 the elder one. The duke had liked him from the first. 
 
 " It is time he went," he said to himself as he watched 
 Michael leave the room. As Michael left it Fay's ex- 
 citement dropped from her, and she became conscious 
 of an enormous fatigue. A few minutes later she 
 dragged herself up the great pictured staircase to her 
 little boudoir overlooking the garden, and sank down 
 exhausted on a couch. Her pretty Italian maid was 
 waiting for her in the adjoining bedroom, and came to 
 her, and began to unfasten her jewels. 
 
 Fay dismissed her for the night, saying she was not 
 going to bed yet. She often stayed up late reading. 
 She was of those who say that they have no time for 
 reading in the day, and who like to look up (or rather, 
 to say afterwards they looked up) to find the solemn 
 moon peering in at them.
 
 PRISONERS 31 
 
 To-night there was no solemn or otherwise disposed 
 moon. 
 
 Fay's heart suddenly began to beat so wildly that it 
 seemed as if she would suffocate. What violent emo- 
 tion was this which was flooding her, sweeping away 
 all landmarks, covering, as by one great inrolling tidal 
 wave, all the familiar country of her heart? Whither 
 was she being swept in the midst of this overwhelming 
 roaring torrent? Out to sea? To some swift destruc- 
 tion ? Where ? Where ? 
 
 She clutched the arm of the sofa and trembled. She 
 had known so many small emotions. What was this? 
 And like a second wave on the top of the first a sea of 
 recklessness broke over and engulfed her. What next? 
 She did not know. She did not care. Michael, his face 
 and hand. These were the only realities. In another 
 moment she should see him, feel him, hold him, never, 
 never let him go again. 
 
 In the intense stillness a whisper came up through 
 the orange blossom below her balcony: 
 
 " Fay." 
 
 She was on the balcony in a moment. The scent of 
 the orange blossom had become alive and confused 
 everything. 
 
 " Come up," she said almost inaudibly. 
 
 " I cannot." 
 
 " You must. I must speak to you." 
 
 " Come down here then. I am not coming up." 
 
 She ran down, and felt rather than saw Michael's 
 presence at the foot of the little stair. 
 
 He was breathing hard. He did not move towards 
 her.
 
 32 PRISONERS 
 
 " You sent for me, so I came," he said. " Tell me 
 quickly what I can do for you, how I can serve you. 
 I cannot remain here more than a moment. I endanger 
 your safety as it is." 
 
 It was all so different from what she had expected, 
 from what she had pictured to herself. He was so 
 determined and stern ; and it had never struck her as 
 possible that he would not come up to her room, that 
 the interview would be so short. 
 
 " I can't speak here," she said, angry tears smarting 
 in her eyes. 
 
 " You can and must. Tell me quickly, dearest, why 
 you sent for me. You said it was all-important. I am 
 here, I will do your bidding, if you will only say what 
 it is." 
 
 " Take me with you," she gasped inaudibly. 
 
 She had not meant to say that. She was merely 
 the mouthpiece of something vast, of some blind de- 
 structive force that was rending her. She swayed 
 against the railings, clinging to them with both 
 hands. 
 
 Even as she spoke her voiceless whisper was drowned 
 in a sound but very little louder. There was a distant 
 stir, a movement as of waking bees in the house. 
 
 He had not heard her. He was listening intently. 
 
 " Go back instantly and shut the window," he said, 
 and in a moment she felt he was gone. 
 
 She crept feebly up the stairs to her room and sank 
 down again on the couch, broken, half dead. 
 
 " I shall see him no more. I shall see him no more," 
 she said to herself, twisting her hands. What a trav- 
 esty, what a mockery that one hurried moment had
 
 33 
 
 been ! What a parting that was no parting ! He had 
 no heart. He did not really love her. 
 
 Through her stupor she felt rather than heard a 
 movement in the house. She stole out of her room to 
 the head of the grand staircase. Nearly all the lights 
 had been put out. Close to a lamp in the saloon below, 
 the duke and Lord John were standing, looking at a 
 map. " The Grotta Ferrata road is the best," the duke 
 was saying. And as he spoke a servant came in quickly, 
 and whispered to the duke, who left the saloon with him. 
 
 Fay fled back to her own room. Something was hap- 
 pening. But what ? Could it have any connection with 
 herself and Michael? No, that seemed impossible. 
 And Michael must by now have left the gardens, by the 
 unlocked door by which he had come in. 
 
 Fay drew the reading lamp nearer to her, and opened 
 the book of devotions which Magdalen, her far off sister 
 in England, had sent her. Her eyes wandered over the 
 page, her mind taking no heed. 
 
 " For it is the most pain that the soul may have, to 
 turn from God any time by sin." 
 
 There certainly was a sort of subdued stir in the 
 house. A nameless fear was invading Fay's heart. 
 The book shook in her hand. What could be happen- 
 ing? And if it was, as it must be, something quite 
 apart from her and Michael, what did it matter, why 
 be afraid? 
 
 " For sin is vile, and so greatly to be hated that 
 it may be likened to no pain which is not sin. And to 
 me was showed no harder hell than sin." 
 
 A low tap came at the window. Fay started violently, 
 and the book dropped on the floor.
 
 34 PRISONERS 
 
 The tap was repeated. She went to the window, and 
 saw Michael's face through the glass. 
 
 She opened the glass door, and he came in. His 
 clothes were smeared and torn, and there was blood 
 upon his hand. 
 
 " Something has happened," he said. " I don't know 
 what it is, but the garden is surrounded, and there is 
 someone watching at the door I came in at. I have 
 tried all the other ways. I have tried to climb the wall, 
 but there was glass at the top. I can't get out. And 
 they are searching the gardens with lanterns." 
 
 Even as he spoke they saw lights moving among 
 the ilexes. 
 
 " They can't know," she said faintly. 
 
 " It does not seem possible. They are probably look- 
 ing for someone else, but I can't be found here at 
 this hour without raising suspicion. Is there any way 
 out through the house from here? " 
 
 " Only down the grand staircase." 
 
 " I must risk it. Show me the way." 
 
 They went together down the almost dark corridor. 
 Fay's heart sickened at the thought that a belated serv- 
 ant might see them. But all was quiet. At the head of 
 the staircase they both peered over the balustrade. At 
 its foot in a narrow circle of light stood the duke and 
 Lord John, and a man with a tri-coloured sash. Even 
 as they looked, the three turned and began slowly to 
 mount the staircase. 
 
 Fay and Michael were back in her boudoir in a 
 moment. 
 
 " There is a way out here," he said, indicating the 
 door into her bedroom.
 
 PRISONERS 35 
 
 " It leads into my bedroom, and then through to 
 Andrea's rooms. There is no passage, and he has a dog 
 in his room. It would bark." 
 
 " I must go back to the garden again," he said, and 
 instantly moved to the window. Both saw two carabi- 
 nieri standing with a lantern at the foot of the balcony 
 steps. 
 
 " If you go down now," said Fay hoarsely, " my 
 reputation goes with you." 
 
 He looked at her. 
 
 It was as if his whole life were focussed on one burn- 
 ing point ; how to save her from suspicion. If he could 
 have shrivelled into ashes at her feet he would have 
 done it. She saw her frightful predicament, and almost 
 hated him. 
 
 The animal panic of being trapped caught them both 
 simultaneously. He overcame it instantly, while she 
 shook helplessly as in a palsy. 
 
 He went swiftly back to the door leading to the stair- 
 case, and glanced through it. 
 
 " They are coming along the corridor," he said. 
 " They will certainly come in here." 
 
 " Stand behind the screen," she gasped. " I will say 
 no one has been here, and they will pass through into 
 the other room. As soon as they have left the room go 
 quickly out by the staircase." 
 
 He looked round him once, and then walked behind 
 a tall screen of Italian leather which stood at the head 
 of a divan. 
 
 Fay took up her book from the floor, but her numb 
 fingers refused to hold it. She put it on the edge of 
 the table near her, under the lamp, hid her shaking
 
 30 PRISONERS 
 
 hands in the folds of her long white chiffon gown, and 
 fixed her eyes upon the page. 
 
 The words of the dead saint swam before her eyes : 
 
 " Yea, He loveth us now as well while we are here, as 
 He shall do while we are there afore His blessed face. 
 But for failing of love on our part, therefore is all our 
 travail." 
 
 There were subdued footsteps outside, a tap, the 
 duke's voice. 
 
 " May I come in ? " 
 
 " Come in," she said, but she heard no words. 
 
 She made a superhuman effort. 
 
 " Come in," she said again, and this time to her 
 relief she heard the words distinctly. 
 
 The duke entered and held the door half closed. 
 
 " I feared to disturb you, my child," he said, " but 
 it is unavoidable that I disturb you. It is a relief to 
 find that you are not yet in bed and asleep. A very 
 grave, a very sad event has happened which necessitates 
 the presence of the police commissioner. Calm your- 
 self, my Francesca, and my good friend the delegate 
 will explain." 
 
 The official in the sash came in. Lord John stood in 
 the doorway. 
 
 " Duchess," said the official, " I grieve to say that 
 one of your guests of this evening, the Marchese di 
 Maltagliala, has been assassinated in the garden, or 
 possibly in the road, and his dead body was dragged 
 into the garden afterwards. He was found just inside 
 the east garden door, which by some mischance had 
 been left unlocked." 
 
 A deathlike silence followed the delegate's words.
 
 "A DEATHLIKE SILENCE FOLLOWED THE DELEGATO's WORDS "
 
 PRISONERS 37 
 
 Fay turned her bloodless face towards him, and her 
 eyes never left him. She felt Michael listening behind 
 the screen. 
 
 " There was hardly an instant," continued the official, 
 with a touch of professional pride, " before the alarm 
 was given. By a fortunate chance I myself happened 
 to be near. The garden was instantly surrounded. It 
 is being searched now. It seems hardly possible that 
 the assassin can have escaped. I entreat your pardon 
 for intruding this painful subject on the sensitive mind 
 of a lady, and breaking in on your privacy." 
 
 " I should think he has escaped by now," said Fay 
 hoarsely. 
 
 " It is possible, but improbable," said the official. 
 Then he turned to the duke. " This is, I understand 
 from you, the only way into the house from the 
 garden ? " 
 
 "The only way that might possibly still be open," 
 said the duke. " The doors on the ground floor are 
 both locked, as we have seen." 
 
 " We greatly feared," continued the duke, turning 
 to his wife, " that the murderer if he were still in the 
 garden, finding it was being searched, might terrify 
 you by rushing in here." 
 
 " No one has been in here," said Fay automatically. 
 
 " Have you been in this room ever since you left 
 the saloon ? " said her husband. 
 
 " Yes. I have been reading here ever since." 
 
 " Then it is impossible that anyone should have 
 escaped into the house through this room," said the 
 duke. " The duchess must have seen him. It is no 
 longer necessary to search the house."
 
 38 PRISONERS 
 
 The delegate hesitated. He opened the glass door 
 and spoke to the men with the lantern. 
 
 " They are convinced that it is not possible he is 
 concealed in the garden," he said. " Perhaps if the 
 duchess were deeply engaged in study he might have 
 serpentinely glided through into the next room without 
 her perceiving him. It is, I understand, the duchess's 
 private apartment. It might be as well where does 
 the duchess's apartment lead into? " 
 
 " Into my rooms," said the duke, " and my dog is 
 there. He would have given the alarm long ago if any 
 stranger had passed through my room. If he is silent 
 no one has been near him." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 Fay learned what suspense means. 
 
 The delegate twirled his moustaches. 
 
 He was evidently reluctant to give up the remotest 
 chance, and yet reluctant to inconvenience the duke 
 further. 
 
 " It is just possible," he said, " that the assassin may 
 have taken refuge in here before the duchess came back 
 to her apartment. My duties are grave, duchess. Have 
 I your permission? " 
 
 Fay bowed. 
 
 The duke, still urbane, but evidently finding the situ- 
 ation unduly prolonged, led the way into Fay's bed- 
 room. 
 
 This story would never have been written if Lord 
 John had not remained standing in the doorway. 
 
 Did Michael know he was there? He had not so far 
 spoken, or given any sign of his presence. 
 
 " Won't you go into my room, Lord John, and help
 
 PRISONERS 39 
 
 in the capture," she said distinctly ; and as she spoke she 
 was aware that she was only just in time. 
 
 But Lord John would not go in, thanks. Lord John 
 preferred to advance heavily in her direction, and to 
 sit down by her on the couch, telling her not to look 
 so terrified, that he would take care of her. 
 
 She stared wildly at him, livid and helpless. 
 
 A door was softly opened, and was instantly followed 
 by the furious barking of a dog. 
 
 " Go and help them," said Fay to Lord John. 
 
 But Lord John did not move. Like all bores he 
 was conscious of his own attractive personality. He 
 only settled his eyeglass more firmly in his pale 
 eye. 
 
 " You never spoke to me all evening," he said, with 
 jocular emphasis. " What have I done to deserve such 
 severity? " 
 
 In another moment the duke and the official returned, 
 followed by Sancho, a large Bridlington terrier, still 
 bristling and snarling at the official. 
 
 Fay called the dog to her, and held it forcibly, pre- 
 tending to caress it. 
 
 " No one has gone by that way," said the delegato 
 to the duke. " The dog proves that." 
 
 *' Sancho proves it," said the duke gravely. 
 
 As he spoke he paused as if suddenly arrested. His 
 eyes were fixed on a small Florentine mirror which hung 
 over Fay's writing-table in the angle of the wall. The 
 duke's face changed, as a man's face might change, who, 
 conscious of no enemy, feels himself stabbed from 
 behind in the dark. Then he came forward, and said 
 with a firm voice:
 
 40 PRISONERS 
 
 " We will now go once more Into the gardens. Loir? 
 John, you will accompany us." 
 
 Lord John got heavily to his feet. 
 " Take Sancho with you," said Fay, holding the 
 dog with difficulty, who was obviously excited and sus- 
 picious, its mobile nostrils working, its eyes glued to 
 the screen. 
 
 The duke opened the glass door, and Sancho, his at- 
 tention turned, rushed out into the night, barking 
 furiously. 
 
 " You need have no further fear," said the duke to 
 Fay, looking into her eyes. " The assassin has cer- 
 taily escaped." 
 
 " No doubt," said Fay. 
 
 " Unless he is hiding behind the screen all the time,' 
 said Lord John, with his customary facetiousness. " It 
 is about the only place in the room he could hide in, ex- 
 cept of course the wastepaper basket." 
 
 The delegate, who was not apparently a man who 
 quickly seized the humorous side of a remark, at once 
 stepped back from the window, and glanced at the waste- 
 paper basket. 
 
 " I may as well look behind the screen," he said, and 
 went towards it. 
 
 But before he could reach it the screen moved, and 
 Michael came out from behind it. 
 
 The four people in the room gazed at him spell- 
 bound, speechless; Lord John reeled against the wall. 
 The duke alone retained his self-possession. 
 
 Michael advanced into the middle of the room, and 
 for a moment his eyes met Fay's. Who shall say what 
 he read in their terror-stricken depths?
 
 PRISONERS 41 
 
 Then he turned to the duke and said : 
 
 " I ask pardon of you, duke, and of the duchess, 
 my cousin, for the inconvenience I have caused you. I 
 confess to the murder of the Marchese di Maltagliala, 
 and sought refuge in the garden. When the garden 
 was surrounded I sought refuge here. I did not tell 
 the duchess what I had done, but I implored her to let 
 me take shelter here, and to promise not to give me up. 
 She ought at once to have given me up. She yielded 
 to the dictates of humanity and suffered me to hide in 
 this room. Duchess, I thank you for your noble, your 
 self-sacrificing but unavailing desire to shield a guilty 
 man." 
 
 Michael went up to her, took her cold hand and kissed 
 it. Then he turned again to the duke. 
 
 " I offer you my apologies for this intrusion," he 
 said, and the two men bowed to each other. 
 
 " And now, signer," he said in Italian to the amazed 
 official, " I am at your service."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Qui sait tout souffrir peut tout oser. VAUVENARGUES. 
 
 MICHAEL was imprisoned for the night in a cell attached 
 to the Court of Mandamento, and the next day was 
 sent to Rome to await his trial at the assise. 
 
 Early on the second day after he reached Rome the 
 duke came to him. The two men looked fixedly at each 
 other. They exchanged no form of greeting. 
 
 The duke made a little sign with his hand, and the 
 warder withdrew outside the cell door, which he left 
 ajar. 
 
 Then the duke sat down by Michael. 
 
 '* I should have come yesterday," he said in English, 
 " but it took time to gain permission, and also " he 
 nodded towards the door " to arrange." 
 
 " For God's sake give me details," said Michael. 
 
 The duke gave them in a low voice. He described in 
 a careful sequence the exact position of the dead body, 
 the wound, caused by stabbing in the back, the strong 
 inference that the murdered man had been attacked in 
 the road, and then dragged just inside the Colle Alto 
 garden door. 
 
 " I don't see any reason why he should have gone 
 outside the garden," said Michael. 
 
 " Neither do I. But the garden door was unlocked. 
 It had been locked as usual, my gardener swears, and 
 the key left in the lock on the inside. Who then opened 
 
 42
 
 PRISONERS 43 
 
 it, if for some reason the marchese did not open it 
 himself? " 
 
 Michael did not answer. 
 
 " I saw the body before it was moved," continued 
 the duke. " It was still warm. I incline to think the 
 marchese was murdered actually inside the garden, and 
 that he fell on his face where he stood, and was dragged 
 behind the hydrangeas. But the delegate thought dif- 
 ferently. You will remember, Carstairs, that the dead 
 man had been dragged by the feet." 
 
 " Did I put him on the right side or the left of the 
 door as you go in ? " 
 
 " On the left." 
 
 "On his face?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 " You had no quarrel with the marchese, I presume ? " 
 said the duke significantly. 
 
 *' On the contrary," said Michael ; " it is not known, 
 but I had." 
 
 " Just so. Just so. About a woman ? " 
 
 Michael winced. 
 
 " About a horse," he said. 
 
 "' No," said the duke, with decision. " Think again. 
 Your memory does not serve you. It was about a 
 woman. Was it not a dancing-girl? " 
 
 " I am not like that," said Michael, colouring. 
 
 " It is of no account what you are like, or what you 
 are not like. What matters is that which is quickly 
 believed. A quarrel about a woman is always believed, 
 especially by women who think all turns on them. Were 
 you not in Paris at Easter? "
 
 44 
 
 PRISONERS 
 
 " I was." 
 
 "Was not the marchese in Paris at Easter? " 
 
 " He was. I saw him once at the Opera with the old 
 Duke of Castelfranco." 
 
 " Just so. A quarrel about a dancing-girl at Paris 
 at Easter. That was how it was." 
 
 " You are right," said Michael, regaining his com- 
 posure with an effort. " I owed him a grudge. You 
 will be careful to mention this to no one? " 
 
 " I will mention it only to one or two women on whom 
 I can rely," said the duke ; " and to them only in the 
 strictest confidence." 
 
 Michael nodded. 
 
 Silence fell between them, and he wondered why the 
 duke did not go. The warder shifted his feet in the 
 passage. 
 
 Presently the duke began to speak in a low, even 
 voice. 
 
 " I owe you an apology," he said. " I saw you stand- 
 ing behind the screen, reflected in a little mirror, and 
 for one moment I thought you had done me a great 
 injury. It was only for a moment. I regained myself 
 quickly. I would have saved you if I could. But I 
 owe you an apology for a suspicion unworthy of either 
 of us." 
 
 " It was natural," said Michael. He was greatly 
 drawn to this man. 
 
 " I may in some matters be deceived," continued the 
 duke, " for in my time I have deceived others, and have 
 not been found out. I don't know why you were in my 
 wife's rooms that night. Nevertheless, I clearly know 
 two things : one, that you did not murder the marchese,
 
 PRISONERS 45 
 
 and the other, that there was nothing wrong between 
 you and my wife. With you her honour was safe. 
 You and I are combining now to guard only her repu- 
 tation before the world." 
 
 Michael did not answer. He nodded again. 
 
 " At the price," continued the duke, " probably of 
 your best years." 
 
 " I am content to pay the price," said Michael. " It 
 was the only thing to do." Then he coloured like a girl, 
 and raised his eyes to the duke's. " I went to her that 
 night to say good-bye," he said. " That was why the 
 garden door was unlocked. I love her. I have loved 
 her for years." 
 
 It seemed as if everything between the two men had 
 become transparent. 
 
 " I know it," said the duke. " She also, the duchess, 
 is in love with you." 
 
 Michael drew back perceptibly. His manner 
 changed. 
 
 " A little not much," continued the duke. *' I 
 watched her, when you gave up yourself. She could 
 have saved you. She could save you still by a word. 
 But she will not speak it. She appeared to love me a 
 little once. I was not deceived. I knew. She loves 
 you a little now. Why do you deceive yourself, my 
 friend? There is only one person for whom she has a 
 permanent and deep affection for her very charming 
 self." 
 
 The words fell into the silence of the bare room. 
 Michael's thin hands, tightly clenched, shook a little. 
 
 The duke bent towards him. 
 
 " Is she worth it? " he said, with sudden passion.
 
 46 PRISONERS 
 
 No answer. Michael hid his face in his hands. 
 " Is she worth it? " said the duke again. 
 Michael looked up suddenly at the duke, and the elder 
 man winced at the expression in his face. He looked 
 through the duke, through his veiled despair and dis- 
 illusion, beyond him. 
 
 " Yes, she is worth it," he said. " You do not un- 
 derstand her because you only love her in part. I meant 
 to serve her by leaving Rome, but now I can't leave it. 
 What I can do for her I will. It is no sacrifice I am 
 glad to do it to have the chance. I have always 
 wished to serve her to put my hands under her 
 feet." 
 
 The sudden radiance in Michael's face passed. He 
 looked down embarrassed, annoyed with himself. 
 
 '* There remains then but one other person to be 
 considered," said the duke, looking closely at him. " The 
 beautiful heroine, the young lover, these are now accom- 
 modated. All is en regie. But that dull elderly per- 
 son who takes the role of husband on these occa- 
 sions! Is there not a husband somewhere? What of 
 him? Will he indeed fold his arms as on the stage? 
 Will he indeed stand by as serenely as you suppose and 
 suffer an innocent man to make this sacrifice for the 
 sake of his honour? " 
 
 " He will, only because he must," said Michael, catch- 
 ing his breath. " I had thought of that. He can do 
 nothing. Have I not accused myself? And his honour 
 is also hers. They stand and fall together." 
 
 ' They stand and fall together," said the duke slowly. 
 
 ' Yes, that is true. And he is old. He is finished. He 
 
 is the head of a great house. His honour is perhaps the
 
 " ' IS SHE WORTH IT ? ' HE SAID WITH SUDDEX PASSION" "
 
 PRISONERS 47 
 
 only thing that still means anything to him. Never- 
 theless, it is strange to me that you think he would con- 
 sent to keep it at so great a cost, the cost perhaps of 
 twenty years. That were impossible . . . He 
 could not permit that. But one little year at most. 
 That perhaps his conscience might permit. One little 
 year ! You are young. Supposing he has within him," 
 he laid his hand on his heart, " that of which his 
 wife does not know, which means that his release is sure. 
 Do you understand? Supposing it must come soon 
 
 very soon her release and yours. Perhaps then " 
 
 There was a long pause. " Perhaps then his conscience 
 might suffer him to keep silence." 
 
 Michael's hand made a slight movement. The duke 
 took it in his, and held it firmly. 
 
 " Listen," he said at last. " Once when I was young, 
 twenty years ago, I loved. I too would fain have 
 served a woman, would have put my hands under her 
 feet. There is always one such a woman in life, but 
 only one. She was to me the world. But I could only 
 trouble her life. She was married. She had children. 
 I knew I ought to go. I meant to go. She prayed me 
 to go. I promised her to go nevertheless I stayed. 
 And at last inasmuch as she loved me very much I 
 broke up her home, her life, her honour, she was sep- 
 arated from her children. She lost all, and then when 
 all was gone she died. The only thing which I could 
 keep from her was poverty, which would have been 
 nothing to her. She never reproached me. There is 
 no reproach in love. But she died in disgrace, and 
 alone. From the first to the last it was her white hands 
 under my feet. That was how I served the one woman
 
 48 PRISONERS 
 
 I have deeply loved, the one creature who deeply loved 
 me." The duke's voice had become almost inaudible. 
 " You have done better than I," he said. 
 
 Then he kissed Michael on the forehead, and went 
 out. 
 
 They never met again.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 The year slid like a corpse afloat. D. G. ROSSETTI. 
 
 AND how did it fare with Fay during the days that 
 followed Michael's arrest? 
 
 Much sympathy was felt for her. Lord John, wal- 
 lowing in the delicious novelty of finding eager listen- 
 ers, went about extolling her courage and unselfishness 
 to the skies. Her conduct was considered perfectly 
 natural and womanly. No man condemned her for try- 
 ing to shield her cousin from the consequences of his 
 crime. Women said they would have done the same, 
 and envied her her romantic situation. 
 
 And Fay, shut up in her darkened room in her roman- 
 tic situation she who adored romantic situations 
 what were Fay's thoughts? 
 
 There is a travail of soul which toils with hard cry- 
 ing up the dark valley of decision, and brings forth in 
 anguish the life entrusted to it. Perhaps it is the 
 great renunciation. Perhaps it is only the loyal in- 
 evitable deed which is struggling to come forth, to be 
 allowed to live for our healing and comfort. 
 
 But there is another travail of soul, barren, unavail- 
 ing, which flings itself down, and tosses in impotent 
 misery from side to side, from mood to mood, as in a 
 sickly trance. 
 
 Such was Fay's. 
 
 Her decision not to speak had been made in the mo- 
 
 49
 
 50 PRISONERS 
 
 merit when she had let Michael accuse himself, and she 
 kept silence. But that she did not know. She thought 
 it was still to make. 
 
 " I must speak. I must speak," she said to herself 
 all through the endless day after Michael's arrest, all 
 through the endless night, until the dawn came up be- 
 hind the ilexes, the tranquil dawn that knew all, and 
 found her shuddering and wild-eyed. 
 
 " I must speak. I cannot let Michael suffer for me, 
 even to save my reputation." 
 
 Her reputation! How little she had cared for it 
 twenty-four hours ago, when passion clutched the reins ! 
 But now - The public shame of it the divorce which 
 in her eyes must ensue Andrea! Her courteous, se- 
 date, inexorable husband, whose will she could not bend, 
 whom she could not cajole, whose mind was a closed 
 book to her; a book which had lain by her hand for 
 three years, which she had never had the curiosity to 
 open ! Fay feared her husband, as we all fear what 
 we do not understand. He would divorce her and 
 then And Magdalen at home and 
 
 A flood of suffocating emotion swept over her, full 
 of ugly swimming and crawling reptiles, and inverte- 
 brate horrors, the inevitable scavengers of the sea of 
 selfish passion. 
 
 Fay shrank back for very life. She could not pass 
 through that flood and live. Nevertheless she felt her- 
 self pushed towards it. 
 
 " But I have no choice. I must speak. He is inno- 
 cent. He is doing this to shield me because he loves 
 me. But I also love him, far, far more than he loves 
 me, and I will prove it."
 
 PRISONERS 51 
 
 Fay went in imagination through a fearful and melo- 
 dramatic scene, in which she revealed everything before 
 a public tribunal. She saw her husband's face darken 
 against her, her lover's lighten as she saved him. She 
 saw her slender figure standing alone, bearing the 
 whole shock, serene, unshaken. The vision moved her 
 to tears. 
 
 Was it a prophetic vision? 
 
 It was quite light now, and she crept to her husband's 
 room. She had not seen him during the previous day. 
 He had been out the whole of it. She felt drawn 
 towards him by calamity, by the loneliness of her misery. 
 
 The duke was not asleep. He was lying in bed 
 with his hands clasped behind his head. His sallow face, 
 worn by a sleepless night, and perhaps by a wounding 
 memory, was turned towards the light, and the new 
 day dealt harshly with it. There were heavy lines 
 under the eyes. The eyes looked steadily in front of 
 him, plunged deep in a past which had something of 
 the irrevocable tenderness of the dawn in it, the holy 
 reflection of an inalienable love. 
 
 He did not stir as his wife came in. His eyes only 
 moved, resting upon her for a moment, focussing her 
 with difficulty, as if withdrawn from something at a 
 great distance, and then they turned once more to the 
 window. 
 
 A pale primrose light had risen above the blue tan- 
 gled mist of ilexes and olives. The cypresses stood 
 half -veiled in mist, half-sharply clear against the stain- 
 less pallor of the upper sky. 
 
 " I am so miserable, Andrea." 
 
 He did not speak.
 
 52 PRISONERS 
 
 " I cannot sleep." 
 
 Still no answer. 
 
 " I am convinced that Michael is innocent." 
 
 " It goes without saying." 
 
 "Then they can't convict him, can they? " 
 
 " They will convict him," said the duke, and for a 
 moment he bent his eyes upon her. " Has he not ac- 
 cused himself? " 
 
 " They won't hang him? " 
 
 The duke shrugged his shoulders. He did not think 
 fit to enlighten his wife's ignorance of the fact that 
 in Italy there is no capital punishment. 
 
 " But if he has not done it, and we know he has not," 
 faltered Fay. 
 
 " He is perhaps shielding someone," said the duke, 
 " the real murderer." 
 
 " I don't see how that could be." 
 
 " He may have his reasons. The real murderer is 
 perhaps a friend or a woman. Your cousin is a 
 romantic. It is always better for a romantic if he had 
 not been born. But generally a female millstone is 
 in readiness to tie itself round him, and cast him into 
 the sea. The world is not fitted to him. It is to 
 egotistic persons like you and me, my Francesca, to 
 whom the world is most admirably adapted." 
 
 " I don't see how the murderer could be a woman. 
 Women don't murder men on the high road." 
 
 " No, not on the high road. You are in the right. 
 How dusty, how dirty is the high road! But I have 
 known, not once nor twice, women to murder men very 
 quietly. Oh! so gently and cleanly to let them die. 
 I am much older than you, but you will perhaps also
 
 PRISONERS 53 
 
 live to see a woman do this, Francesca. And now retire 
 to your room, and let me counsel you to take some rest. 
 Your beauty needs it." 
 
 She burst into tears. 
 
 " How little you care ! " she said between her sobs, 
 " how heartless you are ! I will never believe they will 
 convict him. He is innocent, and his innocence will 
 come to light." 
 
 " I think the light will not be suffered to fall upon 
 it," said the duke. 
 
 Afterwards, years afterwards, Fay remembered that 
 conversation with wonder that its significance had es- 
 caped her. But at the time she could see nothing, feel 
 nothing except her own anguish. 
 
 She left her husband's room. There was no help or 
 sympathy in him. She went back to her own room and 
 flung herself face downwards on her bed. Let no one 
 think she did not suffer. 
 
 A faint ray of comfort presently came to her at the 
 thought that Michael's innocence might after all come 
 to light. It might be proved in spite of himself. 
 
 She would pray incessantly that the real murderer 
 might give himself up, or that suspicion should fall 
 on him, and he should be dragged to justice. And 
 then, if after all Michael were convicted and his life 
 endangered, then she must speak. But not till then. 
 Not now when all might yet go well without her confes- 
 sion. . . . And it was not as if she were guilty of 
 unfaithfulness. She had not done anything wrong 
 beyond imprudence. Yes, she had certainly been im- 
 prudent; that she saw. But she had done nothing 
 wrong. It could not be right to confess to what in
 
 54 PRISONERS 
 
 public opinion amounted to unfaithfulness on her part, 
 and dishonourable conduct on his, when it was not so. 
 They were both innocent. It would be telling a lie 
 to let anyone think either of them could be guilty of 
 such a sordid crime. It looked sordid now. Why 
 should she drag down his name with hers into the 
 mud unless it were absolutely necessary. . . . 
 And she must remember how distressed Michael would 
 be if she said a word, if she flung her good name from 
 her, which he had risked all to save. Some semblance 
 of calm returned to her, as she thus reached the only 
 conclusion which the bias of her mind would permit. 
 The stream ran docilely in the little groove cut out 
 for it. 
 
 During the days and weeks that followed Fay shut 
 herself up, and prayed incessantly for Michael. 
 
 She prayed all through the interminable interval 
 before the trial. 
 
 " If it goes against him, I will speak," she said. 
 
 Yet all the time Michael who loved her knew that she 
 would not speak. Her husband who could have loved 
 her, and who watched her struggle with compassion, 
 knew that she would not speak. Only Fay who did not 
 know herself believed that she would speak. 
 
 The day came when the duke gravely informed her 
 that Michael was found guilty of murder. 
 
 Fay's prayers it seemed had not availed. She prayed 
 no more. There was no help in God. Probably there 
 was no God to pray to. Her sister Magdalen seemed 
 to think there was. But how could she tell? Besides, 
 Magdalen had such a calm temperament, and nothing
 
 PRISONERS 55 
 
 had ever happened to make her unhappy, or to shake 
 her faith. It was different for Magdalen. 
 
 Evidently there was no justice anywhere, only a 
 blind chance. " The truth will out," Fay had said to 
 herself over and over again. She had tried to have 
 faith. But the truth had not come out. She was 
 being pushed, pushed over the edge of the precipice. 
 Oh, why had Michael fallen in love with her when they 
 were boy and girl! She remembered with horror and 
 disgust those early days, that exquisite dawn of young 
 passion in the time of primroses. It had brought her 
 to this to this horrible place of tears and shame and 
 shuddering to these wretched days and hideous 
 nights. Oh, why, why, had he loved her! Why had 
 she let herself love him ! 
 
 Suddenly she said to herself, " They may reprieve 
 him yet. If his sentence is not commuted to imprison- 
 ment I will speak, so help me God I will." 
 
 It could never be known whether she would have kept 
 that oath, for the next day she heard that Michael had 
 been sentenced to fifteen years' imprisonment. Why 
 had Andrea been so cruel as to let her imagine for a 
 whole horrible night that Michael's would be a death 
 sentence, when in Italy it seemed there was no capital 
 punishment as in England? It was just like Andrea 
 to torture her needlessly ! When the sentence reached 
 her Fay drew breath. The horrible catastrophe had 
 been averted. To a man of Michael's temperament 
 the living grave to which he was consigned was infi- 
 nitely worse than death. But what was Michael's tem- 
 perament to Fay? She shut her eyes to the cell of 
 an Italian prison. Michael would live, and in time
 
 56 PRISONERS 
 
 the truth would come to light, and he would be 
 released. 
 
 She impressed this conviction with tears on his 
 half-brother Wentworth Maine, the kind, silent elder 
 brother, Michael's greatest friend, who had come out 
 to Italy to be near him, and who heard sentence given 
 against him with a set face, and an unshaken belief in 
 his innocence. Even to Wentworth Michael had said 
 nothing, could be induced to say no word. He con- 
 fessed to the murder. That was all. 
 
 Wentworth, who had never seen Fay before, as she had 
 married just before he came to live at his uncle's place 
 in Hampshire near Fay's home, saw the marks of" grief 
 in her lovely face, and was unconsciously drawn towards 
 her. He was shy as only men can be; but he almost 
 forgot it in her sympathetic presence. She came into 
 his isolated, secluded life at the moment when the bar- 
 riers of his instinctive timidity and apathy were broken 
 down by his first real trouble. And he was grateful 
 to her for having done her best to save Michael. 
 
 " I shall never forget that," he said, when he came 
 to bid her good-bye. " There are very few women 
 who would have had the courage and unselfishness to 
 act as you did." 
 
 Fay winced and paled, and he took his leave, bearing 
 away with him a grave admiration for this delicate, 
 sensitive creature, so full of tender compassion for him 
 and Michael. 
 
 He made no attempt to see her again when he re- 
 turned to Italy some months later to visit Michael in 
 prison. To visit Fay on that occasion would have 
 taken him somewhat out of his way, and Wentworth
 
 PRISONERS 57 
 
 never went out of his way, not out of principle, but 
 because such a course never occurred to him. He would 
 have liked to see her, in order to tell her about Mi- 
 chael's condition, and also to deliver in person a mes- 
 sage which Michael had sent to Fay by him. But when 
 he realised that a detour would be necessary in ordei to 
 accomplish this, he wrote to Fay to tell her with deep 
 regret that it was impossible for him to see her, gave 
 her Michael's message, and returned to England by the 
 way he came. Nevertheless, he often thought of her, 
 for she was inextricably associated with the unspeak- 
 able trouble of his life, his brother's living death. 
 
 When all was over, and the last sod had so to 
 speak been cast upon that living grave, Fay tried to 
 take up her life again. But she could not. She had 
 lost heart. She dared not be alone. She shunned so- 
 ciety. At her earnest request her sister Magdalen 
 came out to her for a time, from the home in England, 
 into which she was wedged so tightly. But even Mag- 
 dalen's calm presence brought no calm with it, and the 
 deepening friendship between her sister and her hus- 
 band only irritated Fay. Everything irritated Fay. 
 She was ill at ease, restless, feebly sarcastic, impatient. 
 
 There is a peace which passes understanding, and 
 there is an unpeace which passes understanding also. 
 Fay did not know, would not know, why she was so 
 troubled, so weary of life, so destitute of comfort. 
 
 Had she met the great opportunity of her life, the 
 turning point, and missed it? I do not think so. It 
 was not for her. 
 
 A year later the duke died.
 
 58 PRISONERS 
 
 He made a dignified exit. An attack of vertigo to 
 which he was liable came on when he was on horseback. 
 He was thrown and dragged, and only survived a few 
 days as by a miracle. His wife, who had seen little of 
 him during the last year, saw still less of him during 
 the days of his short illness. But when the end was 
 close at hand he sent for her, and asked her to remain 
 in a distant recess of his room during the painful 
 hours. 
 
 " It will be a happier memory for you," he said 
 gently to her between the paroxysms of suffering, " to 
 think that you were there." 
 
 And so propped high in a great carved bedstead in 
 the octagonal room where the Colle Altos were born, 
 and where, when they could choose, they died, the duke 
 lay awaiting the end. 
 
 He had received extreme unction. The chanting 
 choir had gone. The priest had closed his pale fingers 
 upon the crucifix, when he desired to be left alone with 
 his wife. 
 
 She drew near timidly and stood beside his bed. 
 
 He bent his tranquil, kindly eyes upon her. 
 
 " Good-bye, my Francesca," he said. " May God 
 and his angels protect you, and give you peace." 
 
 A belated compunction seized her. 
 
 " I wish I had been a better wife to you, Andrea," 
 she said brokenly, laying her hand on his. 
 
 He made the ghost of a courteous, deprecating ges- 
 ture, and raised her hand to his lips. The effort ex- 
 hausted him. He closed his eyes and his hand fell out 
 of hers. 
 
 Through the open window came a sudden waft of
 
 PRISONERS 59 
 
 hot carnations, a long drawn breath of the rapturous 
 Italian spring. 
 
 It reached the duke. He stirred slightly, and opened 
 his eyes once more. Once more they fell on Fay, and 
 it seemed to her as if with the last touch of his cold 
 lips upon her hand their relation of husband and wife 
 had ceased. Even at that moment she realised with a 
 sinking sense of impotence how slight her hold on him 
 from first to last had been. Clearly he had already 
 forgotten it, passed beyond it, would never remember 
 it again. 
 
 " It is spring," he said, looking full at her with ten- 
 der fixity, and for a moment she thought his mind was 
 wandering. " Spring once more. The sun shines. 
 He does not see them, the spring and the sunshine. 
 Since a year he does not see them. Francesca, how 
 much longer will you keep your cousin Michael in 
 prison? " 
 
 And thereupon the duke closed his eyes on this world, 
 and went upon his way.
 
 A bachelor's an unfinished thing . . . He wants some- 
 body to listen to his talk. EDEN PHILLPOTTS. 
 
 READER, do you know Barford, in Hampshire? If 
 you don't, I can tell you how to get to it. You take 
 train from Victoria, and you get out at Saundersfoot. 
 There is nothing at Saundersfoot, except a wilderness 
 of lodgings and a tin station and a high wind. It need 
 not detain an active mind beyond the necessary moment 
 of enquiring by which road it may be most quickly 
 left. I cannot tell you who Saunders was, nor why 
 the watering-place was called after his foot. But if 
 you walk steadily away from it for five miles inland, 
 along the white chalky road between the downs, you 
 will arrive at the little village of Barford. 
 
 There is only one road, so you cannot miss your 
 way. Little twisty lanes fretted with sheep-tracks 
 drop down into it now and then from the broad- 
 shouldered downs on either side, but take no notice of 
 them. If you persevere, you will in due course see the 
 village of Barford lying in front of you, which, at 
 a little distance, looks as if it had been carelessly swept 
 into a crease between the downs, while a few cottages 
 and houses on the hillside seem to have adhered to the 
 ground, and remained stuck where they were when the 
 sweeping took place. 
 
 After you have passed the pond and the post office, 
 and before you reach the school, you will see a lodge, 
 
 60
 
 PRISONERS 61 
 
 and an old Italian iron gateway, flanked by a set of 
 white wooden knobs planted in the ground on either 
 side, held together by chains. The white knobs are 
 apparently there in order to upset carriages as they 
 drive in or out. But very few carriages have driven 
 in or out during the last two years, except those of 
 the owner of Barford Manor, Wentworth Maine. 
 Wentworth, since he inherited the place from his uncle 
 five years ago, had always led a somewhat secluded life. 
 But during the last two years, ever since his half- 
 brother, Michael, had been sentenced and imprisoned 
 in Italy, Wentworth had withdrawn himself even more 
 from the society of his neighbours. He continued to 
 shoot and hunt, and to do his duties as a magistrate 
 and as a supporter of the Conservative party, but his 
 thin, refined face had a certain worn, pinched look, 
 which spoke of long tracts of solitary unhappiness. 
 And the habit of solitude was growing on him. 
 
 The old Manor House, standing in its high-walled 
 gardens, its sunny low rooms looking out across the 
 down, seemed wrapped in an atmosphere of ancient 
 peace, which consorted as ill with the present impression 
 of the place as does old Gobelin tapestry with a careful 
 modern patch upon its surface. The patch, however, 
 adroitly copied, is seen to be an innovation. 
 
 The old house, which had known so much, had shel- 
 tered so much, had kept counsel so long, seemed to re- 
 sent the artificial peace that its present owner had 
 somewhat laboriously constructed round himself, within 
 its mellow, ivied walls. 
 
 There is a fictitious tranquillity which is always on 
 the verge of being broken, which depends largely on
 
 62 PRISONERS 
 
 uninterrupted hours, on confidential, velvet-shod serv- 
 ants, on a brooding dove in a cedar, on the absence of 
 the inharmonious or jarring elements which pervade 
 daily life. 
 
 Such an imitation peace, coy as a fickle mistress, 
 Wentworth cherished. Was it worth all the trouble 
 he took to preserve it, when the real thing lay at his 
 very door? 
 
 On this February morning, as he sat looking out 
 across the down, white in the pale sunshine, the cur- 
 rent of his life ran low. He had returned the night 
 before from one of his periodical journeys to Italy to 
 visit Michael in his cell. He was tired with the clang 
 and hurry of the long journey, depressed almost to 
 despair by the renewed realisation of his brother's fate. 
 Two years close on two years, had Michael been in 
 prison. 
 
 In Wentworth's faithful heart that wound never 
 healed. To-day it bled afresh. He bit his lip, and his 
 face quivered. 
 
 Wentworth was not as handsome as Michael, but, 
 nevertheless, he was distinctly good to look at, and 
 the half-brothers, in spite of the fifteen years' differ- 
 ence between their ages, bore a certain superficial 
 resemblance to each other. Wentworth was of middle 
 height, lightly and leanly built, with a high bridge on 
 a rather thin nose, and with narrow, clean grey eyes 
 under light eyelashes. He looked as if he had been 
 made up of different shades of one colour. His light 
 brown hair had a little grey in it, his delicately cut face 
 and nervous hands were both tanned, by persistent
 
 PRISONERS 63 
 
 exposure to all kinds of weather, to nearly the same 
 shade of indeterminate brown as his hair. 
 
 You could not look at Wentworth without seeing 
 that he was a man who had never even glanced at the 
 ignoble side of life, for whose fastidious, sensitive 
 nature sensual lures had no attraction, a man who 
 could not lie, who could not stoop, whose mind was as 
 clean as his hand, and, for an Englishman, that is say- 
 ing a good deal. He was manly in a physical sense. He 
 rode straight, he shot well. He could endure bodily 
 strain with indifference, though he was not robustly 
 built. He was sane, even-tempered, liable to petty re- 
 sentments, mildly and resolutely selfish, except where 
 Michael was concerned, a conscientious and just mas- 
 ter at least, just in intention a patient and respect- 
 ful son where patience and respect had not been easy. 
 
 The strain of scholar and student in him was about 
 evenly mixed with that of the country gentleman. The 
 result was a certain innate sense of superiority which 
 he was not in the least aware that he showed. He had 
 no idea that he was considered " fine," and " thinking 
 a good deal of himself," by the more bucolic of his 
 country neighbours. No one could say that Went- 
 worth was childlike, but perhaps he was a little childish. 
 He certainly had a naif and unshakable belief that 
 the impressions he had formed as to his own character 
 were shared by others. He supposed it was recognised 
 by his neighbours that they had a thinker in their 
 midst, and always tacitly occupied the ground which 
 he imagined had been conceded 'to him on that account. 
 
 His mother, a beautiful, foolish, whimsical, hard- 
 riding heiress, the last of a long line, had married the
 
 64 PRISONERS 
 
 youngest son the one brilliant, cultivated member 
 of a family as ancient, as uneducated, and as prosaic 
 as her own. Wentworth was the result of that union. 
 His father had died before his talents were fully rec- 
 ognised: that is to say, just when it was beginning to 
 be perceived that he was a genius only in his own class, 
 and that there were hordes of educated men in the 
 middle classes who could beat him at every point on his 
 own ground, except in carriage and appearance, and 
 whom no one regarded as specially gifted. Still, in 
 his own county, among his own friends, and in a 
 society where education and culture eke out a pre- 
 carious, interloping existence, and are regarded with 
 distrustful curiosity, Lord Wilfrid Maine lived and 
 died, and was mourned as a genius. 
 
 After many years of uneasy, imprudent widowhood, 
 the widow of the great man had made a disastrous 
 second marriage, and had died at Michael's birth. 
 
 No one had disputed with Wentworth over the pos- 
 session of Michael. Wentworth, a sedate, self-centred 
 young man of three-and-twenty, of independent means, 
 mainly occupied in transcribing the nullity of his days 
 in a voluminous diary, had taken charge of him virtu- 
 ally from his first holidays, during which Michael's 
 father had achieved the somewhat tedious task of drink- 
 ing himself to death. Michael's father had appointed 
 Wentworth as his son's guardian. If it had been a 
 jealous affection on Wentworth's part, it had also been 
 a deep one. And it had been returned with a single- 
 hearted devotion on Michael's part which had grad- 
 ually knit together the hearts of the older and the 
 younger man, as it seemed indissolubly. No one had
 
 PRISONERS 65 
 
 come between them. Once or twice Wentworth had be- 
 come uneasy, suspicious of Michael's affection for his 
 tutor at Eton, distrustful of the intimacies Michael, 
 formed with boys, and, later on, with men of his own 
 age. Wentworth had nipped a few of these incipient 
 friendships in the bud. He vaguely felt that each case, 
 judged by its own merits, was undesirable. Some of 
 these friendships he had not been able to nip. These 
 he ignored ; among that number was Michael's affection 
 for his godfather, the Bishop of Lostford. Michael's 
 boyish passion for Fay, Wentworth had never divined. 
 It had come about during the last year of his great 
 uncle's life at Barford, which was within a few miles 
 of Priesthope, Fay's home. Michael had spent many 
 weeks at Barford with the old man, who was devoted 
 to him. Everyone had expected that he would make 
 Michael his heir, but when he died soon afterwards, it 
 was found he had left the place, in a will dated many 
 years back, to Wentworth. If Michael had never 
 mentioned his first painful contact with life to Went- 
 worth, it was perhaps partly because he instinctively 
 felt that the confidence would be coldly received, partly 
 also because Michael was a man of few words, to whom 
 speech had never taken the shape of relief. 
 
 There had no doubt been wretched moments in Went- 
 worth's devotion to Michael, but nevertheless it had 
 been the best thing so far in his somewhat colourless 
 existence, with its hesitating essays in other directions,, 
 its half-hearted withdrawals, its pigeon-holed emotions.; 
 He had not been half-hearted about Michael. It is 
 perhaps natural that we should love very deeply those 
 who have had the power to release us momentarily;
 
 66 PRISONERS 
 
 from the airless prison of our own egotism. How often 
 it is a child's hand which first opens that iron door, 
 and draws us forth into the sunshine! With Went- 
 worth it had been so. The pure air of the moorland, 
 the scent of the heather and the sea seem indissolubly 
 mingled with the remembrance of those whom we have 
 loved. For did we not in their company walk abroad 
 into a new world, breathe a new air, while Self, the 
 dingy turnkey, for once slept at his post? 
 
 One of the reasons of his devotion to Michael was 
 that Michael's character did not apparently or per- 
 ceptibly alter. He was very much the same person 
 in his striped convict's blouse as he had been in his 
 Eton jacket. But it is doubtful whether Wentworth 
 had ever realised of what materials that character 
 consisted. Wentworth was of those who never get 
 the best out of men and women, who never divine and 
 meet, but only come into surprised uncomfortable con- 
 tact with their deeper emotions. Michael's passion of 
 service for Fay would have been a great shock to Went- 
 worth had he suspected it. It remained for the duke 
 to perceive the latent power in Michael, and to be 
 taken instantly into his confidence on the matter, while 
 Wentworth, unwitting, had remained for life outside 
 his brother's mind. 
 
 Some men and women are half conscious that they 
 are thus left out, are companions only of " the outer 
 court " of the lives of others. But Wentworth never 
 suspected this, partly because he regarded as friend- 
 ship a degree of intimacy which most men and all 
 women regard as acquaintanceship. He did not know 
 there was anythincr more. Those from whom others
 
 PRISONERS 67 
 
 need much, learn perforce, whether they will or no, to 
 what heights, to what depths human nature can climb 
 and fall. But Wentworth was not a person on whom 
 others made large demands. But if his love for 
 Michael had been his one tangible happiness, it had 
 become now his one real pain. 
 
 Contrary to all his habits, he sat on, hour after 
 hour, motionless, inert, watching the cloud shadows 
 pass across the down. He tried to rouse himself. He 
 told himself that he must settle back into his old occu- 
 pations. He must get forward with his history of 
 Sussex, and write up his diary. He must come to some 
 decision about the allotment scheme on his property 
 in Saundersfoot. He must go over and help Colonel 
 Bellairs not to make a fool of himself about the dis- 
 puted right of way across his property where it joined 
 Wentworth's own land. Colonel Bellairs always bun- 
 gled into business matters of the simplest nature as 
 a bumble bee bungles into a spider's web. For Colonel 
 Bellairs to touch business of any kind was immediately 
 to become hopelessly and inextricably involved in it, 
 with much furious buzzing. His mere presence en- 
 tangled the plainest matter into a confused cocoon, 
 with himself struggling in the middle. 
 
 Wentworth must save the old autocrat from putting 
 himself in the wrong, when he was so plainly in the 
 right. Wentworth must at any rate, if he could do 
 nothing else this morning, read his letters, which had 
 accumulated during his short absence. 
 
 Without moving from his chair he turned over, with 
 a groan, the pile of envelopes waiting for him at his 
 elbow. Invitations, bills, tenants' complaints, an un-
 
 68 PRISONERS 
 
 expected dividend. It was all one to him. The Bishop 
 of Lostford so his secretary wrote accepted Went- 
 worth's invitation to dine and sleep at Barford that 
 night, after holding a confirmation at Saundersfoot. 
 Wentworth had forgotten he had asked him. Very 
 well, he must remember to order a room to be got 
 ready. That was all. A subscription earnestly solic- 
 ited by the daughter of a neighbouring clergyman for 
 a parish library. Why could he not be left in peace? 
 Oh! what was the use of anything of life, health, 
 money, intellect, if existence was always to be like 
 this, if every day was to be like this, only like this? 
 This weary, dry-as-dust grind, this making a handful 
 of bricks out of a cartload of straw, this distaste and 
 fatigue, and sense of being duped by satisfaction, 
 which was only another form of dissatisfaction, after 
 all. What was the use of living exactly as you liked, 
 if you did not like it? Oh, Michael ! Michael ! Michael ! 
 He forgot that he had often been nearly as miserable 
 as this when Michael had been free and happy. Not 
 quite, but nearly. Now he attributed the whole of his 
 recurrent wretchedness, which was largely tempera- 
 mental, to his distress about his brother's fate. 
 
 That wound, never healed, bled afresh. Who felt 
 for him in his trouble? Who, among all his friends, 
 cared, or understood? No one. That was the way of 
 the world. 
 
 Fay's sweet, forlorn face, snowdrop pale under its 
 long black veil, rose suddenly before him, as he ha4 
 seen it some weeks ago, when he had met her walking 
 in the woods near her father's house. She had gone 
 back to her old home after the duke's death. She, at
 
 PRISONERS 69 
 
 least, had grieved for him and Michael with an in- 
 tensity which he had never forgotten. Even in her 
 widowed desolation she had remembered Michael, and 
 always asked after him when Wentworth went over to 
 Priesthope. And Wentworth was often there, for one 
 reason or another. Michael, too, had asked after her, 
 and had sent her a message by his brother. Should 
 he go over to-day and deliver it in person? Among 
 his letters was a scrawling, illegible note, already sev- 
 eral days old, from Colonel Bellairs, Fay's father, 
 about the right of way. The matter, it seemed, was 
 more urgent than Wentworth had realised. Any mat- 
 ter pertaining to Colonel Bellairs was always, in the 
 opinion of the latter, of momentous urgency. 
 
 Colonel Bellairs asked Wentworth to come over to 
 luncheon the first day he could, and to walk over the 
 debatable ground with him. 
 
 Wentworth looked at his watch, started up and rang 
 the bell, and ordered his cob Conrad to be brought 
 round at once.
 
 CHAPTER VHI 
 
 Le plus grand element des mauvaises actions secretes, 
 des lachetes inconnues, est peut-etre un honheur incomplet. 
 
 BALZAC. 
 
 WHEN Fay, in her panic-stricken widowhood, had fled 
 back to her old home in Hampshire, she found all very 
 much as she had left it, except that her father's hair 
 was damply dyed, her sister Magdalen's frankly grey, 
 and the pigtail of Bessie, the youngest daughter, 
 was now an imposing bronze coil in the nape of her 
 neck. 
 
 But if little else was radically changed in the old 
 home except the hair of the family, nevertheless, the 
 whole place had somehow declined and shrunk in Fay's 
 eyes during the three years of her marriage. The dear 
 old gabled Tudor house, with its twisted chimneys, 
 looked much the same from the outside, but within, 
 in spite of its wealth of old pictures and cabinets and 
 china, it had contracted the dim, melancholy aspect 
 which is the result of prolonged scarcity of money. 
 Nothing had been spent on the place for years. Mag- 
 dalen seemed to have faded together with the curtains, 
 and the darned carpets, and the bleached chintzes. 
 
 Colonel Bellairs alone, a handsome man of sixty, had 
 remained remarkably young for his age. The balance, 
 however, was made even by the fact that those who 
 lived with him grew old before their time. It had been 
 
 70
 
 PRISONERS 71 
 
 so with his wife. It was obviously so with his eldest 
 daughter. Many men as superficially affectionate as 
 Colonel Bellairs, and at heart as callous, as exacting 
 and as inconsiderate, have made endurable husbands. 
 But Colonel Bellairs was not only irresolute and vacil- 
 lating and incapable of even the most necessary 
 decisions, but he was an inveterate enemy of all deci- 
 sion on the part of others, inimical to all suggested 
 arrangements or plans for household convenience. 
 The words " spring cleaning " could never be mentioned 
 in his presence. The thing itself could only be achieved 
 by stealth. A month at the seaside for the sake of 
 the children was a subject that could not be ap- 
 proached. All small feminine social arrangements, 
 dependent for their accomplishment on the use of the 
 horses, were mown down like grass. Colonel Bellairs 
 hated what he called " living by clockwork." 
 
 You may read, if you care to do so, in the faces of 
 many gentle-tempered and apparently prosperous mar- 
 ried women, an enormous fatigue. Wicked, blood- 
 curdling husbands do not bring this look into women's 
 faces. It is men like Colonel Bellairs who hold the 
 recipe for calling it into existence. 
 
 Mrs. Bellairs, a beautiful woman, with high spirits, 
 but not high-spirited, became more and more silent 
 and apathetic year by year, yielded more and more 
 and more, yielded at last without expostulation equally 
 at every point, when she should have yielded and when 
 she should have stood firm, yielded at last even where 
 her children's health and well-being were concerned. 
 
 Apathy and health are seldom housemates for long 
 together. Mrs. Bellairs gradually declined from her
 
 72 PRISONERS 
 
 chair to her sofa. She made no effort to live after her 
 youngest daughter was born. She could have done so 
 if she had wished it, but she seemed to have no wish 
 on the subject, or on any other subject. There is an 
 Arabian proverb which seems to embody in it all the 
 melancholy of the desert, and Mrs. Bellairs exemplified 
 it. " It is better to sit than to stand. It is better to 
 lie than to sit. It is better to sleep than to lie. It is 
 better to die than to sleep." 
 
 Fay had been glad enough, as we have seen, to es- 
 cape from home by marriage. No such way of escape 
 had apparently presented itself for the elder sister. 
 As Magdalen and Fay sat together on the terrace in 
 front of the house, the contrast between the sisters was 
 more marked than the ten years' difference of age 
 seemed to warrant. 
 
 Magdalen was a tall, thin woman of thirty-five, who 
 looked older than her age. She had evidently been 
 extremely pretty once. Perhaps she might even have 
 been young once. But it must have been a long time 
 ago. She was a faded, distinguished-looking person, 
 with a slight stoop, and a worn, delicately-featured 
 face, and humorous, tranquil eyes. Her thick hair was 
 grey. She looked as if she had borne for many years 
 the brunt of continued ill health, or the ill health of 
 others, as if she had been obliged to lift heavy weights 
 too young. Perhaps she had. Everything about her 
 personality seemed fragile except her peace of mind. 
 You could not look at Magdalen without seeing that 
 she was a happy creature. 
 
 But very few did look at her when Fay was beside 
 her. Fay's beauty had increased in some ways and
 
 PRISONERS 75 
 
 youth a sort of resentful protest against the attitude 
 of her family at her advent, namely, that she was not 
 wanted. Her mother had died at her birth, and for 
 several years afterwards her father had studiously 
 ignored her presence in the house, not without a sense 
 of melancholy satisfaction at this proof of his devo- 
 tion to her mother. 
 
 " No, no. It may be unreasonable. It may be fool- 
 ish," he was wont to say to friends who had not 
 accused him of unreasonableness, " but don't ask me 
 to be fond of that child. I can't look at her without 
 remembering what her birth cost me." 
 
 Bessie was a fine, strong young woman, with a per- 
 fectly impassive handsome face no Bellairs could 
 achieve plainness and the manner of one who moves 
 among fellow creatures who do not come up to the 
 standard of conduct which she has selected as the low- 
 est permissible to herself and others. Bessie had not 
 so far evinced a preference for anyone in her own 
 family circle, or outside it. Her affections consisted 
 so far of a distinct dislike of and contempt for her 
 father. She had accorded to Fay a solemn compassion 
 when first the latter returned to Priesthope. Indeed, 
 the estrangement between the sisters, brought about 
 by the suggested course of reading, had been the un- 
 fortunate result of a cogitating pity on Bessie's part 
 for the lamentable want of regulation of Fay's 
 mind. 
 
 Bessie liked Magdalen, though she disapproved of her 
 manner of life as weak and illogical. You could not 
 love Bessie any more than you could love an ironclad. 
 She bore the same resemblance to a woman that an
 
 76 PRISONERS 
 
 iron building does to a house. She was not in reality 
 harder than tin or granite or asphalt, or her father; 
 but it would not be an over-statement to suggest that 
 she lacked softness. 
 
 She advanced with precision to the bench on which 
 her sisters were sitting. 
 
 " I am now going to cycle to the Carters'," she 
 said to Magdalen. " I forgot to mention till this mo- 
 ment that I met Aunt Mary this morning at the Wind 
 Farm, and that she gave me a letter for father, and 
 said that she and Aunt Aggie were lunching with the 
 Copes." 
 
 " Poor Copes ! " ejaculated Fay. 
 
 " And would both come on here afterwards to an 
 early tea," continued Bessie, taking no notice of the 
 interruption. " Aunt Mary desired that you would 
 not have hot scones for tea, as Aunt Aggie is always 
 depressed after them. She said there was no objec- 
 tion to them cold, and buttered, but not hot." 
 
 " I shall have tea in my own room then," once more 
 broke in Fay. " I can't stand Aunt Mary. She is 
 always preaching at me." 
 
 " It is a pity that Fay is disinclined to share the un- 
 doubted burden of entertaining our relatives," said 
 Bessie, addressing herself exclusively to Magdalen, " as 
 I do not feel able to defer my visit to the Carters any 
 longer." 
 
 Magdalen struggled hard against a smile, and kept 
 it under. 
 
 " Possibly the aunts are coming over to consult 
 father about a private matter," she said. " The letter 
 beforehand to prepare his mind looks like it. So it
 
 PRISONERS 77 
 
 would be best if you and Fay were not there. The 
 aunts' affairs generally require the deepest secrecy." 
 
 "And then father lets it all out at dinner before 
 the servants," said Bessie over her shoulder as she 
 departed. 
 
 When she was out of hearing Fay said with exasper- 
 ation, " You are not wise to give way so much to 
 Bessie, Magdalen. She is selfishness itself. Why did 
 not you insist on her staying and helping with the 
 aunts? She never considers you." 
 
 Magdalen was silent. 
 
 " I hate sitting here with the house staring at me," 
 said Fay. " I can't think why you are so fond of this 
 bench. Let us go into the beech avenue." 
 
 For a long time past Magdalen had noticed that 
 Fay always wanted to be somewhere she was not. 
 
 They went in silence through the little wood that 
 bounded the gardens, and passed into the great, bare, 
 grey aisle of the beech avenue. 
 
 In a past generation a wide drive had led through 
 this avenue to the house. It had been the south ap- 
 proach to Priesthope. But in these impoverished days, 
 the road, with its sweep of turf on either side, had been 
 neglected, and was now little more than a mossy cart- 
 rut, with a fallen tree across it. 
 
 The two sisters sat down on a crooked arm of the 
 fallen tree. 
 
 It was a soft, tranquil afternoon, flooded with meek 
 February sunshine. Far away between the green-grey 
 trunks of the trees, the sea glinted like a silver ribbon. 
 Everything was very still, with the stillness set deep in 
 peace of one who loves and awaits in awe love's next
 
 78 PRISONERS 
 
 word. The earth lay in the sunshine, and listened for the 
 whisper of spring. Faint birdnotes threaded the high 
 windless spaces near the tree-tops. 
 
 " Look ! " said Magdalen, " the first crocus." 
 
 What is there, what can there be in the first yellow 
 crocus peering against the brown earth, that can 
 reach with instant healing, like a child's " soft absolv- 
 ing touch," the inflamed, aching, unrest of the spirit? 
 It does not seek to comfort us. Then how does com- 
 fort reach through with the crocus ; as if the whole 
 under-world were peace and joy, and were breaking 
 through the thin sod to enfold us ? 
 
 Fay looked at the flame-pure, upturned face of the 
 little forerunner, absently at first, and then with grow- 
 ing absorption, until two large tears slowly welled 
 up into her eyes and blotted it out. She shivered, and 
 crept a little closer to her sister. She felt alienated 
 from she knew not what, dreadfully cold and alone in 
 the sunshine, with her cheek against her sister's shoul- 
 der. Though she did not realise it, something long 
 frost-bound in her mind was yielding, shifting, break- 
 ing up. The first miserable shudder of the thaw was 
 upon her. 
 
 She glanced up at Magdalen, who was looking into 
 the heart of the crocus, and a sudden anger seized her 
 at the still rapture of her sister's face. The contrast 
 between her own gnawing misery and Magdalen's se- 
 renity cut her like a knife. What right had Magdalen 
 to be so happy? Why should she have been exempted 
 from all trouble? What had she done that anguish 
 could never reach her? Fay's love for Magdalen, and 
 at this time Magdalen was the only person for whom
 
 PRISONERS 79 
 
 she had any affection had all the violent recoils, the 
 mutinous anger, the sudden desire to wound on the 
 one side, all the tender patience and grieved under- 
 standing on the other which are the outcome of a real 
 attachment between a bond woman and a free one. 
 
 The one craved, the other relinquished; the one was 
 consumed with unrest, the other had reached some 
 inner stronghold of peace. The one was imprisoned in 
 self, the other was freed, released. The one made de- 
 mands, the other was willing to serve. It seems as if 
 only the free can serve. 
 
 " I am very miserable," said Fay suddenly. She was 
 pushed once more by the same blind impulse that had 
 taken her to her husband's room the night after 
 Michael's arrest. 
 
 She used almost the same words. And as the 
 duke had made no answer then, so Magdalen made 
 none now. She had not lived in the same house with 
 Fay for nearly a year for nothing. 
 
 Magdalen's silence acted as a goad. 
 
 " You think, and father thinks," continued Fay, her 
 voice shaking, " you are all blinder one than the other, 
 that it's Andrea I'm grieving for. It's not." 
 
 " I know that," said Magdalen. " You never cared 
 much about him. I have often wondered what it could 
 be that was distressing you so deeply." 
 
 Fay winced. Magdalen had noticed something, 
 after all. 
 
 " I have sometimes feared," continued Magdalen 
 with the deliberation of one who has long since made 
 up her mind not to speak until the opening comes, and 
 not to be silent when it does come " I have sometimes
 
 80 PRISONERS 
 
 feared that your heart was locked up in an Italian 
 prison." 
 
 " My heart ! " said Fay, and her visible astonish- 
 ment at a not very astonishing inference was not lost 
 on Magdalen. " My heart ! " she laughed bitterly. 
 " Do you really suppose after all I've suffered, all I've 
 gone through, that I'm so silly as to be in love with 
 anyone in prison or out of it? I suppose you mean 
 poor dear Michael. I hate men, and their selfish, stupid, 
 blundering ways." 
 
 Fay had often alluded to the larger sex en bloc as 
 blunderers since the night she had told Michael to 
 stand behind the screen. 
 
 " There are two blunderers coming towards us now," 
 said Magdalen, as the distant figures of Colonel Bel- 
 lairs and Wentworth appeared in the beech avenue. 
 
 Both women experienced a distinct sense of relief. 
 
 Colonel Bellairs had many qualities as a parent 
 which made him a kind of forcing-house for the devel- 
 opment of virtue in those of his own family. He was 
 as guano spread over the roots of the patience of 
 others; as a pruning hook to their selfishness. But 
 he had one great compensating quality as a father. 
 He never for one moment thought that any man, 
 however young, visited the house except for the 
 refreshment and solace of his own society. He never 
 encouraged anyone to come with a view to becoming 
 acquainted with his daughters. His own problematic 
 re-marriage, often discussed in all its pros and cons 
 with Magdalen, was the only possible alliance that ever 
 occupied his thoughts. In this respect he was an ideal 
 parent in his daughters' eyes, an inhumanly selfish one
 
 YOU AllE ALL BLINDER ONE THAN THE OTHER, THAT IT S ANDREA 
 I*M GRIEVING FOR ' '
 
 PRISONERS 81 
 
 according to his two sisters, Lady Blore and Miss Bel- 
 lairs, at this moment stepping out towards Priesthope 
 from the north lodge. 
 
 Wentworth had almost given up hope of a word with 
 Fay until he saw her sitting with Magdalen in the 
 avenue. The world would be a much harder place than 
 it already is for women to live in if men concealed 
 their feelings. A reverent and assiduous study of the 
 nobler sex leads the student to believe that they imagine 
 they conceal them. But it is women who early in life 
 are taught to acquire this art, at any rate when they 
 are bored. Half the happy married women of our 
 acquaintance would be the widows of determined sui- 
 cides if women allowed it to appear when they were 
 bored as quickly as men do. 
 
 Wentworth had no idea that he was not an impass- 
 able barrier of reserve. He often said of himself : " I 
 am a very reserved man, I know. It is a fault of char- 
 acter. I regret it, but I can't help it. I have not the 
 art of chatting about my deepest feelings at five o'clock 
 tea as a man must do who lays himself out to be popu- 
 lar with women. What I feel it is my nature to 
 conceal." 
 
 His reserve on this occasion was concentrated in his 
 face, which remained unmoved. But the lofty im- 
 passiveness on which he prided himself did not reach 
 down to his legs. Those members, which had been 
 dragging themselves in a sort of feeble semi-paralysis 
 in the wake of the ruthless Colonel Bellairs, now 
 straightened themselves, and gave signs of returning 
 energy. Magdalen from a distance noted the change. 
 Wentworth for the first time was interested in what
 
 82 PRISONERS 
 
 Colonel Bellairs was saying. His own voice, which had 
 become almost extinct, revived. There was also a hint 
 of spring in the air. Not being a person of much 
 self-knowledge, he mentioned that fact to Colonel 
 Bellairs. 
 
 Colonel Bellairs looked at him with the suspicion 
 which appears to be the one light shadow that lies 
 across the sunny life of the bore. 
 
 " I said so half an hour ago," he remarked severely, 
 ** when we were inspecting my new manure tanks, and 
 you said you did not notice it." 
 
 " You were right all the same," said the younger 
 man. 
 
 What an interest would be added to life if it were 
 possible to ascertain how many thousands of times 
 people like Colonel Bellairs are limply assured that 
 they are in the right! The mistake of statistics is 
 that they are always compiled on such dull subjects. 
 Who cares to know how many infants are born, and 
 how many deaf mutes exist? But we should devour 
 statistics, we should read nothing else if only they 
 dealt with matters of real interest: if they recorded 
 how often Mr. Simpson, the decadent poet, had said 
 he was " a child of nature," how often, if ever, the 
 Duchess of Inveraven and Mr. Brown, the junior curate 
 at Salvage-on-Sea, had owned they had been in the 
 wrong; whether it was true that an Archbishop had 
 ever really said " I am sorry " without an " if " after 
 it, and, if so, on what occasion; and whether any 
 novelist exists who has not affirmed at least five hun- 
 dred times that criticism is a lost art. 
 
 "Is the right-of-way dispute progressing?" said
 
 PRISONERS 83 
 
 Magdalen to her father as the two men came up and 
 stopped in front of them. 
 
 Colonel Bellairs implied that it would shortly be 
 arranged, as his intellect was being applied to the 
 subject. 
 
 Wentworth said emphatically, for about the thirtieth 
 time, that the right of a footpath, or church path 
 across the domain was well established and could not 
 be set aside; but that whether it was also a bridle 
 path was the moot point; and whether Colonel Bellairs 
 was justified in his recent erection of a five-barred 
 stile. 
 
 (I may as well add here, for fear the subject should 
 escape my mind later on, that at the time of these 
 pages going to press the dispute, often on the verge 
 of a settlement, had reached a further and acuter stage, 
 being complicated by Colonel Bellairs' sudden denial 
 even of a church path, to the legal existence of which 
 he had previously agreed in writing.) 
 
 Wentworth trod upon the crocus and said he must 
 be going home. 
 
 " We will walk back to the house with you," said 
 Magdalen, and she led the way with her father. 
 
 " I wish you would tell your Aunt Mary," he said 
 to Magdalen as they walked on, " that I will not have 
 her servants wandering in Lindley wood. Jones tells 
 me they were there again last Sunday with a dog, that 
 accursed little yapping wool mat of Aunt Aggie's! 
 I simply won't stand it. I would rather you told her. 
 It would come better from you." 
 
 " I will tell her." 
 
 Colonel Bellairs was beginning late in life to lean
 
 84 PRISONERS 
 
 on Magdalen. She was fond of him in a way, and 
 never yielded to him. On ne pent s'appuyer que contre 
 ce qui resiste. Though Colonel Bellairs did not know 
 it, he was always wanting to s'appuyer. He had found 
 in his daughter something solid to lean against, which 
 he had never found in his wife, who had not resisted him. 
 
 " Oh ! and look here, Magdalen. I had a letter from 
 your Aunt Mary this morning, a long rigmarole. 
 She says she is following her letter, and is coming to 
 have a serious talk with me. Hang it all! Can't a 
 man have a moment's peace? " 
 
 Colonel Bellairs tore out of an inner pocket a bulky 
 letter in a bold, upright hand, marked Private, at the 
 top. 
 
 " I wish to the devil she would mind her own busi- 
 ness, and let me manage mine," he said pettishly, thrust- 
 ing the letter at Magdalen. 
 
 " I don't like to read it, as it is marked ' Private.' " 
 
 " Read it. Read it," said Colonel Bellairs irritably. 
 
 Magdalen read the voluminous epistle tranquilly 
 from beginning to end as she and her father walked 
 slowly back to the house. 
 
 It was an able production, built up on a solid 
 foundation. It dealt with Colonel Bellairs' " obvious 
 duty " with regard to the man to whom Magdalen had 
 been momentarily engaged fifteen years before, and 
 who, owing to two deaths in the Boer war, had unex- 
 pectedly succeeded to an earldom. 
 
 "Well! well!" said Colonel Bellairs at intervals, 
 more interested than he wished to appear. " What do 
 you think of it? We noticed in the papers a week ago 
 that he had succeeded his cousin."
 
 PRISONERS 85 
 
 " Wait a minute, father. I have only come to my 
 lacerated affections." 
 
 " How slow you are ! Your Aunt Mary does pound 
 away. She has a touch as light as a coal-sack. The 
 wonder to me is how she ever captured poor old Blore." 
 
 " Perhaps she did it by letter. She writes uncom- 
 monly well. ' Magdalen's joyless homelife of incessant, 
 unselfish service.' That is very well put, isn't it? 
 And so is this : * It is your duty now to inform him 
 that you withdraw all opposition to the renewal of 
 the engagement, and to invite him to Priesthope.' 
 Really, Aunt Mary sticks at nothing. I warn you 
 solemnly, father, this is only the thin end of the wedge. 
 Unless you stand firm now, she'll want to choose our 
 new stair carpet for us next. Really, I think at her 
 age she might take a little holiday, and leave the 
 Almighty in charge." 
 
 " Is that all you've got to say ? " said Colonel Bel- 
 lairs, somewhat surprised. " Do you wish me to ask 
 him to the house or do you not? I don't object to him. 
 I never did, except as a son-in-law, when he had no 
 visible means of subsistence." 
 
 " And no intention of making any." 
 
 " Just so. But I always rather liked him, and, and 
 time slips by " (it had indeed), " and I can't make 
 much provision for you, in fact, almost none, and I 
 may marry again ; in fact, it is more than likely I shall 
 shortly marry again." Colonel Bellairs was for a 
 moment plunged in introspection. " So perhaps, on 
 the whole, it would be more generous on my part to 
 ignore the past and ask him to the house." 
 
 " After forbidding him to come to it? "
 
 86 PRISONERS 
 
 Colonel Bellairs began to lose his temper. 
 
 " I shall ask whom I think fit if I choose to do so. 
 I am master in this house. If he does not care to come, 
 he can stay away." 
 
 " Ask him, in that case." 
 
 " You agree that on the whole that would be best." 
 
 " Not at all. I think it extremely undignified on 
 your part, and that it is a pity that you should be so 
 swayed by Aunt Mary as to go by her judgment in- 
 stead of your own. You never thought of asking him 
 till she tried to coerce you into it." 
 
 " I am not going to be coerced by any woman, much 
 less by that man in petticoats," said Colonel Bellairs 
 wrathfully. " But she will be here directly. H'm ! 
 What on earth am I to say to her if I don't ask him? 
 . . . She will be here directly." 
 
 They had reached Colonel Bellairs' study by now, 
 and he sat down heavily in his old leather arm-chair. 
 Magdalen was standing on the hearthrug near him with 
 the letter in her hand. She held it over the fire, he 
 nodded, and she dropped it in. 
 
 " Perhaps, Magdalen," said her father with dignity, 
 " it would be just as well if I kept clear of the whole 
 affair. Women manage these little things best among 
 themselves. I would rather not be dragged in. Any- 
 thing on that subject, any discussion, or interchange of 
 opinion would come best from you, eh ? " 
 
 " I think so, father." 
 
 Colonel Bellairs watched his sister's letter burn, with 
 the fixed eye of one about to drop off into an habitual 
 nap. 
 
 The asphyxiating atmosphere of a man's room, where
 
 PRISONERS 87 
 
 a window is never opened except to let in a dog, or to 
 shout at a gardener, and where years of stale tobacco 
 brood in every nook and curtain, enveloped its occupant 
 with a delicious sense of snug repose, and exerted its 
 usual soporific charm. 
 
 " Took Mary a long time to write," he said, with 
 a sleepy chuckle, as the last vestige disappeared of 
 the laboriously constructed missive which Lady Blore 
 had sat up half the previous night, with gold-rimmed 
 pince-nez on Roman nose to copy out by her bed- 
 room candle, and had sent to pave the way before her 
 strong destructive feet. 
 
 The footman came in. 
 
 " Lady Blore and Miss Bellairs are in the draw- 
 ing-room." 
 
 " Just pull the blinds half-way down before you 
 go," said Colonel Bellairs to Magdalen, " and remem- 
 ber other people have got letters to write as well as 
 her, and I'm not to be disturbed on any account."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 On garde longtemps son premier amant quand on n'en 
 prend point de second. LA ROCHEFOUCAULD. 
 
 THE two aunts meanwhile were sitting waiting in the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 When Mrs. Bellairs died, which event, according to 
 Aunt Aggie, had been brought about by a persistent 
 refusal to wear on her chest a small square of flannel, 
 (quite a small square) sprinkled with camphorated oil, 
 and according to Aunt Mary by a total misconception 
 of the Bellairs' character; when this event happened, 
 the two aunts became what they called supports to 
 their brother's motherless children. 
 
 They were far from being broken reeds which pierce 
 the hands of those who lean on them. 
 
 No one had ever leaned on Aunt Mary or Aunt 
 Aggie. Aunt Mary might perhaps be likened to one 
 of those stout beams which have a tendency to push 
 ruthlessly through the tottering outer wall which they 
 are supposed to prop, into the inner chamber of the 
 tenement which has the misfortune to be the object of 
 their good offices. 
 
 She had contracted, not in her first youth, a matri- 
 monial alliance it could hardly be called a marriage 
 with a general, distinguished in India and obscure 
 everywhere else, who had built a villa called " The 
 Towers " a few miles from Priesthope. The marriage 
 had taken place after years of half -gratified reluctance 
 
 88
 
 PRISONERS 89 
 
 on his part and indomitable crude persistence on hers. 
 In short it was what is generally called " a long at- 
 tachment," and proves beyond dispute, what is already 
 proven to the hilt, that the sterner sex prefer to have 
 their affairs of the heart arranged for them; that 
 once lost sight of they are mislaid, once let loose on 
 parole they never return, once captured they endeavour 
 to escape ; that even when finally married nothing short 
 of the amputation of all external interests will detain 
 them within the sacred precincts of THE HOME. 
 
 Aunt Mary had had trouble with her general, but 
 though she was no tactician, she was herself a general. 
 His engagement to her had only been the first of the 
 crushing defeats which she had inflicted upon him. 
 Now at last at The Towers a deathlike peace reigned. 
 Sir John, severely tried by rheumatism and advancing 
 years, had, so to speak, given up his sword. 
 
 His wife's magnanimity had provided him with 
 what she considered suitable amusements and occupa- 
 tions. He was told that he took an interest in breed- 
 ing pigs, and he, who had once ruled a province rather 
 larger than England, might now be seen on fine morn- 
 ings tottering out, tilted forward on his stick, making 
 the tour of the farmyard, and hanging over the low 
 wall of his model pigstyes. 
 
 In Magdalen's recollections, Aunt Mary had always 
 looked exactly the same, the same strong, tall, robust, 
 large-featured, handsome woman, with black hair, and 
 round, black, unwinking eyes, who invariably dressed 
 in black and wore a bonnet. Even under the cedar at 
 The Towers Aunt Mary wore a bonnet. When she 
 employed herself in a majestic gardening the sun
 
 90 PRISONERS 
 
 was shaded from her Roman nose by a black satin 
 parasol. 
 
 There are some men and women whom it is monstrous 
 to suppose ever were children, ever young, ever dif- 
 ferent from what they are now. Whatever laws of 
 human nature may rule the birth of others, they, at 
 any rate, like the phoenix, sprang full grown, middle 
 aged, in a frock coat, or a bugled silk gown, from 
 some charred heap of unconsenting parental ashes. 
 
 Aunt Mary was no doubt one of these. 
 
 Near her, on the edge of her chair, perhaps not 
 so entirely on the edge of it as at first appeared, sat 
 Aunt Aggie. Aunt Aggie looked as if she had been 
 coloured by some mistake from a palette prepared to 
 depict a London fog. 
 
 Her eyes were greyish yellow, like her eyelashes, like 
 her hair, at least her front hair, like her eyebrows, 
 and her complexion. She was short and stout. She 
 called slender people skeletons. Her gown, which was 
 invariably of some greyish, drabbish, neutral-tinted 
 material, always cocked up a little in front to show 
 two large, flat, soft-looking feet. 
 
 Aunt Aggie began quite narrow at the top. Her fore- 
 head was the thin edge of the wedge, and she widened 
 slowly as she neared the ground ; the first indication of 
 a settlement showing in the lobes of her ears, then in 
 her cheeks, and then in her drab-apparelled person. 
 Her whole aspect gave the impression of a great self- 
 importance, early realised and made part of life, but 
 kept in abeyance by the society of Aunt Mary and 
 by a religious conviction that others also had their 
 place, a sort of back seat, in the Divine consciousness.
 
 PRISONERS 91 
 
 It would not be fair to Aunt Aggie to omit to men- 
 tion, especially as she continually made veiled allusions 
 to the subject herself, that she also had known the 
 tender passion. There had been an entanglement in 
 her youth with a High Church archdeacon. But we 
 all know how indefinite, how inconclusive, how meagre 
 in practical results archidiaconal conferences are apt 
 to be! After one of them it was discovered that the 
 entanglement was all on Aunt Aggie's side. The arch- 
 deacon remained unenmeshed. Under severe pressure 
 from Lady Blore, then an indomitable bride of forty, 
 flushed by recent victory, he even went so far as to say 
 that his only bride was the Church. It was after this 
 disheartening statement that Aunt Aggie found her- 
 self drawn towards an evangelical and purer form of 
 religion. The Archdeacon subsequently married, or 
 rather became guilty of ecclesiastical bigamy. But 
 Aunt Aggie throughout life retained pessimistic views 
 respecting the celibacy of the clergy. 
 
 Aunt Mary bestowed a strong businesslike peck, 
 emphasized by contact with the point of a stone-cold 
 nose, on Magdalen's cheek. Aunt Aggie greeted her 
 niece with small inarticulate duckings of affection. 
 Have you ever kissed a tepid poached egg? Then you 
 know what it is to salute Aunt Aggie's cheek. 
 
 " Where are Fay and Bessie? " enquired Aunt Mary 
 instantly. When the aunts announced their coming, 
 which was invariably at an hour's notice, they always 
 expected to find the whole family, including Colonel 
 Bellairs, waiting indoors to receive them. This ex- 
 pectation was never realised, but the annoyance that
 
 92 PRISONERS 
 
 invariably followed had retained through many years 
 the dew of its youth. 
 
 " Bessie and Fay are out. I am expecting them back 
 every moment." 
 
 " They will probably be later than usual to-day," 
 said Aunt Mary grimly, with the half-conscious intu- 
 ition of those whom others avoid. Did she know 
 that with the exception of Sir John, whose vanity 
 had led him to take refuge in a cul-de-sac, her fellow 
 creatures rushed out by back doors, threw themselves 
 out of windows, hid behind haystacks, had letters to 
 write, were ordered by their doctors to rest, whenever 
 she appeared? Did she know? One thing was certain. 
 Magdalen was one of the very few persons who had 
 never avoided her, who at times openly sought her 
 society. And Aunt Mary, though she would have been 
 ashamed to own it, loved Magdalen. She intended that 
 Magdalen should live with her some day at the Towers, 
 as an unpaid companion, when Sir John and Aunt Ag- 
 gie had entered into peace. 
 
 " And your father," continued Aunt Mary. " Did 
 he get my letter? I intend to have a serious conver- 
 sation with him after tea." 
 
 " Father has this moment come in, and he asked me 
 to tell you that he had business letters which he is 
 obliged to write." 
 
 " I know what that means." 
 
 " Oh ! Mary ! " interpolated Aunt Aggie eagerly. 
 '* You forget that Algernon always, from the time he 
 was a young man, left his letters to the last moment. 
 All the Bellairs do." 
 
 The Bellairs had other unique family characteristics,
 
 PRISONERS 93 
 
 as peculiar to themselves as their choice of time for 
 grappling with their correspondence, which Aunt 
 Aggie was never tired of quoting. " Bellairs are 
 always late for breakfast. It is no kind of use finding 
 fault with Bessie about it. I was just the same at her 
 age." 
 
 Aunt Aggie went through life under the belief that 
 she was a peacemaker, which delicate task she fulfilled 
 by making in an impassioned manner small statements 
 which seldom contained a new or healing view of exist- 
 ing difficulties. She often spoke of herself as a 
 " buffer " between contending forces. Sir John Blore 
 had been known to remark that he could not fathom 
 what Aggie meant by that expression, as it certainly 
 was not appropriate to the domestic circle at The 
 Towers, consisting, as it did, of one rheumatic Anglo- 
 Indian worm, and one able-bodied blackbird. 
 
 " I intend to see your father after tea," repeated 
 Aunt Mary, taking no notice of her sister's remark. 
 
 " Father is much worried about the right of way," 
 continued Magdalen. " He showed me your most kind 
 letter about myself, and " 
 
 " Showed it to you! '* said Aunt Mary, becoming 
 purple. " It was not intended for any eye except your 
 father's." 
 
 " Confidence between a father and his child," began 
 Aunt Aggie, clasping her stout little hands, and look- 
 ing eagerly from her sister to her niece. 
 
 Magdalen went on tranquilly. " It only told me 
 what I knew before, Aunt Mary, that you have my 
 welfare at heart. Father said that he thought it would 
 be best if you and I talked the matter over. I agreed
 
 94 PRISONERS 
 
 with him. It would be easier for me to discuss it with 
 you. It would not be for the first time." 
 
 It would not indeed! 
 
 " Aggie," said Aunt Mary instantly, " you expressed 
 a wish on your way here to see Bessie's fossils. You 
 will go to the schoolroom and investigate them."- 
 
 " I think they are kept locked," said Aunt Aggie 
 faintly. She longed to stay. She had guessed the sub- 
 ject of the letter. She took in a love affair the 
 fevered interest with which the unmarried approach 
 the subject. 
 
 " They are unlocked," said Aunt Mary with decision. 
 
 Aunt Aggie swallowed the remains of her tea, and 
 holding a little bitten bun in her hand slid out of the 
 room. She never openly opposed her sister, with whom 
 she lived part of the year when she let her cottage at 
 Saundersfoot to relations in need of sea air. 
 
 An unmistakable aspect of concentration deepened 
 in Aunt Mary's fine countenance. 
 
 " Magdalen," she said at once, " in the presence of 
 that weak sentimentalist my lips are closed. But now 
 that we are alone, and as it is your wish to reopen the 
 subject, it is my duty to inform myself whether any- 
 thing has transpired about Everard Constable Lord 
 Lossiemouth, as I suppose he now is." 
 
 " Nothing," said Magdalen with a calmness that was 
 almost cheerful. If she was as sensitive as she looked 
 she had a marvellous power of concealing it. She 
 never shrank. She was apparently never wounded. 
 She seldom showed that any subject jarred on her. It 
 is affirmed that animals develop certain organs to meet 
 the exigencies of their environment. A sole's eye (or
 
 PRISONERS 95 
 
 is it a sand-dab's?) travels up round its head regard- 
 less of appearances when it finds it is more wanted there 
 than on the lower side. We often see a similar dis- 
 tortion in the mental features of the wives of literary 
 men. So perhaps also Magdalen had adapted herself 
 to the Bellairs' environment, with which it was obvious 
 that she had almost nothing in common except her 
 name. 
 
 Aunt Mary loved Magdalen in a way, yet she never 
 spared her the discussion of that long-ago attachment 
 of her youth, violently mismanaged by Colonel Bel- 
 lairs. The rose of Aunt Mary's real affection had a 
 little scent, but it was set round with thorns. 
 
 " He has behaved disgracefully," she said, looking 
 with anger and disappointment at her niece's faded 
 face. 
 
 " We have discussed that before," said Magdalen 
 tranquilly. " I, as you know, do not blame him. But 
 it is all a hundred years ago, and better forgotten." 
 
 " He was poor then. No one ever thought he would 
 succeed with two lives between. But it is different 
 now that he is wealthy and in a position to marry." 
 
 *' He has never been in a position to marry me," said 
 Magdalen, " because he never cared enough for me to 
 make an effort on my behalf. That was not his fault. 
 He mistook a romantic admiration for love, and 
 naturally found it would not work. How could it? 
 It was not necessary to turn heaven and earth to gain 
 me. But it was necessary to turn a few small stones. 
 He could not turn them." 
 
 " Well, at any rate, he asked you, and you accepted 
 him."
 
 96 PRISONERS 
 
 " A hundred years ago." 
 
 " And you have waited for him ever since." 
 
 " Not at all. I am not waiting for him or for any- 
 one." 
 
 " You would have married Mr. Grenf ell if it had 
 not been for Everard." 
 
 " Perhaps I should have married Everard if it had 
 not been for Everard," said Magdalen. 
 
 It seemed as if nothing could shake her dispassionate 
 view of the matter. 
 
 "Your feelings were certainly engaged, Magdalen. 
 There is no use in denying that." 
 
 " Have I ever denied it ? " 
 
 Aunt Mary was silent for a moment, but her under 
 lip was ominously thrust out. She was not thinking 
 of what Magdalen had said. If she had ever listened 
 to the remarks of others when they differed from her, 
 she would not have become Lady Blore. She was only 
 silent because she was rallying her forces. 
 
 " A woman's hands become talons when they try to 
 hold on to a man when he wants to get away," said 
 Magdalen gently. 
 
 Aunt Mary turned on her niece an opaque eye that 
 saw nothing beyond the owner's views. 
 
 " Something ought to be done," she said with em- 
 phasis. " After all, your father dismissed him. I 
 shall advise your father to write to him, and if he does 
 not I shall write to him myself." 
 
 " I hope you will not do that," said Magdalen. " Do 
 you remember what a subject for gossip it was at the 
 time? When father became angry with Everard he 
 told everyone, and it became a sort of loud turmoil.
 
 PRISONERS 97 
 
 The servants knew, the parish knew, the whole county 
 knew that I had had a disappointment. I have re- 
 mained ever since in the eyes of the neighbours a sort of 
 blighted creature, a victim of the heartlessness of man. 
 A new edition of that old story now that my hair is 
 grey would be, I think, a little out of place. I had 
 hoped " 
 
 The door was suddenly thrown open, and Bessie 
 marched into the room with Aunt Aggie hanging nerv- 
 ously at her heels. 
 
 " I came back as quickly as I could from the Carters' 
 in order not to miss you," said Bessie to Aunt Mary 
 in her stentorian voice, and she presented a glowing 
 rose cheek to be kissed. 
 
 Magdalen shot a grateful glance at her sister, and 
 the conversation became general. 
 
 After the aunts had departed, Bessie said to Mag- 
 dalen on their way upstairs to dress, " I found when I 
 reached the Carters' that they had gone out with Pro- 
 fessor Ridgway to see the Roman camp. Only old 
 Mrs. Carter was at home, and she was rather chilly, 
 and said they had expected me to luncheon. They had 
 had a little party to meet the Professor. I saw that 
 my conduct called for an apology. I made one." 
 
 " I am glad of that." 
 
 " I see now that it would have been wiser to have 
 gone over for luncheon as arranged. I also thought 
 how selfish it was of Fay not to help you with the 
 aunts. And then I perceived that there were not two 
 pins to choose between us, as I had been just as bad 
 myself, so I hurried back as quickly as I could." 
 
 " I was most grateful to you when I saw you come
 
 98 PRISONERS 
 
 in. And Aunt Mary was pleased too. She never 
 shows it much; but she was." 
 
 " It is of secondary importance whether she was 
 pleased or not. My object in returning was twofold: 
 to help you, and also for the sake of my own character. 
 I begin to see that unless I am careful I shall become as 
 selfish as father." 
 
 Magdalen did not answer. 
 
 " The aunts never do things like other people," con- 
 tinued Bessie. " I found Aunt Aggie standing, eating 
 a bun, just outside the drawing-room door. She was 
 quite flurried when I came up, and said she wanted to 
 see my fossils, but would rather look at them another 
 day."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 La vie est un instrument dont on commence tou jours par 
 jouer faux. 
 
 WENTWORTH and Fay did not follow Colonel Bellairs 
 and Magdalen back to the house. When they reached 
 the end of the avenue they turned back silently by mu- 
 tual consent, and retraced their steps down it. 
 
 Presently they reached the trunk of the tree where 
 Fay had been sitting with Magdalen. 
 
 Fay sank down upon it once more, white and ex- 
 hausted. He sat down at a little distance from her. 
 
 "How is Michael?" she said at last, twisting her 
 ungloved hands together. 
 
 " I came to tell you about him ; I only got back last 
 night. I knew you would wish to hear." 
 
 "How is he?" 
 
 " He has been ill. He has had double pneumonia. 
 It started with haemorrhage, and some of the blood got 
 into the lungs, and caused pneumonia. He is better 
 now, nearly well, in fact. The prison doctor seemed a 
 sensible man, and he spoke as if he were interested in 
 Michael. From what he said I gathered that he did 
 not think Michael would survive another winter there. 
 The prison* stands in a sort of marsh. It is a very 
 good place to prevent prisoners escaping, but not a 
 good place for them to keep alive in. The doctor is 
 
 * The prison described has no counterpart in real life. 
 99
 
 100 PRISONERS 
 
 pressing to have Michael moved. He thinks he might 
 do better at the ' colonia agricola,' where the labour is 
 more agricultural ; or that even work in the iron mines 
 of Portoferriao would try his constitution less than the 
 swamp where he now is." 
 
 "Was he still in chains?" 
 
 " No. And the doctor said there was some talk of 
 abolishing them altogether. If not, he will be obliged 
 to go back to them now he is better. He is looking for- 
 ward to the sea lavender coming out. He says the 
 place is beautiful beyond words when it is in flower: 
 whole tracts and tracts of grey lilac blossom in the 
 shallows, and hordes of wild birds. He asked me to 
 tell you that you were to think of him as living in 
 fairyland." 
 
 Fay winced as If struck. 
 
 " You gave him my message ? " she stammered. 
 
 " Of course I did. And he said I was to tell you not 
 to grieve for him, for he was well and happy." 
 
 " Happy ! " echoed Fay. 
 
 " Yes, happy. He said he had committed a great 
 sin, but that he hoped and believed that he was now 
 expiating it, and that it would be forgiven." 
 
 " I am absolutely certain," said Fay in a suffocated 
 voice, " that Michael did not murder the Marchese di 
 Maltagliala." 
 
 " That is impossible," said Wentworth. 
 
 " Then what great sin can he be expiating ? " 
 
 Even as Fay asked the question she knew the answer. 
 Michael believed he was expiating the sin of loving 
 another man's wife. In his mind that was probably on 
 a par with the murder he had not committed.
 
 PRISONERS 101 
 
 " I asked him that," said Wentworth, " but he would 
 not say. He would only repeat that his punishment 
 was just." 
 
 Two large tears ran down Fay's cheeks. 
 
 " It is unjust, unjust, unjust ! " she gasped. " Why 
 does God allow these dreadful things ? " 
 
 There was a long silence. 
 
 For a time Wentworth had forgotten Fay. He saw 
 again the great yellow building standing in a waste 
 of waters. He saw again the thin, prematurely aged 
 face of his brother, the shaved head, the coarse, striped 
 convict dress, the arid light from the narrow barred 
 window. He saw again Michael's grave smile, and 
 heard the tranquil voice, " This place is beautiful in 
 autumn. Mind you come next when the sea lavender is 
 out." 
 
 The remembrance of that meeting cut sharper than 
 the actual pain of it at the moment. He had gone 
 through with it with a sort of stolid endurance, letting 
 Michael see but a tithe of what he felt. But the re- 
 membrance was anguish unalloyed. For a time he could 
 neither speak nor see. 
 
 A yellow butterfly that had waked too soon floated 
 towards them on a wavering trial trip. Close at hand 
 a snowdrop drooped " its serious head." The butter- 
 fly knew its own, and lit on the meek, nunlike flower, 
 opening and shutting its new wings in the pallid sun- 
 shine. It had perhaps dreamed, as it lay in its chrys- 
 alis, " that life had been more sweet." Was this chill 
 sunshine that could not quicken his wings, was this 
 grim desert that held no goal for butterfly feet, was 
 this one snowdrop all? Was this indeed the summer
 
 102 PRISONERS 
 
 of his dreams, in the sure and certain hope of which 
 he had spun his cocoon, and laid him down in faith? 
 
 Fay looked at it in anguish not less than Went- 
 worth's, whose dimmed eyes saw it not at all. She 
 never watched a poised butterfly open and shut its 
 wings without thinking of Michael. The flight of a 
 seagull across the down cut her like a lash. He had 
 been free once. He who so loved the down, the sea, the 
 floating cloud, had been free once. 
 
 When Wentworth had winked his steady grey eyes 
 back to their normal state, he looked furtively at Fay. 
 She was weeping silently. He had seen Fay in tears 
 before, but never without emotion. With a somewhat 
 halting utterance he told her of certain small allevia- 
 tions of Michael's lot. The permission, urgently 
 asked, had at last been granted that English books 
 might be sent him from time to time. The lonely, 
 aching smart of Wentworth's morning hours was 
 vaguely soothed and comforted by Fay's gentle 
 presence. 
 
 She appeared to listen to him, but in reality she 
 heard nothing. She sat looking straight in front of 
 her, a tear slipping from time to time down her white 
 cheek. Except on one or two occasions Fay had that 
 rarest charm of looking beautiful in tears. She be- 
 came paler than ever, never red and disfigured and 
 convulsed, with the prosaic cold in the head that 
 accompanies the emotions of less fortunate women. 
 
 "How old is Michael?" she asked suddenly in the 
 midst of a painstaking account of certain leniencies 
 as to diet, certain macaronis and soups which the 
 doctor had insisted on for Michael.
 
 PRISONERS 103 
 
 '* He is twenty-seven." 
 
 "And how long has he been in prison?" 
 
 " Nearly two years." 
 
 " And he has thirteen more," said Fay, looking at 
 Wentworth with wide eyes blank with horror. 
 
 " No," said Wentworth, his voice shaking a little. 
 " No, Michael will not live long in that swamp, not 
 many years, I think." 
 
 " But they will move him to a better climate." 
 
 " He does not want to be moved. I should not, 
 either, in his case." 
 
 Fay's hands fell to her sides. 
 
 " When my mother died," said Wentworth, " I prom- 
 ised her to be good to Michael. There was no need for 
 me to promise to be good to him. I always liked him 
 better than anyone else. I taught him to ride and to 
 shoot. He got his gun up sharp from the first. It's 
 easy to do things for anyone you like. But what is 
 hard is when the time comes " Wentworth stopped, 
 and then went on " when the time comes that you can't 
 do anything more for the person you care for most." 
 
 Silence. 
 
 The yellow butterfly was still feebly trying to open 
 and shut his wings. The low sun had abandoned him 
 to the encroaching frost, and was touching the bare 
 overarching branches to palest gold, " so subtly fair, 
 so gorgeous dim " ; so far beyond the reach of tiny 
 wings. 
 
 " I don't think," said Wentworth, " I would stick 
 at anything. I don't know of anything I would not 
 do, anything I would not give up, to get him back his 
 freedom. But it's no use, I can do nothing for him."
 
 104 PRISONERS 
 
 " Oh ! Why does not the real murderer confess ? " 
 said Fay with a sob, wringing her hands. " How can 
 he go on, year after year, letting an innocent man 
 wear out his life in prison, bearing the punishment of 
 his horrible crime? " 
 
 That mysterious murderer occupied a large place in 
 Fay's thoughts. She hated him with a deadly hatred. 
 He was responsible for everything. That one crooked 
 channel of thought that persistently turned aside all 
 blame onto an unknown offender, had at last given a 
 certain crookedness, a sort of twist, to the whole sub- 
 ject in Fay's mind. 
 
 *' I begged Michael again for the twentieth time to 
 tell me anything that could act as a clue to discovering 
 the real criminal," said Wentworth. " I told him I 
 would spend my last shilling in bringing him to jus- 
 tice, but he only shook his head. I told him that some 
 of his friends felt certain that he knew who the mur- 
 derer was, and was shielding him. He shook his head 
 again. He would not tell me anything the first day I 
 went to him after he was arrested. And still, after 
 two years in prison, he will not speak. Michael will 
 never say anything." 
 
 The despair in Wentworth's voice met the advancing 
 chill of the waning afternoon. The sun had gone. 
 The gold had faded into grey. A frosty breath was 
 stirring the dead leaves. The butterfly had closed his 
 wings for the last time, and clung feebly, half reversed, 
 to his snowdrop. A tiny trembling had laid hold upon 
 him. He was tasting death. 
 
 Fay shivered involuntarily, and drew her fur cloak 
 around her.
 
 PRISONERS 105 
 
 " I must go in," she said. 
 
 They walked slowly to the wooden, ivied gate which 
 separated the woods from the gardens. A thin, white 
 moon was already up, peering at them above the gath- 
 ering sea mist. 
 
 They stood a moment together by the gate, each 
 vaguely conscious of the consolation of the other's 
 presence in the face of the great grief which had drawn 
 them together. 
 
 " I will come again soon, if I may," he said diffi- 
 dently, " unless seeing me reminds you of painful 
 things." His voice had lowered itself involuntarily. 
 
 " I like to see you," said Fay in a whisper, and she 
 sh'pped away from him like a shadow among the 
 shadows. 
 
 The entire dejection of her voice and manner sheared 
 from her words any possible reassurance which Went- 
 worth might otherwise have found in them, which he 
 suddenly felt anxious to find in them. 
 
 He pondered over them as he rode home. 
 
 How she had loved her husband ! People had hinted 
 that they had not been a happily assorted couple, but 
 it was obvious that her grief at his loss was still over- 
 whelming. And what courageous affection she had 
 shown towards Michael, whom she had known from a 
 boy; first in trying to shield him when he had taken 
 refuge in her room, and afterwards in her sorrowing 
 compassion for his fate. And what a steadfast belief 
 she had shown from first to last in his innocence, against 
 overwhelming odds ! 
 
 Wentworth did not know till he met Fay that such 
 women existed. Women he was aware were an enigma.
 
 106 PRISONERS 
 
 Men could not fathom them. They were fickle, mys- 
 terious creatures, on whom no sane man could rely, 
 whom the wisest owned they could not understand, 
 capable alternately of devotion and treachery, acting 
 from instincts that men did not share, moved by sudden, 
 amazing impulses that men could not follow. 
 
 But could a woman like Fay, who towered head and 
 shoulders above the ordinary run of women, removed 
 to a height apart from their low level of pettiness and 
 vanity, by her simplicity and nobility and capacity for 
 devotion could such a woman love a second time? 
 
 The thirst to be loved, to be the object of an exquis- 
 ite tenderness, what man has not, consciously or uncon- 
 sciously longed for that? What woman has not had 
 her dream of giving that and more, full measure, run- 
 ning over? 
 
 To find favour in a woman's eyes a man need only 
 do his stupid bungling best. But it is doubtful 
 whether Wentworth had a best of any kind in him 
 to do. 
 
 At twenty-five he would not have risked as much for 
 love as even cautious men of robuster fibre will still 
 ruefully but determinedly risk in the forties. And now 
 at forty he would risk almost nothing. 
 
 Where Michael was concerned Wentworth's love had 
 reached the strength where it could act, indefatigably, 
 if need be. Michael had been so far the only creature 
 who could move his brother's egotism beyond the re- 
 finements of bedridden sentiment. 
 
 It was as well for Fay that she did not realise, and 
 absolutely essential for Wentworth that he did not 
 realise either, that in spite of an undoubted natural
 
 PRISONERS 107 
 
 attraction towards her he would have seen no more of 
 her unless she had come within easy reach. 
 
 A common trouble had drawn them towards each 
 other. A common interest, a common joy or sorrow, 
 a house within easy distance these are some of the 
 match makers between the invalids of life, who are not 
 strong enough to want anything very much, or to work 
 for what they want. For them favourable circum- 
 stance is everything. 
 
 Wentworth could ride four and a half miles down a 
 picturesque lane to see Fay. But he could not have 
 taken a journey by rail. 
 
 A few years before Wentworth met Fay he had been 
 tepidly interested in the youthful sister of one of his 
 college friends and contemporaries, an Oxford Don 
 at whose house he stayed every year. The sister kept 
 house for her brother. It was the usual easy com- 
 monplace combination of circumstaances that has towed 
 lazy men into marriage since the institution was first 
 formed. He saw her without any effort on his part. 
 He arrived at a kind of knowledge of her. He found 
 her to be what he liked. She was sympathetic, refined, 
 shy, cultivated, unselfish, and of a wild rose prettiness. 
 After a time he kept up, mainly on her account, a reg- 
 ular intercourse with the brother, who was becoming 
 rather prosy, as was Wentworth himself. Presently 
 the brother married, and the sister ceased to live with 
 him. 
 
 Wentworth's visits to Oxford gradually ceased to 
 give him pleasure. He found his friend's wife middle- 
 class, self-absorbed, and artificial, the friend himself 
 donnish, cut and dried, and liable to anecdotic seizures
 
 108 PRISONERS 
 
 of increasing frequency. The intimacy dwindled and 
 was now moribund. But it never entered his mind to 
 enquire into the whereabouts of the sister, and to con- 
 tinue his acquaintance with her independently. If he 
 had continued to meet her regularly he would almost 
 certainly have married her. She on her side seemed 
 well disposed towards him. As it was he never saw her 
 again. He gradually ceased to think of her, except on 
 summer evenings, as a charming possibility which Fate 
 had sternly removed, as one lost to him for ever. He 
 wrote a little poem about her, beginning, " Where are 
 you now?" (She was at Kensington all the time.) 
 Wentworth never published his verses. He said there 
 was no room for a new poet who did not advertise him- 
 self. There had been room for one of his college 
 friends, but that had been a case of log rolling. 
 
 I do not know whether it was a fortunate or an un- 
 fortunate fate that had prevented the gay little lady 
 of the pink cheeks from being at that moment installed 
 at Barf ord as the wife of a poet who scorned publicity. 
 
 If Wentworth had been riding home to his wife on 
 that February evening he would not have taken uncon- 
 sciously another of the many steps which entailed so 
 many more, by saying to himself, thinking of Fay: 
 
 " Could a woman like that love a second time? " 
 
 Then he hastened his speed as he remembered that 
 his old friend the Bishop of Lostford had by this time 
 arrived at Barf ord.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 If you feel no love, sit still ; occupy yourself with things, 
 with yourself, with anything you like, only not with men. 
 
 TOLSTOY. 
 
 IN Wentworth's youth he had been attracted towards 
 many, besides the Bishop, among the bolder and less 
 conventional of his contemporaries. Their fire, their 
 energies, their enthusiasm, warmed his somewhat under- 
 vitalized nature. He regarded himself as one of them, 
 and his refinement and distinction drew the robuster 
 spirits towards himself. But gradually, as time went 
 on, these energies and enthusiasm took form, and, alas ! 
 took forms which he had not expected he never ex- 
 pected anything and from which his mind instinc- 
 tively recoiled. He had supposed that energy was 
 energy. He had not realised that it was life in embryo, 
 that might develop, not always on lines of beauty, into 
 a new policy, or a great discovery, or a passion, or a 
 vocation. He hated transformations, new births, all 
 change. His friends at first rallied him unmercifully, 
 then lost patience, and finally fell from him, one by 
 one. Some openly left him, the more good-natured 
 among them forgot him, and if by chance they found 
 themselves in his society, hurried back with affection- 
 ate cordiality to reminiscences of school and college 
 life, long-passed milestones before the parting of the 
 ways. 
 
 The Bishop when he plunged into his work also for 
 a time lost sight of Wentworth, but when he was ap- 
 
 109
 
 110 PRISONERS 
 
 pointed to the See of Lostford, within five miles of Bar- 
 ford, the two men resumed, at first with alacrity, some- 
 thing of the old intercourse. 
 
 Wentworth had an element of faithfulness in him 
 which enabled him to take up a friendship after a 
 long interval, but it was on one condition, namely that 
 the friend had remained plante la where he had been 
 left. If in the meanwhile the friend had moved, the 
 friendship flagged. 
 
 It was soon apparent that the Bishop had not by 
 any means remained plante la, and the friendship 
 quickly drooped. It would long since have died a nat- 
 ural death if it had not been kept alive by the Bishop 
 himself, a man of robust affections and strong com- 
 passions, without a moment to spend on small resent- 
 ments. After Michael's imprisonment he had redoubled 
 his efforts to keep in touch with Wentworth, and the 
 great grief of the latter, silently and nobly endured, 
 had been a bond between the two men which even a 
 miserable incident which must have severed most friend- 
 ships had served to loosen, not to break. 
 
 The Bishop had in truth arrived at Barford, and was 
 now sitting apparently unoccupied by the library fire. 
 To be unoccupied even for an instant except during re- 
 cuperative sleep was so unusual with the Bishop, so un- 
 precedented, that his daughter would have been terri- 
 fied could she have seen him at that moment. He had 
 only parted from her and her husband at mid-day, yet 
 it was a sudden thought suggested by his visit to them 
 which was now holding him motionless by the fire, his 
 lean person bulging with unanswered letters. 
 
 The Bishop was a small ugly man of fifty, uncon-
 
 PRISONERS 111 
 
 ventional to the core, the younger son of a duke, and 
 a clergyman by personal conviction. He had been 
 born in a hurry, and had remained in a hurry ever since. 
 He had neither great administrative capacities, nor 
 profound scholarship, but what powers he had were 
 eked out by a stupendous energy. His Archbishop said 
 that he believed that the Bishop's chaplains died like 
 flies, and that he merely threw their dead bodies into 
 the Loss, which flowed beneath his palace windows, with- 
 out even a burial service. His chaplains and secre- 
 taries certainly worked themselves to the bone for him. 
 They could have told tales against him, but they never 
 did. For it was a strain to serve the Bishop, to get 
 his robes thrown over him at the right I mean the 
 last second, to thrust him ruthlessly into his carriage 
 just in time to catch the tail ends of departing trains 
 he generally travelled with the guard. His admirable 
 life had been spent in a ceaseless whirl. He had never 
 had time to marry. He had hurried to the altar when 
 he was an eager curate with a pretty young bride who 
 was a stranger to him, whom his mother had chosen for 
 him. During the years that followed what little he 
 saw of her at odd moments he liked. After ten years 
 of what he believed to be married life she died, leaving 
 one child ; tactful to the last, pretty to the last, having 
 made no claim from first to last, kissing his hand, and 
 thanking him for his love, and for the beautiful years 
 they had spent together. 
 
 His friends said that he bore her loss with heroism, 
 but in reality he missed her but little. Her death oc- 
 curred just after he had become an ardent suffragan. 
 His daughter grew up in a few minutes, and quickly
 
 112 PRISONERS 
 
 took her mother's place. She was her mother over 
 again in character and appearance. His wife had lived 
 in his house for ten years, his daughter for twenty. 
 By dint of time he learned to know her as he had never 
 known her mother. At twenty she married his chap- 
 lain. 
 
 The chaplain was a tall, stooping, fleckless, flawless, 
 mannerless, joyless personage, middle-aged at twenty- 
 eight, with a voice like a gong, with a metallic mind 
 constructed of thought-tight compartments, devoted 
 body and soul to the Church, an able and indefati- 
 gable worker, smelted from the choice ore of that great 
 middle class from which, as we know, all good things 
 come. That he was a future ornament, or at any rate 
 an iron girder of the Church was sufficiently obvious. 
 
 The Bishop saw his worth, and ruefully endured him 
 until the chaplain, in the most suitable language, de- 
 sired to become his son-in-law, and that at the most 
 inconceivably awkward moment, namely, just when the 
 Bishop had presented him with a living. The marriage 
 had to be. The daughter wished it with an intensity 
 that amazed her father. And gradually the Bishop 
 discovered that he detested his paragon of a son-in-law. 
 But why? It was not jealousy. He really was a 
 Daragon, not a sham. To the Bishop it seemed, and 
 with truth, that any other woman would have done as 
 well as his daughter, that her husband neither under- 
 stood her ncr wished to understand her, that he ac- 
 cepted ruthlessly without knowing that he accepted it, 
 her selfless devotion, that he used her as a cushion to 
 make his rare moments of leisure more restfm. that her 
 love was not even a source of happiness to him, only a
 
 PRISONERS 113 
 
 solace. And she, extraordinary to behold, was radi- 
 antly content. 
 
 " Just like her mother over again," the Bishop had 
 wrathfully said to himself as he drove away from his 
 daughter's door. And at that moment a slide was drawn 
 back from his mind, and he saw that the marriage was 
 a replica of his own, except in so far that his son-in- 
 law, greatly assisted by circumstances, had actually 
 taken a little trouble to arrange his marriage for him- 
 self, while the Bishop's what there was of it had 
 been done for him by his mother. 
 
 Till this morning he had believed his marriage to 
 have been an ideally happy one, that he had felt all 
 that man can feel; and he had been inclined to 
 treat as womanish the desperate desolation of men who 
 had after all only suffered the same bereavement as he 
 had himself, and which he had quickly overcome. He 
 saw now that he had missed happiness exactly as his 
 son-in-law was missing it. The same thing had be- 
 fallen them both. Love could do there no mighty 
 works because of their unbelief. When he remembered 
 his wife's face he realised that her joy had been some- 
 thing beyond his ken. He had not shared it. He had 
 not known love, even when it had drawn very nigh unto 
 him. 
 
 As he waited motionless for Wentworth to come in, 
 his strong, intrepid mind worked. The Bishop at fifty 
 went to school to a new thought. It was that power 
 of going to school at fifty to a new thought which had 
 made his Archbishop, who loved him, give him the See 
 of Lostford, to the amazement of the demurer clergy 
 who were scandalised by his unccnventionality, and his
 
 114 PRISONERS 
 
 fearful baldness of speech. They could only account 
 for the appointment by the fact that he was the son 
 of a duke. It was that power which made the 
 Bishop seem a much younger man than Wentworth, 
 who was in reality ten years his junior. The Bishop 
 was still a learner. He still moved with vigour men- 
 tally. Wentworth, on the contrary, had arrived not 
 at any place in particular, but at the spot where he 
 intended to remain. His ideas, and some of them had 
 been rather good ones at twenty-five, had suffered from 
 their sedentary existence. They had become rather 
 stout. He called them progressive because in the course 
 of years he had perceived in them a slight glacier-like 
 movement. To others they appeared fixed. 
 
 Wentworth's attitude towards life, of which he was 
 so fond of speaking, was perhaps rather like that of 
 a shrimper who, in ankle-deep water, watches the heavily 
 freighted whale boats come towering in. He does not 
 quite know why he, of all men, with his special equip- 
 ment for the purpose, and his expert handling of the 
 net, does not also catch whales. That they seldom swim 
 in two-inch water does not occur to him. At last he 
 does not think there are any whales. He has exploded 
 that fallacy. For, in a moment of adventurous enthu- 
 siasm, counting not the cost, did he not once wade reck- 
 lessly up to his very shoulders in deep water : and there 
 were no whales, only pinching crabs. Crabs were the 
 one real danger, the largest denizens of the boundless 
 main, whatever his former playmates the whalers might 
 affirm. 
 
 When the shrimper and the whaler had dined to- 
 gether, and the Bishop had heard with affectionate sym-
 
 PRISONERS 115 
 
 pathy the little there was to hear respecting Michael, 
 and the conversation tended towards more general 
 topics, the radical antagonism between the two friends' 
 minds threatened every moment to make itself felt. 
 
 The Bishop tried politics somewhat tentatively, on 
 which they had sympathised in college days, but it 
 seemed they had widely diverged since. Wentworth, 
 though he frequently asserted that no one enjoyed more 
 than he " the clashing of opposite opinions," seemed 
 nevertheless only able to welcome with cordiality a mild 
 disagreement, just sufficiently defined to prove stimu- 
 lating to the expression of his own views. A wide di- 
 vergence from them he met with a chilly silence. He 
 did so now. The Bishop looked at his neat ankle, and 
 changed the subject. 
 
 " Have you seen or heard anything of Everard Con- 
 stable since he came into his kingdom, such a very un- 
 expected kingdom, too ? " 
 
 " No. I fancy he is still abroad. But I can't say 
 that for some time past I have found Constable's aims 
 in life very sympathetic. His unceasing struggle after 
 literary fame appears to me somewhat undignified." 
 
 " Oh ! come. Give the devil his due. Constable can 
 write." 
 
 " Of course, of course. That is just what I am say- 
 ing. But he and I differ too widely in our outlook on 
 life to remain really intimate. He cares for the big 
 things, ambition, popularity, a prominent position, 
 luxury. He will enjoy being a personage, and having 
 wealth at his command. For my part, I am afraid I 
 care infinitely more for the small things of life, love, 
 friendship, sympathy."
 
 116 PRISONERS 
 
 " The small things ! Good Lord ! " said the Bishop, 
 and his jaw dropped. He also dropped the subject. 
 
 " I ran up against Grenfell last week," he continued 
 immediately. " Do you see him now? You and he used 
 to be inseparable at Cambridge." 
 
 Wentworth became frigid. 
 
 Grenfell had accused him at their last meeting of 
 being an old maid, an accusation which had wounded 
 Wentworth to the quick, and which he had never for- 
 gotten or forgiven. He had not in the least realised 
 that Grenfell was not alluding to the fact that he hap- 
 pened to be unmarried. 
 
 " I can't say I care to see him now," he said. " He 
 has become entirely engrossed in his career. A simple 
 life like mine, the life of thought, no longer interests 
 him. He is naturally drawn to people who are playing 
 big parts." 
 
 "What nonsense! He is just the same as ever. A 
 little vehement and fiery, but not as much as he was. 
 They say he will be the next Chancellor of the Exche- 
 quer to a certainty." 
 
 " I daresay he will. He has the art of keeping him- 
 self before the public eye. Being myself so constituted 
 it is not any virtue in me, only a constitutional de- 
 fect that I cannot elbow for a place, it is difficult for 
 me to understand how another, especially a man like 
 Grenfell, can bring himself to do so. I had always 
 thought he was miles above that kind of thing." 
 
 " So he is. So he is. A blind man can see Grenf ell's 
 unworldliness. It sticks a yard out of him. My dear 
 Wentworth, if energetic elbows were, as you imply, the 
 key to success, how do you account for the fact that
 
 PRISONERS 117 
 
 hundreds of painful persons have triumphantly passed 
 that preliminary examination who never achieve any- 
 thing beyond a diploma in the art of pushing? " 
 
 Wentworth did not answer. 
 
 He firmly believed that in order to attain the things 
 he had not attained, had never striven for, of which he 
 invariably spoke disparagingly, but which he secretly 
 and impotently desired, the co-operation of certain ig- 
 noble qualities was essential, sordid allies whom he would 
 have disdained to use. 
 
 " I don't blame Grenfell," he said at last. " He had 
 his way to make. I know how blinding the glamour of 
 ambition is, how insidious and insistent the claims of 
 the world may become. I don't pretend to be superior 
 to certain temptations if they came in my way. But I 
 happen to have kept out of their way. That is all." 
 
 " You have certainly kept out of the way of nearly 
 everything." 
 
 " For my part, I daresay I am hopelessly out of 
 date, but I value beauty and peace and simplicity higher 
 than a noisy success. But a noisy success is the one 
 thing that counts nowadays." 
 
 "Does it?" 
 
 " And Grenfell has taken the right steps to gain it. 
 If a man craves for popularity, if he really thinks 
 the bubble worth striving for, he must lay himself out 
 for it. If he wants a place he must jostle for it. If 
 he wants power he must discard scruples. If he wants 
 social success it can be got we see it every day by 
 pandering to the susceptibilities and seeking the favour 
 of influential persons. Everything has its price. I 
 don't say that everyone obtains these things who is
 
 118 PRISONERS 
 
 ready to bid for them. But some do. Grenfell is 
 among those who have. I don't blame him. I am not 
 sure that I don't rather envy him." 
 
 The Bishop could respect a conviction. 
 
 " Are you not forgetting Grenf ell's character ? " he 
 said gently, as one speaks to a sick man. " Think 
 of him, his nobility, his integrity, his enthusiasm, his 
 transparent unworldliness which so often in the old 
 days put us all to shame ! " 
 
 " That is just what makes it all so painful to me," 
 said Wentworth, and there was no possibility of doubt- 
 ing his sincerity. " That contact with the world can 
 taint even beautiful natures like his. He was my ideal 
 at one time. I almost worshipped him at Cambridge." 
 
 " I love him still," said the Bishop. " A cat may 
 look at a king, so I suppose a poor crawler of a bishop 
 may look at a man like Grenfell. Don't you think, 
 Wentworth, that sometimes a man who succeeds may 
 have worked as nobly as a man who fails you always 
 speak so feelingly of failure, it is one of the many 
 things I like about you. Don't you think that per- 
 haps sometimes success may be I don't say it always 
 is as high-minded as failure, that a hard-won victory 
 may be as honourable as defeat, that achievement may 
 sometimes be the result not of chance or interest, but 
 of unremitting toil? Don't you think you may be un- 
 consciously cutting yourself adrift from Grenfell's 
 friendship by attributing his success to unworthy means 
 which a man like him could never have stooped to ? " 
 
 " It is he who has cut himself adrift from me," said 
 Wentworth icily. " I have not changed." 
 
 " That is just it. A slight change, shall we say ex-
 
 PRISONERS 119 
 
 pansion on your part, might have enabled you to " 
 the Bishop chose his words as carefully as a doctor 
 counts drops into a medicine glass " to keep pace with 
 him?" 
 
 " I do not regard friendship as a race or a combat 
 of wits," said Wentworth. " Friendship is to my mind 
 something sacred. I hope I can remain Grenfell's 
 friend without believing him to be absolutely faultless. 
 If he is so unreasonable as to expect that of me, which 
 I should not for a moment expect of him, why 
 then " Wentworth shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 One of the few friends who had not drifted from him 
 looked at him with somewhat pained affection. 
 
 Why does a life dwelt apart from others tend to 
 destroy first generosity and then tenderness in man and 
 woman? Why does one so often find a certain hard- 
 ness and inhumanity encrusting those who have with- 
 drawn themselves behind the shutters of their own 
 convenience, or is it, after all, their own impotence? 
 
 '* Has he always been hard and cold by nature? " 
 said the Bishop to himself, "' and is the real man show- 
 ing himself in middle age, or is his meagre life starving 
 him?" 
 
 He tried again. 
 
 " You nearly lost my friendship a year ago by at- 
 tributing a sordid motive to me, Wentworth." 
 
 Wentworth understood instantly. 
 
 " That is all past and forgotten," he said quickly. 
 " I never think of it. Have I ever allowed it to make 
 the slightest difference ? " 
 
 " No," said the Bishop, looking hard at him, " and 
 for that matter neither have I. We have never talked
 
 120 PRISONERS 
 
 the matter out. Let us do so now. I don't suppose 
 you have forgotten the odium I incurred over the 
 living of Rambury. It had been held for generations 
 by old men. It had become a kind of clerical almshouse. 
 When it fell vacant there was of course yet another 
 elderly cleric " 
 
 " My uncle," said Wentworth, " a most excellent 
 man." 
 
 " Just so, but in failing health. Rightly or wrongly 
 I was convinced that it was my duty to give the place 
 a chance by putting there a younger man, of energy 
 and capacity for hard work. I gave it to my future 
 son-in-law as you know." 
 
 Wentworth nodded. " Everyone said at the time he 
 was an excellent man," he said with evident desire to 
 be fair. 
 
 " I daresay, but that is not the point. The point is 
 that I had no idea that iron traction engine wanted to 
 marry my daughter or anybody's daughter. The tact- 
 less beast got up steam and proposed for her the day 
 after I had offered him the living. He had never given 
 so much as a preliminary screech on the subject, never 
 blown a horn to show what his horrid intentions were 
 I only hope that if I had known I should still have had 
 the moral courage to appoint him. The Archbishop 
 assures me I should but I doubt it. I was loudly 
 accused of nepotism, of course. Your uncle, who died 
 soon afterwards, forgave me in the worst of taste on 
 his deathbed. I had no means of justifying myself. 
 The Archbishop and Grenfell and a few other old 
 friends believed. Why were you not among those old 
 friends, Wentworth? "
 
 PRISONERS 121 
 
 " I was among them," said Wentworth, meeting the 
 Bishop's sombre eyes. " You never answered it, so I 
 suppose you never received it, but at the time I wrote 
 you a long letter assuring you that I for one had not 
 joined in the cry against you, even though my uncle 
 did. I frankly owned that, while I regarded the ap- 
 pointment as an ill-considered one, I took for granted 
 that Mr. Rawlings was suited for the place. I said 
 that I knew you far too well to suppose even for a 
 moment that you would have given the post to a man, 
 even if he were your son-in-law, unless he had been 
 competent to fill it. You never answered the letter, so 
 I suppose it failed to reach you." 
 
 " I received it," said the Bishop slowly. " I felt it 
 to be an illuminating document, but it did not seem to 
 call for an answer. It was in itself a response to a 
 tacit appeal." 
 
 There was a pause, and then he continued cheerfully. 
 " Rawlings has proved himself dreadfully competent 
 as you prophesied, and Lucy is very happy in her new 
 home. I came on from there this morning. My son- 
 in-law, with the admirable promptitude and economy 
 of time which endeared him to me as my chaplain, had 
 arranged that every moment of my visit should be 
 utilised; that I should christen their first child, dedi- 
 cate a thank-offering in the shape of a lectern, con- 
 secrate the new portion of the churchyard, open a 
 reading-room, and say a few cordial words at a draw- 
 ing-room meeting before I left at mid-day. I told 
 him if he went on like this he would certainly come to 
 grief and be made a bishop some day. But he only 
 remarked that he was not solicitous of high preferment.
 
 122 PRISONERS 
 
 I think you would like Rawlings if you knew him bet- 
 ter. You and he have a certain amount in common. 
 I must own that I am glad that it is Lucy who has to 
 put up with him and not I. I should think even God 
 Almighty must find him rather difficult to live with at 
 times. And now, Wentworth, if I am to be up and 
 away at cock-crow, I must go to bed." 
 
 But the Bishop did not go to bed at once when Went- 
 worth had escorted him to his room. 
 
 " It was no use," he said to himself. " It was worth 
 trying, but it was no use. He never saw that he had 
 misjudged me. He met my eye. He has a straight, 
 clean eye. He is sincere as far as he goes, but how far 
 does he go ? He has never made that first step towards 
 sincerity of doubting his own sincerity. He mistakes 
 his moods for convictions. He has never suspected his 
 own motives, or turned them inside out. He suspects 
 those of others instead. He is like a crab. He moves 
 sideways by nature, and he thinks that everyone else 
 who moves otherwise is not straightforward, and that 
 he must make allowances for them. According to his 
 lights he has behaved generously by me. Has he! 
 Damn him! God forgive me. Well, I must stick to 
 him, for I believe I am almost the only friend he has 
 left in the world."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Shall soul not somehow pay for soul? D. G. ROSSETTI. 
 
 FAY did not sleep that night. 
 
 For a long time past, she seemed to have been grad- 
 ually, inevitably approaching, dragging reluctant feet 
 towards something horrible, unendurable. She could 
 not look this veiled horror in the face. She never 
 attempted to define it to herself. Her one object was 
 to get away from it. 
 
 It had not sprung into life full grown. It had 
 gradually taken form after Michael's imprisonment. 
 At first it had been only an uneasy ghost that could be 
 laid, a spectre across her path that could be avoided; 
 but since she had come home it had slowly attained 
 gigantic and terrifying proportions. It loomed be- 
 fore her now as a vague but insistent menace, from 
 which she could no longer turn away. 
 
 A great change was coming over Fay, but she tacitly 
 resisted it. She did not understand it, nor realise that 
 the menace came from within her gates, was of the 
 nature of an insurrection in the citadel of self. We 
 do not always recognise the voice of the rebel soul 
 when first it begins to speak hoarsely, unintelligibly, 
 urgently from the dark cell to which we have rele- 
 gated it. 
 
 Some of us are so constituted that we can look back 
 at our past and see it as a gradation of steps, a sort 
 
 123
 
 124 PRISONERS 
 
 of sequence, and can thus gain a kind of inkling of the 
 nature of the next step against which we are even now 
 striking our feet. 
 
 But poor Fay saw her life only as shattered, mean- 
 ingless fragments, confused, mutilated masses without 
 coherence. The masses and the gaps between them 
 were of the same substance in her eyes. She wandered 
 into her past as a child might wander among the rub- 
 bish heaps of its old home in ruins. She was vaguely 
 conscious that there had been a design once in those 
 unsightly mounds, that she had once lived in them. 
 On that remnant of crazy wall clung a strip of wall- 
 paper which she recognised as the paper in her own 
 nursery ; here a vestige of a staircase that had led to 
 her mother's room. And as a child will gather up a 
 little frockful of sticks and fallen remnants, and then 
 drop them when they prove heavy, so Fay picked up 
 out of her past tiny disjointed odds and ends of ideas 
 and disquieting recollections, only to cast them aside 
 again as burdensome and useless. 
 
 The point to which she wandered back most fre- 
 quently to stare blankly at it without comprehension 
 was her husband's appeal to her on his deathbed. 
 To-night she had gone back to it again as to a tot- 
 tering wall. She had worn a little pathway over heaps 
 of miserable conjectures and twisted memories towards 
 that particular place. 
 
 She saw again the duke's dying face, and the ten- 
 der fixity of his eyes. She could almost hear his dif- 
 ficult waning voice saying: 
 
 " The sun shines. He does not see them, the spring 
 and the sunshine. Since a year he does not see them.
 
 PRISONERS 127 
 
 of her husband's dying speech she had turned with all 
 her might to Magdalen, had cast herself upon her, 
 clung to her in a sort of desperation. Magdalen at 
 any rate believed in her. 
 
 For many months after she came to Priesthope, her 
 mind remained in a kind of stupor, and it seemed at first 
 as if she were regaining a sort of calm, caught as it 
 were from Magdalen's presence. 
 
 But gradually miserable brooding memories returned, 
 and it seemed at last as if something in Magdalen's gen- 
 tle serenity irritated instead of soothing Fay as hereto- 
 fore. Was Magdalen a sort of unconscious ally of 
 that fainting soul within Fay's fortress? Were chance 
 words of Magdalen's beginning to make the rebel stir in 
 his cell? At any rate something stirred. Something 
 was making trouble. Fay began to shrink from Mag- 
 dalen, involuntarily at first, then purposely for long 
 moody intervals. Then she would be sarcastic and 
 bitter with her, jibe at the housekeeping, and criticise 
 the household arrangements. A day later she would 
 be humbly and* hysterically affectionate once more, ask- 
 ing to be forgiven for her waywardness. She could not 
 live without the comfort of Magdalen's tenderness. And 
 at times she could not live with it. Magdalen preserved 
 an unmoved front. She ignored her sister's petulance 
 and spasmodic fault-finding. She knew they were 
 symptoms of some secret ill, but what that ill was she 
 did not know. She kept the way open for Fay's sud- 
 den remorseful return to affectionate relations, and 
 waited. 
 
 Those who, like Magdalen, do not put any value on 
 themselves, are slow to take offence. It was not that
 
 128 PRISONERS 
 
 she did not perceive a slight, or a rebuff, or a sneer at 
 her expense, but she never, so to speak, picked up the 
 offence flung at her. She let it lie, by the same instinct 
 that led her to step aside in a narrow path rather than 
 that her skirt should touch a dead mole. No one could 
 know Magdalen long without seeing that she lived by 
 a kind of spiritual instinct, as real to her as the natural 
 instincts of animals. 
 
 Fay became more and more haggard and irritable 
 as the months at Priesthope drew into a year. A new 
 element of misery was added to her life by the sight 
 of Wentworth, and his visits were becoming frequent. 
 His mere presence made acute once more that other 
 memory, partially blurred, persistently pushed aside 
 the memory of Michael in prison. The figure of the 
 duke had temporarily displaced that other figure in 
 its cell. 
 
 But now the remembrance of Michael, continually 
 stirred up by poor Wentworth, with his set, bereaved 
 face, was never suffered to sleep. With every week of 
 her life it seemed to Fay some new pain came. 
 
 Magdalen could not comfort her. Magdalen, who 
 was so fond of Michael. 
 
 If Magdalen knew! 
 
 Magdalen must never, never know. She could not 
 live without Magdalen. Magdalen was not like Andrea 
 in that. She at any rate was concealing nothing, could 
 know nothing. Now that Andrea was dead, only one 
 living person beside herself knew Michael. Fay was 
 unconsciously growing to hate the thought of that 
 one other person, to turn with horror from the remem- 
 brance of Michael: his sufferings, his patient life in
 
 PRISONERS 129 
 
 death filled her with nausea, disgust. Her vehement 
 selfish passion for him had been smothered by the hid- 
 eous debris which had been cast upon it. 
 
 She had never loved him, as the duke well knew, and 
 now the shivering remembrance of him, constantly re- 
 newed by Wentworth, had become like a poignard in a 
 wound that would not heal. Wentworth had to-day yet 
 again unconsciously turned the dagger in the wound, 
 and her whole being sickened and shuddered. Oh! if 
 she could only tear out that sharp-bladed remembrance 
 and cast it from her, then in time the aching wound in 
 her life might heal, and she might become happy and 
 well and at peace once more ; at peace like Magdalen. 
 An envious anger flared up in her mind against Magda- 
 len's calm and happy face. 
 
 Oh, if poor Michael could only die! He wanted to 
 die. If only he could die and release her. Release Tier 
 from what? 
 
 From her duty to speak and set him free? Those 
 were the words which she never permitted the rebel voice 
 within to say. Still, they were there, silenced for the 
 time, but always waiting to be said. Their gagged 
 whisper reached her in spite of herself. 
 
 Oh ! if only Michael were dead and out of his suffer- 
 ing, then she would never be tortured by them any 
 more. Then, too, her husband's words would lose their 
 poisoned point, and she could thrust them forth from 
 her mind for ever. 
 
 " Francesca, how much longer will you keep your 
 cousin Michael in prison ? " 
 
 Oh ! Cruel, cruel Andrea, vindictive to the very gates 
 of death.
 
 130 PRISONERS 
 
 Down the empty, whispering gallery of ghostly 
 fears in which her life crouched, Michael's voice spoke 
 to her also. She could hear his grave, low tones. " Think 
 of me as in fairy-land." 
 
 That tender, compassionate message had a barbed 
 point which pierced deeper even than the duke's words. 
 
 Her lover and her husband seemed to have conspired 
 together to revenge themselves upon her. 
 
 Fay leaned her pretty head against the window-sill 
 and sobbed convulsively. 
 
 Poor little soul in prison, weeping behind the bars of 
 her cell, that only her own hands could open ! 
 
 Were not Fay and Michael both prisoners, fast 
 bound ; she in misery, he only in iron. 
 
 The door opened gently and Magdalen came in in a 
 long white wrapper, with a candle in her hand. 
 
 She put down the candle and came towards Fay. 
 She did not speak. Her face quivered a little. She 
 bent over the huddled figure in the window seat, and with 
 a great tenderness drew it into her arms. For a moment 
 Fay yielded to the comfort of the close encircling arms, 
 and leaned her head against Magdalen's breast. 
 
 Then she wrenched herself free, and pushed her sis- 
 ter violently from her. 
 
 " Why do you come creeping in like that ? " she said 
 fiercely. " You only come to spy upon me." 
 
 Magdalen did not speak. She had withdrawn a pace, 
 and stood looking at her sister, her face as white as 
 her night-gown. 
 
 Fay turned her tear-drenched face to the window and 
 looked fixedly out. There was a faint movement in the 
 room. When she looked round Magdalen was gone.
 
 PRISONERS 131 
 
 Fay, worn with two years of partially eluded suffer- 
 ing, restless with pain, often sick at heart, was at last 
 nearing the last ditch : but she had not reached it yet. 
 
 Many more useless tears, many more nights of 
 anguish, many more days of sullen despair still lay 
 between her and that last refuge.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 II n'y a point de passe vide ou pauvre, il n'y a point 
 d'evenements miserables, il n'y a que des evenements 
 miserablement accueillis. MAETERLINCK. 
 
 MAGDALEN went back to her own room, and set down her 
 candle on the dressing-table with a hand that trembled 
 a little. 
 
 " I ought not to have gone," she said half aloud, 
 " and yet I knew she was awake and in trouble. And 
 she nearly spoke to me to-day. I thought perhaps at 
 last the time had come like it did with Mother. But 
 I was wrong. I ought not to have gone." 
 
 The large room which had been her mother's, the 
 elder Fay's, seemed to-night crowded with ghostly mem- 
 ories: awakened by the thought of the younger Fay 
 sobbing in the room at the end of the passage. 
 
 In this room, in that bed, the elder Fay had died 
 eighteen years ago. 
 
 How like the mother the child had become who had 
 been named after her. 
 
 Magdalen saw again in memory the poor pretty apa- 
 thetic mother who had taken so long to die; a grey- 
 haired Fay, timid as the present Fay, unwise, inconse- 
 quent, blind as Fay, feebly unselfish, as alas! Fay was 
 not. 
 
 There is in human nature a forlorn impulse, to which 
 Mrs. Bellairs had yielded, to speak at last when the 
 great silence draws near, of the things that have long 
 
 132
 
 PRISONERS 133 
 
 cankered the heart, to lay upon others part of the un- 
 bearable burden of life just when death is about to re- 
 move it. Mrs. Bellairs had always groped feebly in 
 heavy manacles through life, in a sort of twilight, but 
 her approaching freedom seemed towards the last to 
 throw a light, faint and intermittent but still a light, 
 on much that had lain confused and inexplicable in her 
 mind. Many whispered confidences were poured into 
 Magdalen's ears during those last weeks, faltered dis- 
 jointed revelations, which cut deep into the sensitive 
 stricken heart of the young girl, cutting possibly also 
 new channels for all her after life to flow through. 
 
 Did the mother realise the needless anguish she in- 
 flicted on the spirit of the grave, silent girl of seven- 
 teen. Perhaps she was too near the great change to 
 judge any longer not that she had ever judged what 
 was wise or unwise, what was large or small. Trivial 
 poisoned incidents and the deep wounds of life, petty 
 unreasonable annoyances and acute memories were all 
 jumbled together. She had never sorted them, and now 
 she had ceased to know which was which. The feeble 
 departing spirit wandered aimlessly among them. 
 
 " You must stand up to your father, Magdalen, when 
 I'm gone. I never could. I was too much in love with 
 him at first, and later on when I tried he had got the 
 habit of my yielding to him, and it made a continual 
 wretchedness if I opposed him. He always thought I 
 did not love him if I did not consent to everything he 
 wished, or if I did not think him right whatever he 
 did. I did try to stand up about the children, but 
 at last I gave up that too. I was not fit to have chil- 
 dren, if I sacrificed their wellbeing to his caprice and
 
 134 PRISONERS 
 
 his whim, but that was what I did. I have been a poor 
 mother, and an unfaithful friend, and an unjust 
 mistress. Women like me have no business to 
 marry. . . . 
 
 " You don't remember Annie, do you ? She was sec- 
 ond housemaid, the best servant I ever had. She was 
 engaged to William, the footman with the curly hair. 
 He is butler now at Barford. She cared for him dread- 
 fully, poor soul. But your father could not bear her 
 because she had a squint, and he never gave me any 
 peace till I parted with her. I did part with her and 
 I got her a good place but I spoilt her marriage. 
 It did not take much spoiling perhaps, for after she 
 was gone he soon began to walk with the kitchen maid, 
 but she had been kind to me. So good once when I 
 was ill, and my maid was ill. She did everything for 
 me. I have often cried about that at night since." 
 
 " Mother always used to tell me and I never believed 
 it, but it is true men are children and it is no good 
 thinking them different. They never grow up. I don't 
 know if there are any grown up men anywhere. I 
 suppose there must be but I have never met one. I 
 don't know any Prime Ministers or Archbishops, but 
 I expect they are just the same as your father in 
 home life. 
 
 " I daresay your father will be sorry when I'm gone. 
 People like your father are always very fond of some- 
 one who is dead, who has no longer any claim upon 
 them : a mother or a sister, whom they did not take much 
 trouble about when they were alive.
 
 PRISONERS 135 
 
 " Of course I am going to die first, but I sometimes 
 used to think if your father died before me and if he 
 were allowed to come back after death such things do 
 happen I had a friend who saw a ghost once whether 
 he would be as vexed then at any little change as he is 
 now. You know, Magdalen, it has always been a cross 
 to me that the writing-table in my sitting-room is away 
 from the light. My eyes were never strong. I moved 
 it near the window when I first came here, but your 
 father was annoyed and had it put back where it is 
 now, because his mother always had it there. But I 
 really could not see to write there. And I have often 
 thought if he came back after he was dead whether he 
 would mind if he found I had moved it nearer the 
 window. 
 
 " The Bishop of Elvaston married us. I daresay 
 you don't remember him, my dear. He died a few years 
 later. He had a wart on his chin and he once shook 
 hands with baby's feet. But he was good. He told 
 me I must sacrifice all to love. But what has been the 
 use of aU my sacrifices, first of myself and then of 
 others? Your father has not been the happier or the 
 better for it, but the worse. I have let him do so many 
 cruel little things for which others have suffered. It 
 was not exactly that he did not see what he was doing. 
 He would not see. Some people are like that. They 
 won't look, and they become dreadfully angry if they 
 are asked to look. I gave it up at last. Oh, my poor 
 husband! I knew I had failed everybody else, but at 
 any rate not him. But I see now," the weak voice 
 broke " I see now that I have failed him, too. We
 
 136 PRISONERS 
 
 ought never to have married. Love is not any guide 
 to happiness. Remember that, Magdalen. We were 
 both weak. He was weak and domineering. I was weak 
 and yielding. I don't know which is the worst." 
 
 As the shadows deepened all the tacit unforgiveness 
 of a weak, down-trodden nature which has been van- 
 quished by life whispered from the brink of the grave. 
 
 " I have never been loved. I have given everything, 
 and I have had nothing back. Nothing. Nothing. 
 Don't marry, Magdalen. Men are all like that. Lots 
 of women say the same. They take everything and they 
 give nothing. It is our own fault. We rear them to 
 it from their cradles. From their schooldays we teach 
 them that everything is to give way to them, beginning 
 with the sisters. With men it is Take, Take, Take, 
 until we have nothing left to give. I went bankrupt 
 years ago. There is nothing left in me. I have noth- 
 ing and I am nothing. I'm not dying now. I have 
 been dead for years. ' 
 
 " You say I am going to be at peace, Magdalen, but 
 how do you know? I daresay I'm not. I daresay I am 
 going to hell, but if I do I don't care. I don't care 
 where I go so long as it is somewhere where there aren't 
 any more husbands, and housekeeping, and home, weary, 
 weary home, and complaints about food. I don't want 
 ever to see anything again that I have known here. I 
 am so tired of everything. I am tired to death." 
 
 Poor mother and poor daughter. 
 
 Who shall say what Magdalen's thoughts were as 
 she supported her mother's feeble steps down to the
 
 PRISONERS 137 
 
 grave. Perhaps she learned at seventeen what most of 
 us only learn late, so late, when life is half over. 
 
 Bitterness, humiliation, the passionate despair of the 
 heart which has given all and has received nothing, 
 these belong not to the armed band of Love's pilgrims, 
 though they dog his caravan across the desert. 
 
 These are only the vultures and jackal prowlers in 
 Love's wake, ready to pounce on the faint hearted pil- 
 grim who through weakness falls into the rear, where 
 fang and talon lie in wait to swoop down and rend him. 
 
 If we adventure to be one of Love's pilgrims we 
 must needs be long suffering and meek, if we are to win 
 safe with him across the desert, and see at last his holy 
 city. 
 
 Tears welled up into Magdalen's eyes as one piteous 
 scene after another came back to her, enacted in this 
 very room. 
 
 Poor little mother, who had seemed to Magdalen then 
 so old and forlorn, who, when she died, had only been 
 a year or two older than Magdalen herself was now. 
 
 And poor little wavering life sobbing in the room at 
 the end of the passage over seme mysterious trouble. 
 
 The elder Fay lived on in trie younger Fay. Was she 
 also to be vanquished by life, to become gradually em- 
 bittered and resentful? There seemed to be nothing 
 in her lot to make her so. What was it, what could it- 
 be that was casting a blight over Fay's life? 
 
 How to help her, how to release her from the self-im- 
 posed fetters in which her mother had lived and died. 
 
 Just as some persons have the power of making some- 
 thing new out of refuse paper out of rags so Mag-
 
 138 PRISONERS 
 
 dalen seemed to have the power of cherishing and 
 transforming the weaker, meaner elements of the char- 
 acters with which she came in contact. Certain qualities 
 in those we are inclined to love daunt us. Insincerity, 
 callousness, selfishness, treachery in its more refined 
 aspects, these are apt to arouse at first incredulity and 
 at last scorn in us. But they aroused neither in Mag- 
 dalen. She saw them with clearness, and dealt tenderly 
 with them. 
 
 What others discarded as worthless, she valued. To 
 push aside the feeble and intermittent affection of a 
 closed and self-centred nature, believing it is giving its 
 best, what is that but to push aside a poor man's little 
 offering. Many years ago Magdalen had accepted 
 not without tears, one such offering from a very poor 
 man indeed. 
 
 Loving-kindness, tenderness, have their warped, 
 stunted shoots as well as their free-growing, stately 
 blossoms. It is the same marvellous, fragrant life 
 struggling to come forth through generous or barren 
 soil. There are some thin, dwarfed, almost scentless 
 flowers of love and friendship, of which we can discern 
 the faint fragrance only when we are on our knees. 
 But some of us have conscientious scruples about kneel- 
 ing down except at shrines. Magdalen had not. 
 
 She knew that Fay cared but little for her in reality. 
 But she also knew that she did care a little. Fay had 
 turned to her many times, and had repulsed and for- 
 gotten her not a few times. 
 
 Magdalen had a good memory. 
 
 " When she really wants me she will turn to me 
 again," she said tranquilly to herself.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 Toute passion a son chemin de croix. 
 
 AND Michael? 
 
 What of him during these two endless years? 
 
 What did he think about during his first year in 
 prison: what was the first waking in his cell like, the 
 second, the third, the gradual discovery of what it 
 means to be in prison? Was there a bird outside his 
 window to wound him? The oncome of summer, the 
 first thrill of autumn, how did he bear them? 
 
 His was not a mind that had ever dwelt for long 
 upon itself. The egoist's torturing gift of intro- 
 spection and self-analysis was not his. He had never 
 pricked himself with that poisoned arrow. So far he 
 had not thought it of great importance what befel 
 him. Did he think so now? Did he brood over his 
 adverse fate? Did he rebel against it, or did he accept 
 it? Did angels of despair and anguish wrestle with 
 him through the hot nights until the dawn? Did his 
 famishing youth rise up against him? Or did that 
 most blessed of all temperaments, the impersonal one, 
 minister to him in his great need? 
 
 Perhaps at first he was supported by the thought 
 that he was suffering voluntarily for Fay's sake. Per- 
 haps during the first year he kept hold of the remem- 
 brance of her love for him. Perhaps in time he forgot 
 what he had read in the depths of her terror-stricken 
 
 139
 
 140 PRISONERS 
 
 eyes as he had emerged from behind the screen. There 
 had been no thought of him at that moment in those 
 violet eyes, no anxiety for him, no love. 
 
 Or perhaps he had not forgotten, and had realised 
 that her love for him was very slenderly built. Perhaps 
 it was the foreshadow of that realisation that had made 
 him know in his first weeks in prison, before the trial, 
 that she would not speak. 
 
 Michael had unconsciously readjusted several times 
 already in pain his love for Fay. He did it again dur- 
 ing that first year in prison. He saw that she was not 
 capable of love as he understood it. He saw that she 
 was not capable of a great sacrifice for his sake. The 
 sacrifice which would have exonerated him had been 
 altogether too great. Yes, he saw that. It had been 
 cruel of him to think even for a moment that she might 
 make it. What woman would ! His opinions respecting 
 the whole sex had to be gently lowered to meet the occa- 
 sion. Nevertheless she did love him in her own flower- 
 like way. She would certainly have made a small 
 sacrifice for his sake. His love was tenderly moved and 
 re-niched into a smaller demand on hers, one that she 
 could have met without too much distress. His bruised 
 mind comforted itself with the conviction that if a 
 slight sacrifice on her part could have saved him she 
 would indubitably have made it. 
 
 After a year in prison the news tardily reached 
 Michael through his friend, the doctor, that the duke 
 was dead. 
 
 The news, so long expected, gave him a pang when 
 it did at last arrive. He had liked the duke. For a 
 moment they had been very near to each other.
 
 PRISONERS 141 
 
 But now, now, Fay would release him. It would still 
 be painful to her to do so, but in a much lesser degree 
 than heretofore. She would have to endure certain 
 obvious, though groundless, inferences from which her 
 delicacy would shrink. But she was free to marry 
 him now, and that made all the difference as to the ex- 
 planation she would have to give. A little courage was 
 all that was needed, just enough to make a small sacri- 
 fice for him. She would certainly have that amount. 
 The other had been too much to expect. But this 
 
 Michael leaned his forehead against the stone wall 
 of his cell, and sobbed for joy. 
 
 Oh! God was good. God was merciful. He knew 
 how much he could bear. He knew that he was but 
 dust. He had not tried him beyond his strength. 
 
 Michael was suffused with momentary shame at the 
 joy that the death of his friend had brought him. 
 
 Nevertheless, like a mountain spring that will not be 
 denied, joy ever rose and rose afresh within him. 
 
 Fay and he could marry now. The thought of her, 
 the hungered craving for her was no longer a sin. 
 
 It was Sunday evening. The myriad bells of Venice 
 were borne in a floating gossamer tangle of sound 
 across the water. 
 
 Joy, overwhelming, suffocating joy inundated him. 
 
 He stumbled to his feet, and clung convulsively to 
 the bars of his narrow window. 
 
 How often he had heard the bells, but never with this 
 voice ! 
 
 He looked out across the wide water with its floating 
 islands, each with its little campanile. His eyes fol- 
 lowed the sails of the fishing boats from Chioggia,
 
 142 PRISONERS 
 
 floating like scarlet and orange butterflies in the pearl 
 haze of the lagoon. 
 
 How often he had watched them in pain. How often 
 he had turned his eyes from them lest that mad rage 
 for freedom which entered at times into the man in 
 the next cell, when the boats passed, should enter also 
 into him, and break him upon its wheel. 
 
 He looked at the boats now with tears in his eyes. 
 They gleamed at him like a promise straight from God. 
 How freely they moved. Free as air; free as the sea- 
 mew with its harsh cry wheeling close at hand under a 
 luminous sky. 
 
 He also should be free soon, should float away past 
 the gleaming islands, over a sea of pearl in a boat with 
 an orange sail. 
 
 For Fay would come to him. The one woman in the 
 world of counterfeits would come to him, and set him 
 free. She would take him in her arms at last, and lay 
 her cool healing touch upon his aching life. And he 
 would lean his forehead against her breast, and his 
 long apprenticeship to love would be over. It seemed 
 to Michael that she was here already, her soft cheek 
 against his. 
 
 He pressed his face to the stone wall, and whispered 
 as to her: 
 
 " Fay, have I served you? " 
 
 He almost heard her tremulous whisper, " Yes." 
 
 " Do you still love me? " 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " We may love each other now." 
 
 Again Fay's voice very low. " Yes." 
 
 It had to be like that. This moment was only a faint
 
 PRISONERS 143 
 
 foreshadowing of that unendurable joy, which inevita- 
 bly had to come. 
 
 A great trembling laid hold on Michael. He could 
 not stand. He fell on his knees, but he could not kneel. 
 He stretched himself face downwards on his pallet. 
 But it was not low enough. He flung himself on the 
 floor of his cell, but it was not low enough. A grave 
 would hardly have been low enough. The resisting 
 stone floor had to do instead. 
 
 And through the waves of awe and rapture that swept 
 over him came faintly down to him, as from some dim 
 world left behind, the bells of Venice, and the thin cry 
 of the sea-mew rejoicing with him. 
 
 Can we call a life sad which has had in it one such 
 blessed hour? 
 
 Luminous day followed luminous day, and the nights 
 also were full of light. His work was nothing to him. 
 The increasing heat was nothing to him. His chains 
 were nothing to him. 
 
 But at last when the weeks drew into a month, two 
 months, a chill doubt took up its abode with him. It 
 was resolutely cast out. But it returned. It was 
 fought against with desperation. It was scorned as 
 want of faith. Michael's strength waned with each con- 
 flict. But it always returned. At last it became to 
 him like a mysterious figure, always present with him. 
 
 " Fay," he whispered over and over again through 
 the endless burning nights of summer. " Dear one, 
 come soon." 
 
 There was neither speech nor language, only the lying 
 bells in the dawn. 
 
 The shadow deepened.
 
 144 PRISONERS 
 
 A frightful suspense laid its cold, creeping hold on 
 Michael. 
 
 What could have happened? 
 
 Was she ill? 
 
 Was she dead? 
 
 He waited, and waited, and waited. Time stood still. 
 
 Let no one say that he has found life difficult till 
 he has known what it is to wait; till he has waited 
 through the endless days that turn into weeks more 
 slowly than an acorn turns into a sapling ; through the 
 unmoving weeks that turn into months more slowly than 
 a sapling turns into a forest tree, for a word which 
 does not come. 
 
 Late in the autumn, six months and five days after 
 the death of the duke Michael marked each day with 
 a scratch on the wall he received a letter from Went- 
 worth. He was allowed to receive two letters a year. 
 
 He dreaded to open it. He should hear she was dead. 
 He had known all the time that she was dead. That 
 flowerlike face was dust. 
 
 With half blind eyes, that made the words flicker 
 and run into each other, he sought through Went- 
 worth's long letter for her name. Bess, the retriever, 
 had had puppies. The Bishop of Lostford's daughter 
 had married his chaplain a dull marriage, and the 
 Bishop had not been able to resist appointing his son- 
 in-law to a large living. The partridges had done well. 
 He had got more the second time over than last year. 
 But he did not care to shoot without Michael. 
 
 He found her name at last on the third sheet, just 
 a casual sentence.
 
 PRISONERS 145 
 
 " Your cousin, the. Duchess of Colle Alto, has come to 
 live at Priesthope for good. She has been there nearly 
 six months. I see her occasionally. At first she ap- 
 peared quite stunned by grief, but she is becoming 
 rather more cheerful as time passes on." 
 
 The letter fell out of Michael's hand. 
 
 " Rather more cheerful as time passes on" 
 
 Someone close at hand laughed, a loud, fierce laugh. 
 
 Michael looked up startled. He was alone. He never 
 knew that it was he who had laughed. 
 
 " Rather more cheerful as time passes on" 
 
 He looked back and saw the months of waiting that 
 lay behind him, during which the time had passed on. 
 He saw them pieced together into a kind of map ; an 
 endless desert of stones and thorns, and in the midst 
 a little figure in the far distance, coming toiling 
 towards him, under a blinding sun. 
 
 That figure was himself. And this was what he had 
 reached at last. He had touched the goal. 
 
 She had left Italy for good. She had gone back to 
 her own people ; not lately, but long ago, months ago. 
 When he had first heard of the duke's death, even while 
 he was counting daily, hourly, on her coming as the 
 sick man counts on the dawn; even then she was ar- 
 ranging to leave Italy for good. Even then, when he 
 was expecting her day by day, she must have made up 
 her mind not to speak. She would not face anything 
 for his sake. She had decided to leave him to his. 
 fate. 
 
 She who looked so gentle, was hard ; she who wept at 
 a bird's grief over its rifled nest, was callous of suf- 
 fering. She, who had seemed to love him he felt still
 
 146 PRISONERS 
 
 her hands holding his hands against her breast 
 had never loved him. She did not know what love 
 was. 
 
 She was inhuman, a monster. He saw it at last. 
 
 There is in love a spiritual repulsion to which physi- 
 cal repulsion at its worst is but a pale shadow. Those 
 who give love to one who cannot love may not escape 
 the stroke of that poisoned fang. Sooner or later that 
 shudder has to come. 
 
 Only while we are young do we believe that the reverse 
 of love is hate. We learn later, and that lesson we never 
 forget, for love alone can teach it, that the reverse of 
 love is egotism. The egoist cannot love. Can we en- 
 dure that knowledge and go on loving? Can we be 
 faithful, tender, selfless to one who exacts all and gives 
 nothing, who forgets us and grieves us, even as day by 
 day we forget and grieve our unforsaking and faithful 
 God? 
 
 Can we endure for love of man what God endures 
 for love of us? 
 
 The duke's words came back to Michael. 
 
 *' Why do you deceive yourself, my friend ? There 
 is only one person for whom she has a permanent and 
 deep affection for her very charming self." 
 
 He had thought of her as his wife for six months and 
 four days. 
 
 Michael beat his manacled hands against the wall 
 till they bled. He broke his teeth against his chains. 
 
 If Fay had come in then he would have killed her, 
 done her to death with the chains he had worn so 
 patiently for her sake.
 
 'IF FAY HAD COME IN THEN HE WOULD HAVE KILLED HER, DONE 
 
 HER TO DEATH WITH THE CHAINS HE HAD WORN SO 
 
 PATIENTLY FOR HER SAKE "
 
 PRISONERS 147 
 
 And that night the convict in the next cell, who had 
 at times such wild outbursts of impotent rage when 
 the boats went by, heard as he lay awake a low sound 
 of strangled anguish, that ever stifled itself into silence, 
 and ever broke forth anew, from dark to dawn.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 Qui sait ce qui peut advenir de la fragilite des 
 femmes? Qui sait jusq'ou peut aller 1'inconstance de ce 
 sable mouvant? ALFRED DE MUSSET. 
 
 THE Italian winter was closing in. The nights were 
 bitter cold. 
 
 Had Michael reached at last the death of love? Was 
 its strait gate too narrow for him? 
 
 After that one night he held his peace, even with 
 himself, even with the walls of his cell. He did not 
 sleep nor eat. He had no time to sleep or eat. He was 
 absorbed in one idea. 
 
 Michael was not a thinker. He was a man of action, 
 whose action, sharp, rapier-like, and instantaneous, was 
 unsheathed only by instinctive feeling, by chivalry,, 
 honour, indignation, compassion, never by reflection, 
 judgment, experience. He could not really think 
 What he learned had to reach him some other way. His 
 mind only bungled up against ideas, hustled them, so 
 to speak, till they turned savage. 
 
 He sat idly in his cell when his work was done. There 
 was a kind of pressure on him, as if the walls were clos- 
 ing in on him. Sometimes he got up, and pushed 
 them back with his hands. 
 
 The sun had shifted his setting as the winter drew 
 in, and for a few minutes every afternoon laid a thong 
 of red light upon his wall. He looked at it sternly 
 while it burned. It looked back sternly at him. 
 
 148
 
 PRISONERS 149 
 
 He had no wish to be free now, no wish for any- 
 thing. 
 
 The doctor came to see him, and looked closely at him, 
 and spoke kindly to him. He was interested in the 
 young Englishman, and, like several of the warders, was 
 convinced of his innocence. 
 
 Michael took no notice of him, barely answered his 
 questions. He was impatient of any interruption. 
 
 He was absorbed in one thought. 
 
 He had loved Fay for a long time. How long was it ? 
 Five years? Ten years? Owing to his peculiar fate 
 love had usurped in Michael's life too large a place, the 
 place which it holds in a woman's life, but which is 
 unnatural in a man's. He did not know it, but he had 
 travelled a long way on the road towards an entire 
 oblivion of Fay when he came to Rome. But the one 
 great precaution against her he had not taken. He had 
 not replaced her, and " Only that which is replaced is 
 destroyed." He had grown accustomed to loving 
 her. 
 
 In these days he went over, slowly, minutely, every 
 step of his long acquaintanceship with her, from the 
 first day, when he was nineteen and she was seventeen, 
 to the last evening six years later, when he had kissed 
 the cold hand that could have saved him, and did 
 not. 
 
 Old people, wise old learned people, smoke-dried 
 Dons and genial bishops sitting in their dignified 
 studies, had spoken with guarded frankness to him in 
 his youth on the temptations of life. They had told 
 him that love, save when it was sanctified by marriage, 
 was only a physical passion, a temporary madness, a
 
 150 PRISONERS 
 
 fever which all men who were men underwent, but to 
 which a man of principle did not succumb, and which 
 if vigorously suppressed soon passed away. 
 
 Why had it not been so with him ? He had never had 
 to contend with the coarse forms of temptation of 
 which his elders had spoken, as if they were an integral 
 part of his youth. 
 
 Why, then, had he loved this pretty, false, selfish 
 woman so long? Why had he allowed himself to be 
 drawn back into her toils after he had known she was 
 false? Why was he more weak, more credulous, more 
 infatuated than other men? 
 
 The duke had actually been her husband, had actu- 
 ally possessed that wonderful creature, and yet he, 
 under the glamour of her personal presence, which it 
 made Michael gasp to think of, he, the duke, had not 
 been deceived. 
 
 Why had he, Michael, been deceived? 
 
 He remembered the exhortations of his tepid-minded, 
 painlessly married tutor at Oxford, who read the vilest 
 French novels as a duty, and took a walk with his wife 
 on fine afternoons; and whose cryptic warnings on the 
 empire of the passions would have made a baboon 
 blush. 
 
 Michael laughed suddenly as he, recalled the mild 
 old-maidish face. What was the old prig talking about ? 
 What did he know, dried up and shrivelled like a bit 
 of seaweed between the leaves of a folio. 
 
 Everyone had told him wrong. 
 
 Why had they decried this awful power, why had 
 they so confused it with sensual indulgence that he had 
 had to disentangle it for himself? Why had they not
 
 PRISONERS 151 
 
 warned him, on the contrary, that the love of woman was 
 a living death, a pitfall from which there was no escape, 
 from the depths of which you might stare at the sky 
 till you starved to death, as he was doing now. 
 
 With all their warnings they had not warned him, 
 these grave men, these instructors of youth, who had 
 never known any world except their little world of 
 books, who ranged women into two camps, one in which 
 they held a docile Tennysonian place, as chaste adorners 
 of the sacred home, mothers of children, man's prop- 
 erty, insipid angel housekeepers of his demure middle 
 age; the other where they were depicted as cheap, 
 vulgar temptresses, on a level with the wine cup and 
 the gambling table. 
 
 Why had he allowed himself to be duped and hood- 
 winked by his elders and by his own shyness, into 
 chastity? They had entreated him to believe it was 
 the only happy life. It was not. To be faithful to 
 his future wife. Ha! Ha! That was the beginning 
 of the trap, the white sand neatly raked over the hid- 
 den gin. 
 
 If he had only lived like other men ! If he had only 
 listened to the worst among them, if he had only torn 
 the veil early from every limb of that draped female fig- 
 ure, that iron maiden, if he had only seen it in its 
 horror of nudity, with its sharp nails for eyes, and its 
 jagged knives where the bosom should be, he should 
 not be pressed to death in its embrace now. 
 
 He had been deceived, betrayed, fooled. That was 
 why he was shut up. He had believed in a woman, had 
 believed that the cobra's bite was only a wasp's sting. 
 Good Lord, what an imbecile ! He was insane of course,
 
 152 PRISONERS 
 
 raving mad. And he had been here eighteen months 
 and only saw the joke now. 
 
 Michael laughed again, shouted with laughter. 
 
 The sun was setting again. It was always setting 
 now. It set in the mornings as well. The red thong 
 of light was on the wall again. Blood red ! He rocked 
 to and fro shaking with laughter. 
 
 The doctor and a warder came in. It was just like 
 them. They were always coming in when they were 
 not wanted. 
 
 He pointed at the bar of light, stumbled to it, and 
 tried to tear it from the wall. It had been there long 
 enough. Too long. And as he tore at it with hands 
 dyed crimson, something that was pressing upon him 
 lightened suddenly, and the blood gushed forth from 
 his mouth, flooding the sun-stained wall. 
 
 " I have put out that damned sunset at last," he said 
 to himself as he fell.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 So we must keep apart, 
 
 You there, I here, 
 
 With just the door ajar 
 
 That oceans are, 
 
 And prayer, 
 
 And that pale sustenance 
 
 Despair ! 
 
 EMILY DICKENSON. 
 
 IT was a little after Christmas when Michael first began 
 to take notice of his surroundings once more. There 
 was no love or tenderness that Wentworth could have 
 shown him which the grave young Italian doctor did 
 not lavish on him. 
 
 Little by little the mist in which Michael lay shifted 
 and cleared, and closed in on him again. But the times 
 when it cleared became nearer together. He felt that 
 the great lethargy in which he lay would shift when the 
 mist shifted. Dimly, as if through innumerable veils, 
 he was aware that something indefinable but terrible 
 crouched behind it. Days passed. Blank days and 
 blank nights. He had forgotten everything. 
 
 He had been lying awake a long time, years and 
 years. The doctor had been in to see him just before 
 sunrise, had raised him, and made him drink, and laid 
 him back upon his pillow. And now he felt full of rest. 
 How clear everything was becoming. He raised his 
 
 153
 
 154 PRISONERS 
 
 hand to his head. He had not taken the trouble to do 
 that before. He looked long at his wasted hands laid 
 on the coarse cotton sheeting. What were these marks 
 on the wrists? They seemed like an answer to a riddle 
 of which he had forgotten the question. If he only 
 knew what those marks were he should know numbers 
 of other things as well. He raised his long right hand, 
 and held it close to his eyes. 
 
 These marks were bruises. A line of bruises went 
 round the wrist. And here over the bone was a scar. 
 It was healed now, but it had been a deep sore once. 
 
 When? 
 
 If only he could remember ! 
 
 The mist in his mind cleared a little. 
 
 Those bruises were made by chains. 
 
 A deadly faintness came over him. 
 
 Michael knew at last that he was in prison. The 
 past filtered back into his feeble mind drop by drop. 
 He knew why he was there. He knew what he had done 
 to bring him there; he realised that he had been ill a 
 long time, many weeks. But there was still something 
 sinister, mysterious, crouching in the back of his mind. 
 
 The doctor sought to distract him, to rouse him. 
 He was a botanist, and he shewed Michael his collection 
 of grasses. Michael did not want to have the fatigue 
 of looking at them, but he feigned an interest to please 
 the doctor. He gazed languidly at a spray, now dry 
 and old. The doctor explained to him that it was the 
 sea lavender, which, in the early autumn, had flushed 
 the shallows of the lagoon with a delicate grey lilac. 
 
 " I remember," said Michael, whitening.
 
 PRISONERS 155 
 
 It rushed back upon him, that time of waiting, 
 marked by the flowering and the fading of the sea lav- 
 ender. The colour was seared upon his brain. 
 
 " A hundred years it is lilac," he said, " and a hun- 
 dred thousand years it is a purple brown." 
 
 The doctor, bending lovingly over a specimen of a 
 rare water plant, looked up to see Michael's quivering 
 face. He withdrew the book gently and took it 
 away. 
 
 Michael trembled exceedingly. He was on the verge 
 of some abyss which he should see clearly in another 
 moment. The sea lavender grew on the very edge of it. 
 It yawned suddenly at his feet. The abyss was Fay's 
 last desertion. He looked down into it. It was quite 
 dark. 
 
 A few days later the doctor brought another book. 
 It was butterflies this time. He saw that an increasing 
 pressure was upon Michael's mind, and he feared for 
 his brain. He was too weak to read. He might per- 
 haps like to look at pictures. 
 
 The doctor opened the book at an attractive illus- 
 tration of an immense butterfly, with wings of iridescent 
 blue and green. He could not stay, but he left the 
 cherished volume open on Michael's knee. 
 
 Michael turned his maimed mind slowly from the 
 abyss into which it had been looking ever since he had 
 seen that sprig of sea lavender. 
 
 Yes. He knew that particular butterfly. He had 
 seen them by thousands once in a field in Corfu, long 
 ago on an Easter holiday, when he had been abroad with 
 Wentworth. They had all glinted together in the sun-
 
 156 PRISONERS 
 
 shine, wheeling together, sinking together, rising to- 
 gether like an army of fairies. 
 
 How heavy the book was on his knee. 
 
 He had not the energy to turn another page. Yes, 
 he must. The doctor would be disappointed if he found 
 the book open at the same place when he came back. 
 One leaf. Come ! He owed it to his friend. Just one 
 leaf. 
 
 Were there English butterflies here as well? 
 
 Yes. Here was a sheet of them. 
 
 He knew that little yellow one with red tips to its 
 wings. It was common enough in the south of 
 England. 
 
 He looked idly at it. 
 
 And somewhere out of the past, far, far back from 
 behind the crystal screen of childhood, came a memory 
 clear as a raindrop. 
 
 He remembered as a tiny child lying in the sun watch- 
 ing a butterfly like that ; watching it walk up and 
 down on a twig of whortleberry, opening and shutting 
 its new-born wings. It was the first time he had noticed 
 how beautiful a butterfly's wings were. His baby hand 
 went out towards it. The baby creature did not fly, 
 was not ready to fly. He grasped it, and laughed as 
 he felt it flutter, tickling his hot little palms, closed over 
 it. It gave him a new sense of power. Then he slowly 
 pulled off its wings, one by one, because they were so 
 pretty. 
 
 He remembered it as if it were yesterday, and the 
 sudden disgust and almost fear with which he suddenly 
 tossed away the little mutilated ugly thing with strug- 
 gling legs.
 
 PRISONERS 157 
 
 The cruelty of it filled him even now with shamed 
 pain. 
 
 " It was not I who did it," he said to himself- " I 
 did not understand." 
 
 And a bandage was removed from his eyes, and he 
 looked down, as we look into still water, and he saw 
 that Fay did not understand either. She had put out 
 her hand to take him. She had pulled his wings off him. 
 She had cast him aside. Perhaps she even felt horror 
 of him now. But nevertheless she had not done it on 
 purpose, any more than he had done it on purpose to 
 that other poor creature of God. She did not 
 understand. 
 
 Her fair, sweet face, which he had shuddered at as 
 at a leper's, came back to him, smiling at him with a 
 soft reproach. Ah! It was a child's face. That was 
 the secret of it all. That was one of the reasons why 
 he had so worshipped it, that dear face. She had not 
 meant to hurt him with her pretty hand. 
 
 Later on, some day, not in this world perhaps, but 
 some far-off day she would come to herself, and, looking 
 back, she would feel as he felt now at the recollection 
 of his infant cruelty, only a thousand times more 
 deeply. He hoped to God he might be near her when 
 that time of grief came, to comfort her, to assure her 
 that the pain she had inflicted had been nothing, noth- 
 ing, that it did not hurt. 
 
 An overwhelming, healing compassion, such as he 
 had never known in all the years of his great tender- 
 ness for Fay, welled up within his arid heart. 
 
 Michael's racked soul was steeped in a great peace 
 and light !
 
 158 PRISONERS 
 
 Time and time again his love for Fay had been 
 wounded nearly to the death, and had been flung back 
 bleeding upon himself. He had always enfolded it, 
 and withdrawn it, and cherished it anew in a safer place. 
 
 A love that has been thus withdrawn and protected 
 does not die. It shrinks home into the heart, that is all. 
 Like a frightened child against its mother, it presses 
 close and closer against the Divine Love that dwells 
 within us, which gave it birth. At last the mother 
 smiles, and takes her foolish weeping child, born from 
 her body, which has had strength from her to wander 
 away from her back into her arms.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 And no more turn aside and brood 
 Upon Love's bitter mystery. 
 
 W. B. YEATS. 
 
 IT seems is if in the early childhood of all of us some 
 tiny cell in the embryo brain remains dormant after 
 the intelligence and other faculties have begun to 
 quicken and waken. While that cell sleeps the child 
 is callous to suffering, even ingenious in inflicting it. 
 The little cell in the brain wakes and the cruelty disap- 
 pears. And the same cell that was slow to quicken in 
 the child is often the first to fall asleep in the old. The 
 ruthless cruelty of old age is not more of a crime than 
 the ruthless cruelty of young children. Childhood does 
 not yet understand. Old age ceases to understand. 
 
 But some there are among us who have passed beyond 
 childhood, beyond youth, into middle age, in whose 
 brain that little cell still sleeps and gives no sign of 
 waking, though all the other faculties are at their 
 zenith; imagination, intellect, lofty sentiment, religious 
 fervour. Where they go pain follows. They leave a 
 little trail of pain behind them, to mark their path 
 through life. They appear to have come into the world 
 to be ministered to, not to minister. If love could 
 reach them, call loudly to them from without, it seems 
 as if the dormant cell might wake. But if they meet 
 love, even on an Easter morning, and when they are 
 
 150
 
 160 PRISONERS 
 
 looking for him, they mistake him for the gardener. 
 They can only be loved and served. They cannot love 
 as yet. They exact love and miss it. They feel 
 their urgent need of its warmth in their stiffening, 
 frigid lives. Sometimes they gain it, lay their cold 
 hand on it, analyse it, foresee that it may become an 
 incubus, and decide that there is nothing to be got 
 out of it after all. 
 
 They seem inhuman because they are not human as 
 yet. They seem variable, treacherous, because a child's 
 moral sense guiding a man's body and brain must so 
 seem. They are not sane as yet. 
 
 And all the while the little cell in the brain sleeps, 
 and their truth and beauty and tenderness may not 
 come forth as yet. 
 
 We who love them know that, and that our strained 
 faithfulness to them now may seem almost want of faith, 
 our pained tenderness now shew like half-heartedness 
 on the day when that little cell in the brain wakes. 
 
 Michael knew this without knowing that he knew it. 
 His mind arrived unconsciously at mental conclusions 
 by physical means. But in the days that followed, 
 while his mind remained weak and wandering, he was 
 supported by the illusion was it an illusion that it 
 was Fay really who was in prison, not himself, and that 
 he was allowed to take her place in her cell because she 
 would suffer too much, poor little thing, unless he 
 helped her through. 
 
 He became tranquil, happy, serene. He felt no re- 
 gret when he was well enough to resume the convict- 
 life, and the chains were put on him once more. Did 
 he half know that Fay's fetters were heavier than his,
 
 PRISONERS 161 
 
 that they were eating into her soul, as his had never 
 eaten into his flesh? 
 
 When he sent her a message the following spring 
 that he was happy, it was because it was the truth. 
 Desire had rent him and let him go at last. Vague, 
 inconsequent and restful thoughts were Michael's. 
 
 His body remained feeble and emaciated. But he 
 was not conscious of its exhaustion. His mind was at 
 peace with itself.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 What she craved, and really felt herself entitled to, was 
 a situation in which the noblest attitude should also be the 
 easiest. EDITH WHARTON. 
 
 ON a stormy night, towards the end of March, Mag- 
 dalen was lying awake listening to the wind. Her 
 tranquil mind travelled to a great distance away from 
 that active, monotonous, daily life which seemed to ab- 
 sorb her, which had monopolised her energies but never 
 her thoughts for so many years past. 
 
 Suddenly she started slightly and sat up. A storm 
 was coming. A tearing wind drowned all other sounds, 
 but nevertheless she seemed to listen intently. 
 
 Then she slowly got out of bed, lit her candle, stole 
 down the passage to Fay's door, and listened again. 
 No sound within. At least none that could be dis- 
 tinguished through the trampling of the wind over 
 the groaning old house. 
 
 She opened the door and went in. A little figure 
 was crouching over the dim fire, swaying itself to and 
 fro. It was Fay. 
 
 Magdalen put down her candle, and went softly to 
 her, holding out her arms. 
 
 Fay raised a wild, wan face out of her hands and 
 said harshly: 
 
 " Aren't you afraid I shall push you away again 
 like I did last time? " 
 
 162
 
 PRISONERS 163 
 
 Then with a cry she threw herself into the out- 
 stretched arms. 
 
 Magdalen held the little creature closely to her, 
 trembling almost as much as Fay. 
 
 Outside the storm broke, and beat in wild tears 
 against the pane. Within, another storm had broken 
 in a passion of tears. 
 
 Fay gasped a few words between the paroxysms of 
 sobbing. 
 
 " I was coming to you, Magdalen, I was trying to 
 come and I couldn't I had pushed you away when 
 you came before and I thought perhaps you would 
 push me away no no I didn't, but I said to my- 
 self you would. I hardened myself against you. But 
 I was just coming, all the same because because," 
 Fay's voice went thinner and thinner into a strangled 
 whimper, " because I can't bear it alone any more." 
 
 " Tell me about it." 
 
 But Fay tore herself out of her sister's arms and 
 threw herself face downwards on the bed. 
 
 " I can't," she gasped. " I must and I can't. I must 
 and I can't." 
 
 Magdalen remained standing in the middle of the 
 room. She knew that the breaking moment had come 
 and she waited. 
 
 She waited a long time. 
 
 The storm without spent itself before the storm 
 within had spent itself. 
 
 At last Fay sat up. 
 
 Then Magdalen moved quietly to the dying fire. She 
 put on some coal, she blew the dim embers to a glow. 
 
 Fay watched her.
 
 164 PRISONERS 
 
 Magdalen did not look at her. She sat down by the 
 fire, keeping her eyes fixed upon it. 
 
 " I have done something very wicked," said Fay in 
 a hollow voice from the bed. " If I tell you all about 
 it will you promise, will you swear to me that you will 
 never tell anybody ? " 
 
 " I promise," said Magdalen after a moment. 
 
 " Swear it." 
 
 " I swear." 
 
 Fay made several false starts and then said: 
 
 " I was very unhappy with Andrea." 
 
 Magdalen became perceptibly paler and then very 
 red. 
 
 " He never cared for me," continued Fay, slipping 
 off the bed, and kneeling down before the fire. " It's 
 a dreadful thing to marry a man who does not really 
 care. I sometimes think men can't care. They are too 
 selfish. They don't know what love is. I was very 
 young. I did not know anything about life. He was 
 kind, but he never understood me." 
 
 Magdalen's eyes filled with tears. In the room at 
 the end of the passage she had listened to her mother's 
 faint voice in nights of wakeful weakness speaking of 
 her unhappy marriage. Did all women who failed to 
 love deep enough say the same things? And as Mag- 
 dalen had listened in silence then so she listened in 
 silence now. 
 
 " He did not trust me. And then I had no children, 
 and he was dreadfully disappointed. And he kept 
 things to himself. There was no real confidence be- 
 tween us, as there ought to be between husband and 
 wife, those whom God has joined together. Andrea
 
 PRISONERS 165 
 
 never seemed to remember that. And gradually his 
 conduct had its natural effect. I grew not to care for 
 him, and he brought it on himself I'm not excusing 
 myself, Magdalen I see now that I was to blame too 
 I ended by caring for someone else someone who did 
 love me, who always had since we were boy and girl 
 together." 
 
 "Not Michael!" 
 
 " Yes. Michael. And when he came out to Rome 
 it began all over again. It never would have done if 
 Andrea had been a good husband. I did my best. I 
 tried to stave it off, but I was too miserable and lonely 
 and I cared at last. And he was madly in love with me. 
 He worshipped me." 
 
 Fay paused. She was looking earnestly into her 
 recollections. She was so far withholding nothing. As 
 she knelt before the fire making her confession Mag- 
 dalen saw that according to her lights she was speak- 
 ing the whole truth and nothing but the truth. 
 
 " Of course he found it out at last and and we 
 agreed to part. We decided that he must leave Rome. 
 He wished to see me once to say good-bye. Was it 
 very wrong of me to let him come once, just once? " 
 
 " It was perhaps natural. And after Michael had 
 said good-bye why did not he leave Rome? " 
 
 " He was arrested the same night," faltered Fay. 
 " I said good-bye to him in the garden, and then the 
 garden was surrounded because they were looking for 
 the murderer of the Marchese, and Michael could not 
 get out. And he was afraid of being seen for fear 
 of compromising me. So he hid behind the screen in 
 my room. And then you know the rest the police
 
 166 PRISONERS 
 
 came in and searched my rooms, and Michael came out 
 and confessed to the murder, and said I had let him hide 
 in my room. It was the only thing to do to save my 
 reputation, and he did it." 
 
 " And what did you say ? " 
 
 "Nothing. What could I say? Besides, I was too 
 faint to speak." 
 
 " And later on when you were not too faint ? " 
 
 " I never said anything later on either." Fay's voice 
 had become almost inaudible. " I hoped the real mur- 
 derer would confess." 
 
 " But when he did not confess ? " 
 
 " I have always clung to the hope. I have prayed 
 day and night that he might still confess. Sinners do 
 repent sometimes, Magdalen." 
 
 There was a terrible silence, during which several 
 fixtures in Magdalen's mind had to be painfully and 
 swiftly moved, and carefully safeguarded into new 
 positions. Magdalen became very white in the process. 
 
 At last she said, " Did Andrea know that Michael 
 was innocent of the murder ? " 
 
 " I never thought so at the time, but just before he 
 died he said something cruel to me which shewed he knew 
 Michael's innocence for certain, had known it from the 
 first." 
 
 " Then if he knew Michael had not murdered the 
 Marchese, how do you suppose he accounted for his 
 being hidden in your rooms at midnight, after he had 
 ostensibly left the house? " 
 
 Fay stared at her sister aghast. 
 
 " I never thought of that," she said. 
 
 " What can Andrea have thought of that? "
 
 PRISONERS 167 
 
 " Andrea was very secretive," faltered Fay. " You 
 never could tell what he was thinking. And I was the 
 last person he ever told things to. Roman Catholics 
 are like that. The priest knows everything instead of 
 the wife." 
 
 There was another silence. 
 
 Magdalen's question vaguely alarmed Fay. Natures 
 such as hers if given time will unconsciously whittle 
 away all the sinister little incidents that traverse and 
 render untenable the position in which they have taken 
 refuge. They do not purposely ignore these conflict- 
 ing memories, but they don't know what has weight and 
 what has not, and they refuse to weigh them because 
 they cannot weigh anything. Their minds, quickly con- 
 fused at the best of times, instinctively select and retain 
 all they remember that upholds their own view of the 
 situation and discard the rest. 
 
 Fay could not answer Magdalen's trenchant ques- 
 tion. She could only restate her own view of her hus- 
 band's character. 
 
 Magdalen did not make large demands on the truth- 
 fulness of others if they had very little of it. She did 
 not repeat her question. She waited a moment, and 
 then said: 
 
 " You seem to think that Andrea never guessed the 
 attachment between yourself and Michael. But he must 
 have done so. And if he had not guessed it till Michael 
 was found in your rooms, at any rate he knew it then 
 for certain. For certain, Fay. Remember that is 
 settled. There was no other possible explanation of 
 Michael's presence there, if you bar the murder explana- 
 tion, which is barred as far as Andrea is concerned.
 
 168 PRISONERS 
 
 Now from first to last Andrea retained his respect for 
 Michael and his belief in your innocence in circum- 
 stances which would have ruined you in the eyes of 
 most husbands. You say Andrea did not understand 
 you or do you justice. On the contrary, it seems to 
 me he acted towards you with great nobility and deli- 
 cacy." 
 
 Fay was vaguely troubled. Her deep, long-fostered 
 dislike of her husband must not be shaken in this way. 
 She could not endure to have any fixtures in her mind 
 displaced. So much depended on keeping the whole 
 tightly wedged fabric in position. 
 
 " You don't know what cruel words he said to me on 
 his deathbed," she said. " I don't call it nobility and 
 delicacy never to give me the least hint till the day he 
 died that he knew why Michael was in prison." 
 
 " Perhaps he hoped hoped against hope that " 
 
 Magdalen did not finish her sentence. She fixed her 
 eyes on Fay's. A great love shone in them, and a great 
 longing. Then, with a kind of withdrawal into her- 
 self, she went on. " Andrea was loyal to you to the 
 last. He went away without a word to anyone except, 
 it seems, to you. I always liked him, but I see now 
 that I never did him justice. I did not know with 
 his Italian hereditary distrust of woman's honour that 
 he could have risen to such a height as that. Think of 
 it, Fay. What grovelling and sordid suspicions he 
 might have had of you, must inevitably have had of you 
 and Michael if he had not followed a very noble instinct, 
 that of entire trust in you both in the face of over- 
 whelming proof to the contrary. Dear Fay, the proof 
 was overwhelming."
 
 PRISONERS 169 
 
 Fay was silent. 
 
 " Just as we all believed in Michael's innocence of 
 the murder, so Andrea believed in your innocence of a 
 crime even greater, never faltered in his belief, and 
 went to his grave without a word of doubt. Oh! Fay, 
 Fay, do you suppose there are many men like that? " 
 
 And Magdalen, who so seldom wept, suddenly burst 
 into tears. Perhaps the thought forced itself through 
 her mind, " If only once long ago I had met with one 
 little shred of such tender faith ! " 
 
 " Andrea was better than I thought," Fay faltered. 
 The admission made her uneasy. She wished he had not 
 been better, that her previous view of him had not been 
 disturbed. 
 
 Magdalen's tears passed quickly. She glanced again 
 at Fay through a veil of them, looking earnestly for 
 something she did not find. 
 
 " And Michael," she went on gently. " Dear, dear 
 Michael. He gave himself for you, spent in one mo- 
 ment, not counting the cost, his life, his future, his 
 good name for your sake. And he goes on day by 
 day, month by month, year in year out, enduring a 
 living death without a word for your sake. How long 
 has Michael been in prison? " 
 
 " Two years." Fay's voice was almost inaudible. 
 
 " Two years ! Is it only two ? To him it must seem 
 like a hundred. But if his strength remains he will go 
 on for thirteen more. Oh ! Fay, was any man since the 
 world began so loyal to any woman as your husband 
 and your lover have been to you? You said just now 
 that men were selfish and could not love. I have heard 
 many women say the same. But you! How can you
 
 170 PRISONERS 
 
 say such a thing ! To have met one man who was ready 
 to love and serve them is not the lot of many women. 
 IVery few of us ever find anything more than a craving 
 to be loved in the stubborn material of men's hearts. 
 And we are thankful enough when we find that. But to 
 have stood between two such men who must have 
 crushed you between them if either of them had had 
 one dishonouring thought of you. A momentary self- 
 ishness, a momentary jealousy in either of them, and 
 where would you have been? " 
 
 " No one knows how good Michael is better than I 
 do," said Fay, " but what you don't seem to realise is 
 how awful these years have been for me. He has suf- 
 fered, but sometimes I think I have suffered more than 
 he has. No, I don't think it, I know it. He can't have 
 suffered as much as I have." 
 
 Magdalen put out her hand, and touched Fay's rough 
 head with a tenderness that seemed new even to Fay, 
 to whom she had been always tender. 
 
 " You have suffered more than Michael," she said. 
 *' I have endured certain things in my life, but I could 
 never have endured as you have done the loss of my 
 peace of mind. How have you lived through these 
 two years? What days and nights upon the rack it 
 must have meant ! " 
 
 Oh! the relief of those words. Fay leaned her head 
 against her sister's knee, and poured forth the endless 
 story of her agony. She had someone to confide in 
 at last, and the person she loved best, at least whom she 
 loved a little. She who had never borne a mosquito bite 
 in silence, but had always shewn it to the first person 
 she met, after rubbing it to a more prominent red, with
 
 PRISONERS 171 
 
 a plaintive appeal for sympathy, was now able to tell 
 her sister everything. 
 
 The recital took hours. A few minutes had been 
 enough on the subject of the duke and Michael, but 
 when Fay came to dilate on her own sufferings, when 
 the autobiographical flood-gates were opened, it seemed 
 as if the rush of confidences would never cease. Mag- 
 dalen listened hour by hour. Is it given even to the 
 wisest of us ever to speak a true word about ourselves? 
 Do our whispered or published autobiographies ever 
 deceive anyone except ourselves? We alone seem un- 
 able to read between the lines of our self-revelations. 
 We alone seem unable to perceive that sinister ghost- 
 like figure of ourselves which we have unconsciously 
 conjured up from our pages for all to see; the cruelly 
 faithful reflection of one whom we have never known. 
 Those who love us and have kept so tenderly for years 
 the secret of our egotism or our false humility or our 
 meanness, how can they endure to hear us unconsciously 
 proclaim to the world what only Love may safely know 
 concerning us? 
 
 Magdalen heard, till her heart ached to hear them, all 
 the endless bolstered-up reasons why Fay was not re- 
 sponsible for Michael's fate. She heard all about the 
 real murderer not confessing. She heard much that 
 Fay would have died rather than admit. Gradually she 
 realised that it was misery that had driven Fay to a 
 partial confession, not as yet repentance, not the desire 
 to save Michael. Misery starves us out of our prisons 
 sometimes, tortures us into opening the doors of our 
 cells bolted from within, but as a rule we make a long 
 weary business of leaving our cells when only misery
 
 172 PRISONERS 
 
 urges us forth. I think that Magdalen's heart must 
 have sunk many times, but whenever Fay looked up she 
 met the same tender, benignant look bent down upon 
 her. 
 
 " Oh! why didn't I tell you before? " she said at last. 
 " I always wanted to, but I thought at least I felt 
 I see I did you an injustice I thought you might press 
 me to to " 
 
 " To confess" said Magdalen, her low voice piercing 
 to Fay's very soul. 
 
 " Y-yes, at least to say something to a policeman or 
 someone, so that Michael might be let out. I was afraid 
 if I told you you would never give me any peace till 
 Michael was released." 
 
 " Have you had any peace since he was put into 
 prison ? " 
 
 Fay shook her head. 
 
 " Make your mind easy, Fay, I shall never urge you 
 to " Magdalen hesitated " to go against your con- 
 science." 
 
 " What would you have done in my place ? " said Fay 
 hastily. 
 
 *' I should have had to speak." 
 ' You are better than me, Magdalen, more religious. 
 You always have been." 
 
 " I should have had to speak, not because I am better 
 or worse than you, but simply because I could not have 
 endured the misery of silence. It would have broken 
 me in two. And if I had not had the courage to speak 
 in Andrea's lifetime, I would have spoken directly he 
 was dead, and have released Michael and married him. 
 You have not told me why you did not do that."
 
 PRISONERS 173 
 
 " I never thought of it. I somehow regarded It as all 
 finished. And I have never even thought of marrying 
 Michael or anyone when I was left a widow. I was much 
 too miserable. I had had enough of being married." 
 
 There was a difficult silence. 
 
 " I should never have a moment's peace if if I did 
 speak," said Fay at last. 
 
 " Yes, you would," said Magdalen with sudden in- 
 tensity. " That is where peace lies." 
 
 Fay raised herself to her knees and looked into Mag- 
 dalen's eyes. The dawn had come up long ago, and in 
 its austere light Magdalen's face showed very sharp 
 and white in a certain tender fixity and compassion. 
 She had seen that look once before in her husband's 
 dying eyes. Now that she was suddenly brought face 
 to face with it again she understood it for the first time. 
 Had not Andrea's last prayer been that she might be 
 given peace!
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 There is no wild wind in his soul, 
 
 No strength of flood or fire ; 
 He knows no force beyond control, 
 
 He feels no deep desire. 
 
 He knows no altitudes above, 
 
 No passions elevate; 
 All is but mockery of love, 
 
 And mimicry of hate. 
 
 EDGAR VINE HALL. 
 
 THE morning after the storm Wentworth was sitting in 
 the library at Barford, looking out across the garden 
 to the down. Behind the down lay Priesthope, where 
 Fay was. 
 
 He was thinking of her. This shewed a frightful 
 lapse in his regulated existence. So far he had allowed 
 the remembrance of Fay to invade him only in the even- 
 ings over his cigarette, or when he was pacing amid his 
 purph'ng beeches. 
 
 Was she now actually beginning to invade his morn- 
 ings, those mornings sacred to the history of Sussex? 
 No! No! Dismiss the extravagant surmise. Went- 
 worth was far more interested in his attitude towards 
 a thing or person in what he called his point of view 
 than in the thing viewed. 
 
 He was distinctly attracted by Fay, but he was more 
 occupied with his feelings about her than with herself. 
 It was these which were now engrossing him. 
 
 174
 
 PRISONERS 175 
 
 For some time past he had been working under- 
 ground digging out the foundations and as a rule 
 invisible as a mole within them of a tedious courtship 
 undertaken under the sustaining conviction that mar- 
 riage is much more important to a woman than to a 
 man. This point of view was not to be wondered at, 
 for Wentworth, like many other eligible, suspiciously 
 diffident men, had so far come into contact mainly with 
 that large battalion of women who forage for them- 
 selves, and who take upon themselves with assiduity the 
 work of acquaintanceship and courtship. He had never 
 quite liked their attentions or been deceived by their 
 " chance meetings." But his conclusions respecting 
 the whole sex had been formed by the conduct of the 
 female skirmishers who had thrown themselves across 
 his path ; and he, in common with many other secluded 
 masculine violets, innocently supposed that he was irre- 
 sistible to the other sex ; and that when he met the right 
 woman she would set to work like the others, only with 
 a little more tact, and the marriage would be conven- 
 iently arrived at. 
 
 But Fay shewed no signs of setting to work, no alac- 
 rity, no apparent grasp of the situation : I mean of the 
 possible but by no means certain turn which affairs 
 might one day take. 
 
 At first Wentworth was incredulous, but he remem- 
 bered in time that one of the tactics of women is to 
 retreat in order to lure on a further masculine advance. 
 Then he became offended, stiff with injured dignity, al- 
 most anxious. But he communed with himself, analysed 
 his feelings under various headings, and discovered that 
 he was not discouraged. He was aware at least, he
 
 176 PRISONERS 
 
 told himself that he was aware that extraordinary 
 efforts must be made in love affairs. I don't know how 
 he reconciled that startling theory with his other tenets, 
 but he did. The chance suggestions of his momentary 
 moods he regarded as convictions, and adopted them 
 one day and disowned them the next with much na'if 
 dignity, and offended astonishment, if the Bishop or 
 some other old friend actually hinted at a discrepancy 
 between diametrically opposed but earnestly expounded 
 views. He imagined that he was now grappling with 
 the difficulties inherent to love in their severest form. 
 It was of estrangements like these that poets sang. He 
 opened his Browning and found he was on the right 
 road, passing the proper milestones at the correct mo- 
 ment. He was sustained in his idleness this morning by 
 the comfortable realisation that he was falling desper- 
 ately in love. He shook his head at himself and smiled. 
 He was not ill pleased with himself. He would return to 
 a perfectly regulated life later on. In the meanwhile 
 he would give a free rein to these ecstatic moods, these 
 wild emotions. When he had given a free rein to them 
 they ambled round a little paddock, and brought him 
 back to his own front door. It was delicious. He had 
 thoughts of chronicling the expedition in verse. 
 
 I fear we cannot escape the conclusion that Went- 
 worth was on the verge of being a prig. But he was 
 held back as it were by the coat-tails from the abyss by 
 a certain naivete and uprightness of character. The 
 Bishop once said of him that he was so impressed with 
 the fact that dolls were stuffed with sawdust that it 
 was impossible not to be fond of him. 
 
 Wentworth in spite of his sweeping emotions was still
 
 PRISONERS 177 
 
 unconsciously meditating a possible retreat as regards 
 Fay, was still glancing furtively over his shoulder. 
 Strange how that involuntary, self-protective attitude 
 on a man's part is never lost on a woman, however dense 
 she may otherwise be, almost always ends by ruining 
 him with her. Others besides Lot's wife have become 
 petrified by looking back. 
 
 Fay, he reflected, must make it perfectly clear to him 
 that if he did propose he would be accepted she in 
 short must commit herself and then after all a bach- 
 elor's life had great charm. But still at any rate he 
 might come back from Lostford this afternoon by way 
 of Pilgrim Road. That would tie him to nothing. 
 She often walked there. It would be an entirely chance 
 meeting. Wentworth had frequently used this " short 
 cut " of late which did not add more than two miles to 
 the length of his return journey from Lostford. 
 
 It was still early in the afternoon when he rode slowly 
 down Pilgrim Road feeling like a Cavalier. There was 
 no hurry. The earth was breathing again after the 
 storm. Everything was resting, and waking in the 
 vivid March sunshine. As he rode at a foot's pace 
 along the mossy track dappled with anemones, as he 
 noted the thin powder of green on the boles of the beech 
 trees, and the intense blue through the rosy haze of 
 myriad twigs, the slight hunger of his heart increased 
 upon him. There was a whisper in the air which 
 stirred him vaguely in spite of himself. 
 
 At that instant he caught sight of a slight black 
 figure sitting on a fallen tree near the track. 
 
 For one moment the Old Adam in him actually sug- 
 gested that he should ride past, just taking off his hat.
 
 178 PRISONERS 
 
 But he had ridden past in life, just taking off his hat, 
 so often that the action lacked novelty. He almost did 
 it yet again from sheer force of habit. Then he dis- 
 mounted and walked up to Fay, bridle in hand. 
 
 " What good fortune to meet you," he said. " I so 
 seldom come this way." 
 
 This may have been the truth in some higher, rarer 
 sense than its obvious meaning, for Wentworth was a 
 perfectly veracious person. Yet anyone who had seen 
 him during the last few weeks constantly riding at a 
 foot's pace down this particular glade, looking care- 
 fully to right and left, would hardly have felt that his 
 remark dovetailed in with the actual facts. The moral 
 is morals cluster like bees round certain individuals 
 that we must not ponder too deeply the meanings of 
 men like Wentworth. 
 
 " I often used to come here," said Fay, " but not of 
 late. I came to get some palm." 
 
 She had in her bare hand a little bunch of palm, the 
 soft woolly buds on them covered with yellow dust. She 
 held them towards Wentworth, and he looked at them 
 with grave attention. 
 
 The cob, a privileged person, of urbane and dis- 
 tinguished manners, suddenly elongated towards them 
 a mobile upper lip, his sleek head slightly on one side, 
 his kind, sly eyes half shut. 
 
 " Conrad," said Wentworth, " we never ask. We 
 only take what is given us." 
 
 Fay laughed, and gave them both a twig. 
 
 Wentworth drew his through his buttonhole. Con- 
 rad twisted his in his strong yellow teeth, turned it 
 over, and then spat it out. The action, though of
 
 PRISONERS 179 
 
 doubtful taste in itself, was ennobled by his perfect 
 rendering of it. He brought it, so to speak, forever 
 within the sphere of exquisite manners. 
 
 Wentworth led him back to the path, tied him to a 
 tree, and then came back and sat down at a little dis- 
 tance from Fay on the same trunk. He had somehow 
 nothing to say, but of course he should think of some- 
 thing striking directly. One of Fay's charms was that 
 she did not talk much. 
 
 A young couple close at hand were not hampered 
 by any doubts as to a choice of subject. 
 
 From among the roots of a clump of alder rose a 
 sweet little noise of mouse talk, intermittent, affaire, 
 accompanied by sudden rustlings and dartings under 
 dead leaves, momentary glimpses of a tiny brown bride 
 and bridegroom. Ah! wedded bliss! Ah! youth and 
 sunshine, and the joy of life in a new soft silken 
 coat! 
 
 Fay and Wentworth watched and listened, smiling at 
 each other from time to time. 
 
 " I am forced to the conclusion," said Wentworth 
 at last, " that even in these early days Mrs. Mouse does 
 not listen to all Mr. Mouse says." 
 
 " How could she, poor thing, when he never leaves off 
 talking? " 
 
 " Well, neither does she. They both talk at once. I 
 suppose they have not our morbid craving for a lis- 
 tener." 
 
 " Do you think I mean really and truly that they 
 are talking about themselves? " said Fay, looking at 
 Wentworth as if any announcement of his on the subject 
 would be considered final.
 
 180 PRISONERS 
 
 " No doubt," he said indulgently, willing to humour 
 her, and feeling more like a cavalier than ever. 
 
 Then he actually noticed how pale she was. 
 
 " You look tired," he said. " I am afraid the storm 
 last night kept you awake." 
 
 " Yes," she said, and hung her head. 
 
 Wentworth, momentarily released from his point of 
 view, looked at her more closely, and perceived that her 
 lowered eyelids were heavy with recent tears. And as 
 he looked, he realised, by some other means than those of 
 reasoning and deduction, by some mysterious intuitive 
 feeling new to him, that all these weeks when he had 
 imagined she was drawing him on by feminine arts of 
 simulated indifference she had in reality been thinking 
 but little of him because she was in trouble. The elab- 
 orate edifices which he had raised in solitude to account 
 for this arid that in her words one day, in her attitude 
 towards him another day, toppled over, and he saw 
 before him a simple creature, who for some unknown and 
 probably foolish reason, had cried all night. 
 
 He perceived suddenly, without possibility of doubt, 
 that she had never considered him in the light of a 
 lover, had never thought seriously about him at all, and 
 that what he had taken to be an experienced woman of 
 the world was in reality an ignorant child at heart. 
 
 He felt vaguely relieved. There were evidently no 
 ambushes, no surprises, no pitfalls in this exquisite 
 nature. There was really nothing to withdraw from. 
 He suddenly experienced a strong desire to go forward, 
 a more imperative desire than he had ever known about 
 anything before. Even as he was conscious of it Fay 
 raised her eyes to his and it passed away again, leaving
 
 PRISONERS 181 
 
 a great tranquillity behind, together with a mounting 
 sense of personal power. 
 
 If Fay had spoken to him he had not heard what she 
 had said. But he did not mind having missed it. The 
 meaning of the spring was reaching him through her 
 presence like music through a reed. He had never 
 understood it till now. Poor empty little reed! Poor 
 entranced listener mistaking the reed for music ! 
 
 Can it be that when God made His pretty world He 
 had certain things exceeding sharp and sweet to say to 
 us, which it is His will only to whisper to us through 
 human reeds . the frail human reeds on which we some- 
 times deafly lean until they break and pierce our cruel 
 hands ? 
 
 The mystery of the spring was becoming clear and 
 clearer. What Wentworth had believed hitherto to be 
 a deceptive voice was nothing but a reiterated faithful 
 prophecy, a tender warning to him so that he might be 
 ready when the time came. 
 
 " The primroses will soon be out," he said as if it 
 were a secret. 
 
 " Very soon," she said, though they were out already. 
 Fay always assented to what was said. 
 
 " I must be going," she said, getting up. " I have 
 walked too far. If I sit here any longer I shall never 
 get home at all." 
 
 " Let me take you home on Conrad." 
 
 Fay hesitated. 
 
 " I am frightened of horses." 
 
 " But not of Conrad. He is only an armchair stuffed 
 to look like a horse. And I will lead him." 
 
 Fay still hesitated.
 
 182 PRISONERS 
 
 He took an authoritative tone. He must insist on 
 her riding home. She was tired already, and it was a 
 long mile up hill to Priesthope. 
 
 Fay acquiesced. To-day of all days she was not in 
 a condition for anything but a dazed acceptance of 
 events as they came. 
 
 Wentworth lifted her gently onto the saddle, and put 
 one small dangling foot into a stirrup shortened to 
 meet it. 
 
 She was alarmed and clutched Conrad's mane, but 
 gradually her timidity was reassured, and they set out 
 slowly together, Wentworth walking beside her, with his 
 hand on the rein. 
 
 The little bunch of palm was forgotten. It had done 
 its part. 
 
 Wentworth talked and Fay listened, or seemed to 
 listen. Her mind wandered if Conrad pricked his ears, 
 but he did not prick them very often. 
 
 Wentworth felt that it was time Fay made more 
 acquaintance with his mind, and he proceeded without 
 haste, but without undue delay to indicate to her por- 
 tions of his own attitude towards life, his point of view 
 on various subjects. All the sentiments which must in- 
 fallibly have lowered him in the eyes of a shrewder 
 woman he spread before her with childish confidence. 
 He gave her of his best. He expressed a hope that he 
 did not abuse for his own selfish gratification his power 
 of entering swiftly into intimacy with his fellow crea- 
 tures. He alluded to his own freedom from ambition, 
 his devotion unlike other men to the small things of 
 life, love, friendship, etc.: we know the rest. Went- 
 worth had been struck by that sentence when he first
 
 PRISONERS 183 
 
 said it to the Bishop, and he repeated it now. Fay 
 thought it very beautiful. She proved a more sympa- 
 thetic listener than the Bishop. 
 
 I don't know whether like Mrs. Mouse she did not 
 listen to all Mr. Mouse said. But at any rate she 
 noticed for the first time how lightly Wentworth walked, 
 how square his shoulders were, and the beauty of his 
 brown thin hand upon the bridle ; and through her mind 
 a little streak of vanity came back to the surface, mo- 
 mentarily buried under the debris of last night's emo- 
 tion. Wentworth was interested in her. He admired 
 her. He did not know anything uncomfortable about 
 her as Magdalen did. He thought a great deal of 
 her. It was nice to be with a person who thought 
 highly of one. It had been a relief to meet him. 
 How well he talked! What a wide-minded, generous 
 man! 
 
 The gate into the gardens must have been hurrying 
 towards them, it was reached so soon. Wentworth, 
 after a momentary surprise at beholding it, stopped the 
 cob, and helped Fay with extreme care to the ground. 
 One of Fay's attractions was her appearance of great 
 fragility. Men felt instinctively that with the least 
 careless usage she might break in two. She must be 
 protected, cheered, have everything made smooth for 
 her. She was in reality much stronger than many of 
 her taller, more robust-looking sisters, who, whether 
 wives or spinsters, if they required assistance, had to 
 look for it in quinine. An uneasy jealousy of Fay led 
 Lady Blore frequently to point out that Fay was always 
 well enough to do what she wanted. Aunt Mary's own 
 Roman nose and stalwart figure warded off from her
 
 184 PRISONERS 
 
 the sympathy to which her severe cramps undoubtedly 
 entitled her. 
 
 " When shall I see you again ? " said Wentworth, 
 suddenly realising that the good hour was over. 
 
 Fay did not answer. She was confused. A very 
 delicate colour flew to her cheek. 
 
 Wentworth, reddening under his tan, said : " Perhaps 
 Pilgrim Road is a favourite walk of yours ? " 
 
 " Yes. I often go there in the afternoon." 
 
 " I have to pass that way, too, most days," he said. 
 " It is a short cut to Lostf ord." 
 
 He had forgotten that an hour before he had an- 
 nounced that he seldom used that particular path. It 
 did not matter, for Fay had not noticed the contradic- 
 tion any more than he did. Fay was easy to get on 
 with because she never compared what anyone said one 
 day with what they said the next. She never would feel 
 the doubts, the perplexities that keener minds had had 
 to fight against in dealing with him. 
 
 For the first time she looked at his receding figure 
 with a sense of regret and loss. 
 
 Magdalen was in the house waiting to give her her 
 tea, dear Magdalen who was so good, and so safe, such 
 a comforter but who knew. Fay shrank back instinc- 
 tively as she neared the house, and then crept upstairs 
 to her own room, and had tea there. 
 
 Wentworth rode home feeling younger that he had 
 done for years. What is thirty-nine? No age for a thin 
 man. (He was in reality nearly forty-one.) He was 
 pleased with himself. How quaintly amusing he had 
 been about the mouse. He regretted, not for the first
 
 '* FAY NOTICED FOR THE FIRST TIME HOW LIGHTLY WENTWORTH 
 WALKED, HOW SQUARE HIS SHOULDERS WERE "
 
 PRISONERS 185 
 
 time, that he did not write novels, for little incidents 
 like that, which the conventional mind of the ordinary 
 novelist was incapable of perceiving, would intertwine 
 charmingly with a love scene. The small service he 
 had rendered Fay linked itself to a wish to do some- 
 thing more for her he did not know exactly what but 
 something larger than to-day. Any fool, any bucolic 
 squireen, could have given her a lift home on a cob. 
 He would like to do something which another person 
 could not do, something which would cheer her, console 
 her, and at the same time place him in a magnanimous 
 light. 
 
 We all long for an opportunity to act with gener- 
 osity and tenderness to the one we love. We need not 
 trouble ourselves to seek for such an occasion, for 
 though many things fail us in this life the opportunity 
 so to act has never yet failed to arrive, and has never 
 arrived alone, always hand in hand with some prosaic 
 hideously difficult circumstance, which, if we are of an 
 artistic temperament, may appear to us too ugly. 
 
 Wentworth had never wished to do anything for the 
 gay little lady who, a few years ago, had crossed his 
 path. The principal subject of his cogitations about 
 her had been whether she would be able to adapt her- 
 self to him and his habits, to understand his many- 
 sided wayward nature, and to add permanently to his 
 happiness ; or whether, on the contrary, she might not 
 prove a bar to his love of solitude, a drag on his soar- 
 ing spirit. So I think we may safely conclude that his 
 feelings for her had not gone to breakneck length. But 
 the germ in his mind of compassionate protection and 
 instinctive desire to help Fay had in it the possibility
 
 186 PRISONERS 
 
 of growth, of some expansion. And what other feeling 
 in Wentworth's clean, well-regulated, sterilized mind 
 had shown any power of growth ? 
 
 The worst of growth is that a small acorn does not 
 grow into a large acorn as logical persons expect. It 
 ought to, but it does not. It grows instead into some- 
 thing quite unrecognisable from its small beginnings, 
 something for which, perhaps, beyond a certain stage, 
 there is no room, not even a manger. 
 
 Those who love must discard much. Wentworth had 
 not yet felt the need of discarding anything, and he had 
 not the smallest intention of doing so. He intended 
 instead to make a small ornamental addition, a sort of 
 portico, to his life. His mind had got itself made up 
 this afternoon, and he contemplated the proposed addi- 
 tion with some complacency as already made. 
 
 There is, I believe, a method of planting an acorn in 
 a bottle, productive of the happiest results for those 
 who love small results. You only give the acorn a little 
 water every day, no soil of course. The poor thing 
 will push up a thin twig of stem through the bottle neck, 
 and in time will unfold a few real oak leaves. Men like 
 Wentworth would always prefer the acorn to remain an 
 acorn, but if it shews signs of growth, some of them are 
 wise enough, take alarm early enough, to squeeze it 
 quickly down a bottle neck before it has expanded too 
 much to resist the passage. 
 
 Had Fate in store for Wentworth a kinder, sterner 
 destiny than that, or would she allow him to stultify 
 himself, to mutilate to his own convenience a great 
 possibility?
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 Look through a keyhole, and your eye will be sore. 
 
 DURING the weeks which followed Fay's confession Mag- 
 dalen became aware that she watched her, and aware 
 also that she avoided her, was never alone with her if 
 she could help it. 
 
 At this time Fay began to do many small kindnesses, 
 and to talk much of the importance of work for others, 
 of the duty of taking an interest in our fellow creatures. 
 This was a new departure. She had not so far evinced 
 the faintest interest in the dull routine of home duties 
 which are of the nature of kindnesses, and had often 
 reproached Magdalen for spending herself in them. 
 To play halma with zest all the evening with a parent 
 who must always win, to read the papers to him by the 
 hour, not while he listened, but while he slept Fay 
 scorned these humble efforts of Magdalen's. She 
 shewed no disposition to emulate them ; but she did shew 
 a feverish tendency towards isolated acts of benevo- 
 lence outside the home life, which precluded any claim 
 upon her by arousing a hope of their continuance, 
 which tied her to nothing. Fay began to send boxes of 
 primroses to hospitals, to knit stockings for orphans, 
 to fatigue herself with enormous walks over the downs 
 with illustrated papers for the Saundersfoot work- 
 house. 
 
 It was inevitable at this juncture that she should feel 
 
 187
 
 188 PRISONERS 
 
 some shocked surprise at the supineness of those around 
 her. Her altruistic efforts were practically single- 
 handed. She had hoped that when she inaugurated 
 them, Magdalen at any rate would have followed suit, 
 would have worked cheerfully under her direction. But 
 Magdalen, whose serene cheerfulness had flagged of 
 late, fell painfully below her sister's expectation. Fay 
 came to the conclusion that it was more lack of im- 
 agination than callousness on her sister's part which 
 held her back. 
 
 Many careworn souls besides Fay have discovered 
 that the irritable exhaustion, the continual ache of 
 egotism can be temporarily relieved by taking an in- 
 expensive interest in others. The remedy is cheap and 
 efficacious, and it is a patent. Like Elliman applied 
 to a rheumatic shoulder it really does do good I mean 
 to the owner of the shoulder. And you can stop rub- 
 bing the moment you are relieved. Perhaps these 
 external remedies are indispensable to the comfort of 
 those who dwell by choice, like Fay, in low-lying 
 swampy districts, and have no thought of moving to 
 higher ground. 
 
 Magdalen knew these signs, and sometimes her heart 
 sank. 
 
 Was Fay unconsciously turning aside to busy her- 
 self over little things that were not required of her, in 
 order to shut her eyes to the one thing needful a 
 great act of reparation? 
 
 If Fay was watching Magdalen, someone else was 
 watching Fay. Bessie's round, hard, staring eyes 
 were upon her, and if Bessie did anything she did it 
 to some purpose.
 
 PRISONERS 189 
 
 One afternoon in the middle of April Bessie came 
 into Magdalen's sitting room and sat down with an air 
 of concentration. 
 
 *' I have reason to be deeply ashamed of myself," 
 she said. " I am ashamed of myself. If I tell you 
 about it it is not in order that you may weakly condone 
 and gloss over my conduct." 
 
 Magdalen reflected that Bessie had inherited her 
 father's graceful way of approaching a difficulty by 
 finding a preliminary fault in his listener. 
 
 Bessie shut her handsome mouth firmly for a mo- 
 ment, and then opened it with determination. 
 
 " I thought that whatever faults I had I was at 
 any rate a lady, but I find I am not. I discovered 
 something by the merest chance a short time ago, and 
 since then, for the last fortnight I have been acting 
 in a dishonourable and vulgar manner, in short, spying 
 upon another person." 
 
 " That must have made you miserable." 
 
 " It has. I am miserable. But I deserve that. I 
 did not come to talk about that. The point is this " 
 
 " Bessie, I don't want to hear what you evidently 
 ought not to know." 
 
 " Yes, you must, because someone else needs your 
 advice." 
 
 " We won't, trouble our minds about the someone 
 else." 
 
 Bessie had, however, inherited another characteris- 
 tic trait of her father's. She could ignore when she 
 chose. She chose now. 
 
 " I may as well put you in possession of the facts," 
 she continued. " A few weeks ago I was coming home
 
 190 PRISONERS 
 
 by Pilgrim Road. I was not hurrying because I was 
 struck, as I always am struck I don't suppose I am 
 peculiar in this by the first appearance of spring. 
 Pilgrim Road is a sheltered place. Spring always 
 comes early there." 
 
 "It does." 
 
 " I will even add that I was recalling to myself verses 
 of poetry connected with the time of year, when I saw 
 a couple in front of me. They were walking very 
 slowly with their backs towards me, taking earnestly 
 together. They were Fay and Wentworth." 
 
 Magdalen made no movement, but her face, always 
 pale, became suddenly ashen grey. 
 
 If Fay were seriously attracted by Wentworth would 
 she ever confess, ever release Michael! 
 
 " There was no harm in their walking together," 
 she said tremulously. 
 
 " There was one harm in it," retorted Bessie. " It 
 made me so angry that I did not know how to live. 
 They did not see me, and I struck up into the wood, 
 and I had to stay an hour by myself holding on to a 
 little tree, before I could trust myself to come home." 
 
 " It does not help matters to be angry, Bessie. I 
 was angry once for two years. I said at the time like 
 Jonah that I did well, but I see now that I might have 
 done better." 
 
 " I don't particularly care what helps matters and 
 what does not. I now come to my own disgraceful 
 conduct. I have spied upon Fay steadily for the last 
 fortnight. She is so silly she never even thinks she 
 is watched. And she meets Wentworth in Pilgrim 
 Road nearly every afternoon. I once waylaid her as
 
 PRISONERS 191 
 
 if by accident, on her way home, and asked her where 
 she had been, and she said she had been on her way 
 to Arleigh wood, but had not got so far, as she was 
 too tired. Too tired! She had been walking up and 
 down with Wentworth for over an hour. I timed them. 
 She never meant to go to Arleigh wood. And when 
 they said Good-bye, he he kissed her hand. Since 
 Fay has come back to live here I have gradually formed 
 the meanest opinion of her. She is not truthful. She 
 is not sincere. She is absolutely selfish. I was in- 
 clined to be sorry for her at first, but I soon saw 
 through her. She did not really care for Andrea. She 
 only pretended. Everything she does is a kind of pretty 
 pretence. She does not really care for Wentworth. 
 She is only leading him on for her own amusement." 
 
 " I think it is much more likely that she is drifting 
 towards marriage with him without being fully aware 
 of what she is doing. But women like you and me are 
 not in the same position towards men as Fay is. Con- 
 sequently it is very difficult for us to judge her fairly." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean." 
 
 " You and I are not attractive to men. Fay is. 
 You saw Wentworth kiss her hand. You naturally 
 infer, but you are probably wrong, that Fay had been 
 leading him on, as you call it." 
 
 " It will take a good deal to disabuse me of that 
 at any rate. I believe my own eyes." 
 
 " 1 should not if I were you. If anyone kissed your 
 hand or mine it would not only be an epoch in our 
 lives, but also the sign manual of some ponderous at- 
 tachment which you, my dear, would carefully weigh, 
 and approximately value. But do you suppose for
 
 192 PRISONERS 
 
 one moment that Fay attaches any importance to such 
 an everyday occurrence ! " 
 
 " I see what you are driving at, that Fay is not 
 responsible for her actions. But she is. She must 
 know when she does things or lets them be done, that 
 will make others suffer." 
 
 " If you could look into Fay's heart, Bessie, you 
 would find that Fay is suffering herself and attribut- 
 ing her pain to others. As long as we do that, as 
 long as we hold the stick by the wrong end, we must 
 inflict pain in some form or other. Fay is not happy. 
 You cannot look at her without seeing it." 
 
 " I would not mind so much if it were not for Went- 
 worth," said Bessie with dreadful courage. " I know 
 it is partly jealousy, but it is not only jealousy. There 
 are a few crumbs of unselfishness in it. I thought at 
 first I reasoned it out with myself and it appeared 
 a logical conclusion that father was the ostensible 
 but not the real object of Wentworth's frequent visits. 
 I took a great interest in his conversation; it is so 
 lucid, so well informed, so illuminative. I do not read 
 novels as a rule, but I dipped into a few, studying the 
 love scenes, and the preliminary approaches to love 
 scenes in order to aid my inexperience at this juncture. 
 I am sorry to say I fell into the error that he might 
 possibly reciprocate the growing interest I felt in him, 
 in spite of the great disparity in age. It was a mis- 
 take. I have suffered for it." 
 
 The two roses of Bessie's cheeks bloomed on as 
 unflinchingly as ever. 
 
 Magdalen's eyes were fixed on her own hands.
 
 PRISONERS 193 
 
 " You would not have suited each other if he had 
 cared for you," she said after a moment, " for you 
 would not have done him justice when you got to know 
 him better, any more than you do Fay justice now 
 that you do know her better. Wentworth is made of 
 words, just as other men are made of flesh and blood. 
 How would you have kept any respect for him when 
 you had become tired of words? You are too straight- 
 forward, too sledge-hammer to understand a character 
 like his." 
 
 ** In that case Fay ought to suit him," said Bessie 
 grimly. " No one, not even you, can call her straight- 
 forward. But I begin to think, Magdalen, that you 
 actually wish for the marriage." 
 
 " I had never thought of it as possible on her side 
 until a few minutes ago, when what you said took me 
 by surprise. Of course I had noticed the attraction 
 on his side, but it appeared to me he was irresolute 
 and timid, and it is better to ignore the faint emo- 
 tions of half-hearted people. They come to no good. 
 If you repel them they are mortally offended and 
 withdraw, and if you welcome them they are terrified 
 and withdraw." 
 
 " I don't think Wentworth intends withdrawing." 
 
 " No. These meetings look as if he had uncon- 
 sciously drifted with the current till the rowing back 
 would be somewhat arduous." There was a moment's 
 silence, in which Magdalen recalled certain lofty senti- 
 ments which Wentworth had aired with suspicious fre- 
 quency of late. She knew that when he talked of his 
 consciousness of guidance by a Higher Power in the
 
 194 PRISONERS 
 
 important decisions of his life he always meant follow- 
 ing the line of least resistance. In this case the line 
 of least resistance might tend towards marriage. 
 
 " It never struck me as possible till now," she said 
 aloud, " that Fay would think seriously of him." 
 
 " I don't suppose she is. She is only keeping her 
 hand in. Don't you remember how cruel she was to 
 that poor Mr. Bell." 
 
 " I am convinced that she is not keeping her hand 
 in." 
 
 " Then you actually favour the idea of a marriage." 
 Bessie got up and stalked slowly to the door. " You 
 will help it on ? " she said over her shoulder. 
 
 " No." Magdalen's voice shook a little. " I will 
 do nothing to help it, or to hinder it."
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 The dawn broke dim on Rose Mary's soul 
 No hill-crown's heavenly aureole, 
 But a wild gleam on a shaken shoal. 
 
 D. G. ROSSETTI. 
 
 IF Fay's progress through life could have been drawn 
 with a pencil it would have resembled the ups and 
 downs, like the teeth of a saw, of a fever chart. 
 
 To Magdalen it appeared as if Fay could undergo 
 the same feelings with the same impotent results of 
 remorse or depression a hundred times. They seemed 
 to find her the same and leave her the same. But never- 
 theless she did move, imperceptibly, unconsciously no, 
 not quite unconsciously. The sense common to all 
 weak natures not of being guided, but of being 
 pushed was upon her. 
 
 Once again she tried to extricate herself from the 
 pressure of some mysterious current. There seemed 
 no refuge left in Magdalen. There seemed very few 
 comfortable people left in the world, to whom a miser- 
 able woman might turn. Only Wentworth. He did 
 not know. 
 
 Perhaps Fay would never have turned to him if she 
 had not first confided in and then shrunk from Mag- 
 dalen. For the second time in her life she longed 
 feverishly to get away from home, the home to which 
 only a year ago she had been so glad to hurry back, 
 
 195
 
 196 PRISONERS 
 
 when she had been so restlessly anxious to get away from 
 Italy. Wentworth was beginning to look like a means 
 of escape. The duke had at one time worn that as- 
 pect. Later on Michael had looked extremely like it 
 for a moment. Now Wentworth was assuming that 
 aspect in a more solid manner than either of his prede- 
 cessors. She was slipping into love with him, half 
 unconsciously, half with malice prepense. She told 
 herself continually that she did not want to marry 
 him or anyone, that she hated the very idea of marriage. 
 
 But her manner to Wentworth seemed hardly to be 
 the outward reflection of these inward communings. 
 And why did she conceal from Magdalen her now 
 constant meetings with him? 
 
 Wentworth had by this time tested and found cor- 
 rect all his intimate knowledge of Woman, that knowl- 
 edge which at first had not seemed to work out quite 
 smoothly. 
 
 Nothing could be more flattering, more essentially 
 womanly than Fay's demeanour to him had become 
 since he had set her mind at rest as to his intentions 
 on that idyllic afternoon after the storm. (How he 
 had set her mind at rest on that occasion he knew best.) 
 It seemed this exquisite nature only needed the sun- 
 shine of his unspoken assurance to respond with de- 
 lighted tenderness to his refined, his cultured advances. 
 He was already beginning to write imaginary letters 
 to his friends, on the theme of his engagement: semi- 
 humourous academic effusions as to how he, who had 
 so long remained immune, had succumbed at last to 
 feminine charm; how he, the determined celibate 
 Wentworth always called himself a celibate had been
 
 PRISONERS 197 
 
 taken captive after all. To judge by the letters which 
 Wentworth conned over in his after-dinner mind, and 
 especially one to Grenfell, the conlusion was irresisti- 
 ble to the meanest intellect that he had long waged a 
 frightful struggle with the opposite sex to have re- 
 mained a bachelor a celibate, I mean so long. 
 
 We have all different ways of enjoying ourselves. 
 In the composition of these imaginary letters Went- 
 worth tasted joy. 
 
 In these days Fay's boxes of primroses jostled each 
 other in the postman's cart, on their way to cheer 
 patients on their beds of pain in London hospitals. 
 
 Fay read the hurried, grateful notes of busy mat- 
 rons, over and over again. They were a kind of 
 anodyne. 
 
 On a blowing afternoon in the middle of April she 
 made her way across the down with her basket to a 
 distant hazel coppice to which she had not been as yet. 
 
 A fever of unrest possessed her. She had thought 
 when she confessed to Magdalen that her misery had 
 reached its lowest depths. But it had not been so. 
 Her wretchedness, momentarily relieved, had since gone 
 a step deeper, that was all. She had endeavoured to 
 allay her thirst with a cup of salt water, which had 
 only increased it to the point of agony. 
 
 As she walked a bare tree stretched out its naked 
 arms to waylay her. It was the very tree under which 
 Michael and she had kissed each other, six spring-tides 
 ago. She recognised it suddenly, and turned her eyes 
 away, as if a corpse were hanging in chains from one 
 of its branches. Her averted eyes fell upon a seagull
 
 198 PRISONERS 
 
 wheeling against the blue, the incarnation of freedom 
 and the joy of life. She turned away her eyes again 
 and hurried on, looking neither to right nor left. 
 
 A light wind went with her, drawing her like a " kind 
 constraining hand." 
 
 She stumbled across the bare shoulder of the down to 
 the wood below. 
 
 Magdalen came by the same way soon afterwards, 
 but not to gather primroses. Magdalen usually so 
 serene was becoming daily more troubled. The thought 
 of Michael in prison ground her to the earth. Fay's 
 obvious wayward misery, which yet seemed to bring 
 her no nearer to repentance, preyed upon her. She was 
 crushed beneath her own promise of secrecy. Every 
 day as it passed seemed to cast yet another stone on 
 the heap under which she lay. 
 
 Could she dare to keep that promise? How much 
 longer could she dare to keep it? And yet if she 
 broke it, what would breaking it avail? Certainly 
 not Michael's release. No creature would believe her 
 unsupported word. She had not even been in Italy at 
 the time. She would only appear to be mad. The 
 utmost she might achieve would be to cast a malignant 
 shadow over her sister. Even if Fay herself confessed 
 the difficulties of obtaining Michael's release after this 
 lapse of time would be very great. Unless the con- 
 fession came from her they would be insuperable. 
 
 As Magdalen walked her strong heart quailed within 
 her. Long ago in her passionate youth she had met 
 anguish and had vanquished it alone. But how to 
 bear the burden of another's sin without sharing the 
 sin? How to help Fay and Michael? Fay had in-
 
 PRISONERS 199 
 
 deed cast her burden upon her. She knew not how to 
 endure it, she who had endured so much. 
 
 She reached the wood, and entered one of the manj 
 aimless paths that wandered through it. The uneven 
 ground sloped downwards to the south, and through 
 the manifold branches of the undergrowth of bud- 
 ding hazels the sea lay deeply blue, far away. The 
 primroses were everywhere among the trees. A wind- 
 ing side path beckoned to her. She walked a few steps 
 along it, and came suddenly upon a clearing in the 
 coppice. 
 
 She stood still, dazed. 
 
 The primroses had taken it for their own, had laid 
 tender hold upon that little space, cleared and forgotten 
 in the heart of the wood. 
 
 Young shoots of hazel and ash pricked up here and 
 there from ivy-grown stumps, moss gleamed where it 
 could, through the flood of primroses. The wild green 
 of the mercury, holding its strong shield to the sun, 
 the violets, and the virgin white of the anemones were 
 drowned in the uneven waves and billows and shallows 
 of that sea of primroses. They who come in meekness 
 year by year to roadside hedgerow and homely meadow 
 had come in power. The meek had inherited the earth. 
 
 The light wind impotently came, and vainly went. 
 Overhead a lark sang and sang in the blue. But none 
 heeded them. The wind and the song were but a shadow 
 and an echo. They that are the very core of spring 
 hung forgotten on her garments' fringe. All the pas- 
 sion of the world was gathered into the still, upturned 
 faces of the primroses, glowing with a pale light from 
 within. All the love that ever had been, or could be,
 
 200 PRISONERS 
 
 all rapture of aspiration and service and self-surrender 
 were mirrored there. 
 
 Magdalen wept for Fay, as once in bygone years 
 she had wept for Everard: as perhaps some woman of 
 Palestine may have wept when Jesus of Nazareth passed 
 by, speaking as never man spake, and her lover went 
 with him a little way and then turned back. 
 
 " There is no sorrow," said the primroses. " There 
 is neither sorrow nor sin. You are of one blood with 
 us. You have come through into light, as we have 
 done, and those others are coming, too. There is no 
 sorrow, only a little pressure through the brown earth. 
 There is no sin, only a little waking and stirring in 
 the dark. Why then grieve, oh little faith ! They are 
 all waking and coming. For the Hand that made us 
 made them. The Whisper that waked us, wakes them. 
 The Sun that draws us, draws them. The Sun will have 
 us come." 
 
 Fay had already passed by that way, had picked a 
 few primroses, and had gone on. Was she never to be 
 at peace again? Was she never to know what it is to 
 lie down in peace at night, never to know what it is 
 to be without fear. Her whole soul yearned for peace, 
 as the sick man yearns for sleep. Andrea had prayed 
 that she might find peace. Magdalen had told her 
 where peace lay. But all that she had found was 
 despair. 
 
 On her way homewards she came again upon the 
 clearing and stopped short. The place seemed to have
 
 PRISONERS 201 
 
 undergone some subtle change. A tall figure was stand- 
 ing motionless in it. The face was turned away, but 
 Fay recognised it instantly. As she came close Mag- 
 dalen turned. For a moment Fay saw that she did 
 not recognise her, that she was withdrawn into a great 
 peace and light. 
 
 Then recognition dawned in Magdalen's eyes and 
 with it came a look of tenderness unspeakable. 
 
 " Fay," she said in a great compassion. " How 
 much longer will you torture yourself and Michael? 
 How much longer will you keep him in prison ? " 
 
 Fay was transfixed. 
 
 Those were the same words that Andrea had said on 
 his deathbed. Those words were alive, though he was 
 dead. Never to any living creature, not even to Mag- 
 dalen, had she repeated them. Yet Magdalen was say- 
 ing them. She could not withstand them any longer. 
 The very stones would shriek them out next. 
 
 She fell at Magdalen's feet with a cry. 
 
 " I will speak," she gasped in mortal terror. " I 
 will speak." And she clung for very life to her sister's 
 knees, and hid her face in her gown.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 To-day unbind the captive, 
 So only are ye unbound. 
 
 EMERSON. 
 
 THE following afternoon saw Magdalen and Fay driv- 
 ing together to Lostford, to consult the Bishop as to 
 what steps it would be advisable to take in the matter 
 of Michael's release. Magdalen felt it would be well- 
 nigh impossible to go direct to Wentworth, even if he 
 had been at Barford. But he had been summoned to 
 London the day before on urgent business. And with 
 Fay even a day's delay might mean a change of mind. 
 It was essential to act at once. 
 
 But to Magdalen's surprise Fay did not try to draw- 
 back. When the carriage came to the door she got 
 into it. She assented to everything, was ready to do 
 anything Magdalen told her. She was like one stunned. 
 She had at last closed with the inevitable. She had 
 found it too strong for her. 
 
 Did Fay realise how frightfully she had complicated 
 her position by her own folly? She lay back in her 
 corner of the brougham with her eyes shut, pallid, 
 silent. Magdalen held her hand, and spoke encour- 
 agingly from time to time. 
 
 You had to be constantly holding Fay's hand, or 
 kissing her, or taking her in your arms if you were to 
 make her feel that you loved her. The one light austere 
 
 202
 
 PRISONERS 203 
 
 touch, the long grave look, that between reserved and 
 sympathetic natures goes deeper than any caress, were 
 nothing to Fay. 
 
 It was a long drive to Lostford, and to-day it seemed 
 interminable. 
 
 The lonely chalk road seemed to stretch forever 
 across the down. Now and then a few heavily-matted, 
 fatigued-looking sheep, hustled by able-bodied lambs, 
 got in the way. The postman, horn on shoulder, passed 
 them on his way to Priesthope with the papers. 
 
 Once a man on a horse cantered past across the 
 grass at some distance. Magdalen recognised Went- 
 worth on Conrad. She saw him turn into the bridle 
 path that led to Priesthope. He had then just returned 
 from London. 
 
 " He is on his way to see Fay," said Magdalen to her- 
 self, " and he is actually in a hurry. How interested 
 he must be in the ardour of his own emotions at this 
 moment. He will have a delightful ride, and he can 
 analyse his feelings of disappointment at not seeing her, 
 on his way home to tea." 
 
 Magdalen glanced at Fay, but she still lay back 
 with closed eyes. She had not seen that passing figure. 
 
 Magdalen's mind followed .Wentworth. 
 
 " Does she realise the complications that must almost 
 certainly ensue with Wentworth directly her confession 
 is made? 
 
 " Will her first step towards a truer life, her first 
 action of reparation estrange him from her? " 
 
 The Bishop was pacing up and down in the library 
 at Lostford, waiting for Magdalen and Fay, when the
 
 204 PRISONERS 
 
 servant brought in the day's papers. He took them up 
 instantly with the alertness of a man who can only 
 make time for necessary things by seizing every spare 
 moment. 
 
 " Oh ! you two wicked women," he said as he opened 
 the Times. " Why are you late ? Why are you 
 late?" 
 
 They were only five minutes late. 
 
 His swift eye travelled from column to column. Sud- 
 denly his attention was arrested. He became absorbed. 
 Then he laid down the paper, and said below his breath 
 " Thank God." 
 
 At that moment Magdalen and Fay were announced. 
 
 For a second it seemed as if the Bishop had forgotten 
 them. Then he recollected and went forward to meet 
 them. He knew that only a matter of supreme urgency 
 could have made Magdalen word her telegram as she 
 had worded it, and when he caught sight of Fay's face 
 he realised that she was in jeopardy. 
 
 All other preoccupations fell from him instantly. 
 He welcomed them gravely, almost in silence. 
 
 The sisters sat down close together on a sofa. Fay's 
 trembling hand put up her long black veil, and then 
 sought Magdalen's hand, which was ready for it. 
 
 There was a short silence. Magdalen looked ear- 
 nestly at her sister. 
 
 Fay's face became suddenly convulsed. 
 
 " Fay is in great trouble," said Magdalen. " She 
 has come to tell you about it. She has suffered very 
 much." 
 
 " I can see that," said the Bishop. 
 
 " I wish to confess," said Fay in a smothered voice.
 
 PRISONERS 205 
 
 " That is a true instinct," said the Bishop. " God 
 puts it into our hearts to confess when we are unhappy 
 so that we may be comforted. When we come to see 
 that we have done less well than we might have done 
 then we need comfort." 
 
 Fay looked from him to Magdalen with wide, hardly 
 human eyes, like some tiny trapped animal between two 
 executioners. 
 
 The Bishop's heart contracted. 
 
 Poor, poor little thing ! 
 
 " Would you like to see me alone, my child ?" he 
 said, seeing a faint trembling like that of a butterfly 
 beginning in her. " All you say to me will be under 
 the seal of confession. It will never pass my lips." 
 
 It was Magdalen's turn to become pale. 
 
 " Shall I go ? " she said, looking fixedly at her sister. 
 
 " Yes," said Fay, her eyes on the floor. 
 
 Magdalen went slowly to the door, feeling her way as 
 if half blind. 
 
 " Come back," shrieked Fay suddenly. " Magdalen, 
 come back. I shall never say it all, I shall keep back 
 part unless you are there to hold me to it. Come back. 
 Come back." 
 
 Magdalen returned and sat down. The Bishop 
 watched them both in silence. 
 
 " I have confessed once, already," said Fay in a 
 low hurried voice, " under the promise of silence. Mag- 
 dalen promised not to say, and I told her everything, 
 weeks ago. I thought I should feel better then, but 
 it wasn't any good. It only made it worse." 
 
 " It is often like that," said the Bishop. " We try 
 to do something right but not in the best way, and
 
 206 PRISONERS 
 
 just the fact of trying shows us there is a better way 
 only harder, so hard we don't know how to bring our- 
 selves to it. Isn't that what you feel? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " But there is no rest, no peace till we come to it." 
 
 " No," whispered Fay. " Never any rest." 
 
 " That is God's Hand drawing you," said the Bishop, 
 his mind seeming to embrace and support Fay's totter- 
 ing soul. " There are things He wants done, which 
 He needs us to do for Him, which perhaps only we can 
 do for Him. At first we don't understand that, and 
 we are so ignorant and foolish that we resist the pres- 
 sure of His Hand. Then we suffer." 
 
 Fay shivered. 
 
 " That resistance is what some people call sin. It is 
 unendurable, the only real anguish in the world. You 
 see we are not meant to bear it. And it is no manner 
 of use to resist Him, for God is stronger than we are, 
 and He loves us too much ever to lose heart with us, 
 ever to blame us, ever to leave us to ourselves. He 
 sees we don't understand that He can't do without us, 
 and that we can't do without Him. And at last, when 
 we feel God's need of us, then it becomes possible " 
 the Bishop paused " to say the difficult word, to do 
 the difficult deed." 
 
 Did she understand? Who shall say! Sometimes 
 it seems as if no actual word reaches us that Love would 
 fain say to our unrest and misery. But our troubled 
 hearts are nevertheless conscious by some other chan- 
 nel, some medium more subtle than thought and speech, 
 that Love and Peace have drawn very near to us. It 
 is only reflected dimly through dear human faces that
 
 PRISONERS 207 
 
 some of us can catch a glimpse of " the light that 
 lighteth every man that cometh into the world." 
 
 The small tortured face relaxed between the two 
 calm ones. The sunny room was quite still. Fear 
 shrank to a shadow. 
 
 Suddenly the fire drew itself together with a little 
 encouraging sound. 
 
 Fay started slightly, looked at it, and began to 
 speak rapidly in a low clear voice. 
 
 As Magdalen listened she prayed with intensity that 
 Fay might really tell the Bishop the whole story, as 
 she had told it to herself, that stormy night in March, 
 half a life-time ago. 
 
 The little voice went on and on. It faltered, sank, 
 and then struggled up again. One point after another 
 was reached in safety, was passed. Nothing that Fay 
 had already admitted was left out. Gradually, as Mag- 
 dalen listened, a faint shame laid hold of her. Her 
 whole life had for the time centred in one passionate 
 overwhelming desire that Fay should make to the Bishop 
 as full a confession as she had made to herself. Now 
 she realised that Fay was saying even more than she 
 had done on that occasion, was excusing herself less, 
 was blaming others less. 
 
 Fay herself saw no discrepancy between her first 
 and second account of the tragedy. But then she never 
 did see discrepancies. Her mind had shifted a little 
 towards the subject, that was all. This mysterious 
 unconscious shifting of the mind had been hidden from 
 Magdalen, who had felt with anguish that all she had 
 said on that night of the storm had had no effect on 
 Fay's mind. She had never seen till now a vestige of
 
 208 PRISONERS 
 
 an effect. Fay had shrunk from her persistently after- 
 wards, that was all. 
 
 Strong and ardent souls often wonder why an appeal 
 which they know, if made to themselves, would clinch 
 them forever into a regenerating repentance is entirely 
 powerless with a different class of mind. But although 
 an irresistible truth spoken in love will renovate our 
 being, and will fail absolutely to reach the mind of 
 another, nevertheless the weaker, vainer nature will 
 sometimes pick out of the uncomfortable appeal, to 
 which it turns its deaf ear, a few phrases less distress- 
 ing to its amour propre than the rest. To these it will 
 listen. Fay had retained in her mind Magdalen's vivid 
 description of the love her husband and Michael had 
 borne her. She had often dwelt upon the remembrance 
 that she had been greatly loved. During the miserable 
 weeks when she had virtually made up her mind not 
 to speak, that remembrance had worked within her like 
 leaven, unconsciously softening her towards her hus- 
 band, drawing her towards compassion on Michael. 
 
 Now that she did speak again she did not reproach 
 them. She who had blamed them both so bitterly a few 
 short weeks ago blamed them no longer. Nor did she 
 say anything about the culpable silence of the real 
 murderer. That mysterious criminal, that scapegoat 
 who had so far aroused her bitterest animosity had 
 ceased to darken her mind. 
 
 Fay had passed unconsciously far beyond the limita- 
 tions of Magdalen's anxious prayer on her behalf. The 
 love of Andrea and Michael, tardily seen, only partially 
 realised, had helped her at last. 
 
 The Bishop listened and listened, a little bent for-
 
 PRISONERS 209 
 
 ward, his eyes on the floor, his chin in his hand. Once 
 he made a slight movement when Fay reached Michael's 
 arrest, but he quickly recovered himself. 
 
 The faint voice faltered itself out at last. The story 
 was at an end. The Duke was dead and Michael was 
 in prison. 
 
 " I have kept him there two years," said Fay, and 
 was silent. 
 
 How she had raged against the cruelty of her hus- 
 band's dying words. What passionate, vindictive tears 
 she had shed at the remembrance of them. Now, un- 
 consciously, she adopted them herself. She had ceased 
 to resist them, and the sting had gone clean out of 
 them. 
 
 " Two years," said the Bishop. " Two years. Fast 
 bound in misery and iron. You in misery and he only 
 in iron. You two poor children." 
 
 His strong face worked, and for a moment he shaded 
 it with his hand. 
 
 Then he looked keenly at Fay. 
 
 " And you have come to me to ask me to advise you 
 how to set Michael and yourself free? " 
 
 " Yes," whispered Fay. 
 
 " It was time to come," 
 
 There was a short silence. 
 
 " And you understand, my dear, dear child, that you 
 can only rescue Michael by taking heavy blame upon 
 yourself, blame first of all for having a clandestine 
 meeting with him, and then blame for letting him sacri- 
 fice himself for your good name, and lastly blame for 
 keeping an innocent man in prison so long." 
 
 Fay shook like <n leaf.
 
 210 PRISONERS 
 
 The Bishop took her lifeless hands in his, and held 
 them. He made her meet his eyes. Stern, tender, 
 unflinching eyes they were, with a glint of tears in them. 
 
 " You are willing to bear the cross, and endure the 
 shame? " he said. 
 
 Two large tears gathered in Fay's wide eyes, and 
 rolled down her bloodless cheeks. 
 
 You could not look at her, and think that the poor 
 thing was willing to endure anything, capable of 
 enduring anything. 
 
 The Bishop looked at her, through her. 
 
 *' Or would you rather go home and wait in misery a 
 little longer, and keep him in his cell a little longer: 
 another week another month another year! You 
 know best how much longer you can wait." 
 
 Silence. 
 
 " And Michael can wait, too." 
 
 " Michael must come out," said Fay, with a sob. 
 " He was always good to me." 
 
 " Thank God," said the Bishop, and he rose abruptly 
 and went to the window. 
 
 Magdalen and Fay did not move. They leaned a 
 little closer together. Fay's timid eyes sought her 
 sister's like those of a child which has repeated its les- 
 son, and looks to its teacher to see if it has done well. 
 
 Magdalen kissed her on the eyes. 
 
 " I have said everything, haven't I? " 
 
 " Everything." 
 
 " I wish I was dead." 
 
 Magdalen had no voice to answer with. 
 
 The Bishop came back, and sat down opposite them. 
 
 *' Fay," he said, " as long as you live you will be
 
 PRISONERS 211 
 
 thankful that you came to me to-day, that you were 
 willing to make atonement by this great act of repara- 
 tion. The comfort of that remembrance will sink deep 
 into your troubled heart, and will heal its wounds. But 
 the sacrifice is not to be exacted of you. I had to 
 ask if you were willing to make it. But there is no 
 longer any necessity for you to make it. Do you 
 understand? " 
 
 The Bishop spoke slowly. The two women looked 
 at him with dilated eyes. 
 
 " Is Michael dead? " said Magdalen. 
 
 " No. Michael is, I believe, well. The murderer of 
 the Marchese di Maltagliala has confessed. It is in 
 to-day's papers. The Marchese was murdered by his 
 wife. It was quite sudden and unpremeditated, the 
 work of an instant of terror. She has made a full con- 
 fession on her deathbed. It exonerates Michael en- 
 tirely. She implores his forgiveness for her long 
 silence." 
 
 The Bishop's last words reached Fay from a great 
 distance. The room with its many books, and the tall 
 mullioned window with the bare elm branches across 
 it, were all turning gently together in a spreading 
 dimness. The only thing that remained fixed was Mag- 
 dalen's shoulder, and even that shook a little. Fay 
 leaned her face against it, and let all the rest go. The 
 window with its tree quivered for a moment across the 
 dark and then flickered out. The consciousness of tender 
 hands and voices lingered a moment longer and then 
 vanished too.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 All the heavy days are over. W. B. YEATS. 
 
 IT was very late when Magdalen and Fay reached home. 
 
 Bessie was on the lookout for them, and met them in 
 the hall. 
 
 '* Wentworth has been here," she said. " He arrived 
 about an hour after you had started. As you were 
 both out he asked to see me. He was greatly excited. 
 He had come to tell us that Michael's innocence has 
 suddenly been proved. He goes to Italy to-morrow. 
 He said he would call here on his way to the station 
 a little before eleven, to tell you both about it." 
 
 And punctually at a few minutes to eleven Wentworth 
 appeared, and was ushered into the little white morning- 
 room where Fay was waiting for him. 
 
 The room was full of sunshine. The soft air came 
 gently in, bringing with it a breath of primroses. 
 
 Delight was in the room, tremulous, shining in Fay's 
 eyes. Delight was in the whole atmosphere. An enor- 
 mous boundless relief overflowed everything. 
 
 Wentworth was excited, softened, swept out of him- 
 self. 
 
 He held her soft hand in his. He tried to speak, 
 but he could not. His eyes filled with tears. He was 
 ashamed. 
 
 And when he looked up he saw Fay's eyes were wet, 
 too. His heart went out to her. She was rejoicing 
 
 219
 
 PRISONERS 213 
 
 with him. He pulled himself together, and told her 
 what little he knew ; not much more than the bare facts 
 contained in the papers. It was now known by the 
 Marchesa's confession that the murder took place inside 
 the Colle Alto gardens. Everyone, including the 
 police, had believed that the murder took place in the 
 road, and that the assassin took advantage of the acci- 
 dent of the garden door being unlocked to drag 
 the body into the garden, and hide it there. But the 
 Marchesa stated that she stabbed her husband in the 
 garden suddenly without premeditation, but with intent 
 to kill him, because of his determination to marry their 
 seventeen year old daughter to a friend of his, a roue, 
 the old Duke of Castelfranco, who drank himself to 
 death soon afterwards. 
 
 The Marchesa stated that she dragged the body be- 
 hind a shrub, walked back through the garden to the 
 house with the front of her gown covered with blood 
 without being noticed, found no attendant in the cloak 
 room, wrapped herself in a long cloak not belonging 
 to her, told her servants that the Marchese would fol- 
 low later, and drove home, partially burned her gown 
 and the cloak as if by accident, and then awaited events. 
 The first news she received of her husband's death next 
 morning was accompanied by the amazing information 
 that Michael had confessed to the murder. 
 
 The Marchesa in her tardy confession stated that 
 she believed Michael, who had always shown her great 
 sympathy, must have actually witnessed the crime, and 
 out of a chivalrous impulse towards her, had immedi- 
 ately taken the guilt of it upon himself. 
 
 " That accounts for his extraordinary silence," said
 
 214 PRISONERS 
 
 Wentworth, " not only to others, but to myself. He 
 never would say a word pro or con, even when I told 
 him it was no use trying to persuade me he was guilty. 
 The mystery is cleared up at last. I shall reach Milan 
 to-night, and I shall see him to-morrow. And I sup- 
 pose we may be able to start home the following day. 
 I say these things, but I don't believe them. I can't 
 believe them. It all seems to me like some wonderful 
 dream. And you are like a person in a dream, too, as 
 if a fairy wand had passed over you ? " 
 
 As he spoke Wentworth suddenly realised that this 
 marvellous, radiant transformation which he beheld in 
 Fay, which seemed to flow even to the edges of her 
 lilac gown, was happiness, and that he had never seen 
 her happy till this moment. She had always looked 
 pathetic, mournful, listless. Now for the first time 
 he saw her, as it were, released from some great oppres- 
 sion, and the change was almost that of identity. Her 
 beauty had taken on a new magic. 
 
 There is no joy so rapturous, so perfect as the 
 moment of relief from pain. There was, perhaps, 
 no creature in the world on this particular April 
 morning whose happiness approached Fay's. She 
 raised her white eyelids and smiled at Wentworth. 
 
 His well-conducted heart nudged him suddenly like 
 a vulgar, jocular friend. 
 
 " Is all your gladness for Michael? " he said boldly. 
 " Have you none to spare for me? " 
 
 He was in for it. 
 
 " You must forgive me if I am too impetuous, too 
 precipitate," he said, " but won't you make me doubly 
 happy, Fay, before I go." He rose and came towards
 
 PRISONERS 215 
 
 her. She looked down, half frightened, and he sud- 
 denly felt himself colossal, irresistible, a man not to 
 be trifled with. " You have known for a long time 
 that I love you," he said. "Won't you tell me that 
 you love me a little, too ? " 
 
 A delightful sense of liberty and newness of life were 
 flowing in regenerating waves over Fay's spirit. 
 
 Wentworth seemed a part of this all-pervading joy- 
 ousness and freedom. She made a little half uncon- 
 scious movement towards him, and in a moment, that 
 intrepid man, that dauntless athlete of the emotions had 
 taken her in his arms.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 He who gives up the smallest part of a secret has the 
 rest no longer in his power. JEAN PAUL. 
 
 THE Marchesa's confession made a great and immedi- 
 ate sensation throughout Italy. Everyone who had 
 known Michael, and a great many who had not, pro- 
 claimed with one consent that his innocence was no 
 news to them. The possibility that he might be shield- 
 ing someone had been discussed at the time of the trial, 
 but had found no shred of confirmation. 
 
 And now the mystery was solved at last, and in the 
 most romantic manner. Michael had come out with 
 flying colours. 
 
 To many minds the romance was enhanced by the 
 fact that the Marchesa was a gentle, middle-aged, 
 grey-haired woman in no way attractive, whose whole 
 interest in life centred in her daughter. Michael's 
 transcendent act of chivalry towards the Marchesa, 
 dramatically acknowledged by her at last upon her 
 deathbed, appealed even to the most unimaginative 
 natures. He became the hero of the hour. Tele- 
 grams of congratulation poured in from every quarter. 
 Letters snowed in on him. Even before Wentworth 
 could reach him enthusiastic strangers had tried to 
 force their way into his cell. Determined young re- 
 porters came out in gondolas, and it was all the warders 
 and the doctor could do to protect Michael from 
 invasion. 
 
 216
 
 PRISONERS 217 
 
 He sat apparently stunned in his cell, the only per- 
 son unmoved. Every servant and warder in that dreary 
 establishment had come to offer him their congratula- 
 tions. The other convicts had sent messages. The 
 man in the next cell, slowly dying of gangrene, had 
 crawled from his pallet to beat a tattoo on the wall. 
 The doctor was beside himself with joy. 
 
 " You must keep calm," he kept saying in wild 
 excitement. " Your brother will be here to-morrow 
 morning. I implore you to be calm." 
 
 And he brought Michael his best pipe, and some of 
 his most cherished tobacco, and a weird suit of black 
 clothes, and urged him to spend the evening with him 
 in his own sitting-room. 
 
 But Michael shook his head. He had no hatred of 
 his striped blouse. He was accustomed to it. He said 
 he would prefer to await his brother's arrival in his 
 cell. He was accustomed to that, too. He felt as if 
 he could not bear to have everything torn from him 
 at once, as if he should be lost if all his landmarks were 
 changed. He sat hour by hour, smoking, and every 
 now and then reading Wentworth's telegram. 
 
 He tried to realise it. He said to himself over and 
 over again : " I am free. I am going away. Went- 
 worth is coming to take me home." But it was no good. 
 His mind would not take hold. 
 
 He looked for the twentieth time at Wentworth's 
 telegram. Wentworth was hurrying towards him at 
 this moment, would be travelling all night, would reach 
 him in the morning. Dear, dear Wenty, he would be 
 happy again now. 
 
 Michael groaned.
 
 218 PRISONERS 
 
 " It's no kind of use. I can't believe it." 
 
 He tried to think of Fay. He should see her soon, 
 touch her hand, hear her voice. Poor little darling ! 
 She had not the courage of a mouse. Perhaps she 
 was a little glad at his release. Yes. No doubt she 
 had been pleased to hear it. He hoped she would not 
 feel shy of him at seeing him again. He hoped she 
 would not thank him. 
 
 The door, no longer locked, was suddenly opened, 
 and the head warder deferentially ushered in a visitor. 
 
 A tall, dark man in a tri-coloured sash came in, and 
 the warder withdrew. 
 
 The man bowed and looked with fixity at Michael, 
 who stared back at him, dazed and confused. Where 
 had he seen that face before? 
 
 Ah! He remembered! 
 
 " I perceive that you have not forgotten me," said 
 the Delegate. " It was I who arrested you. It was 
 to me that you confessed to the murder of the Marchese 
 di Maltagliala." 
 
 " I remember." 
 
 " I never was able to reach any certainty that you 
 were really guilty," continued the Delegate. " I was 
 not even convinced that you had had a quarrel with the 
 Marchese." 
 
 " I had no quarrel with him." 
 
 " I knew that. That you might be shielding some- 
 one occurred forcibly to my mind. But who? " 
 
 Michael looked steadily at the official. 
 
 " And there was blood upon your hand and sleeve 
 when you confessed." 
 
 " There was."
 
 PRISONERS 219 
 
 " It was not the Marchese's blood," said the Delegate, 
 drawing a sallow finger across a blue chin. " It re- 
 mained a mystery. I will own that it had not crossed 
 my mind that that fragile and timid lady had killed her 
 husband, and that as she at last confesses you were 
 shielding her." The Delegato looked piercingly at 
 Michael. 
 
 Michael was silent. 
 
 " You have always been silent. Is not the moment 
 come to speak? " 
 
 Michael shook his head. 
 
 The Delegato bowed. 
 
 " I came to ask you to discuss the affair openly," he 
 said, " to relieve my perplexity as a matter of courtesy. 
 But you will not speak. Then I will speak instead. 
 When first I read the Marchesa's confession it came 
 into my mind that the Marchesa, who I believe was 
 your friend, might for some reason, possibly the senti- 
 mental devotion of an older woman for a young man 
 such things have been that she might have confessed 
 on her deathbed to a crime which she had not committed 
 in order to save you from this " he touched the wall 
 of the cell. " I doubted that she really murdered her 
 husband. But she did. I sought out the maid who 
 had been with her when the Marchese died, and she, be- 
 fore the confession was published, informed me that 
 she had not undressed the Marchesa on her return from 
 the Colle Alto party. And that next morning part 
 of the cloak which was not hers, and part of her gown 
 were found to be burnt as stated in her confession. It 
 was indeed necessary to burn them. The Marchesa 
 murdered the Marchese."
 
 220 PRISONERS 
 
 There was a long silence. 
 
 " I cannot tell whether you witnessed the crime or 
 not. At first I thought the blood on your hands and 
 clothes might have come from helping her to drag the 
 body into the garden. But it was not so. At the time 
 I attached a great importance to the garden door being 
 unlocked. Too great. It led me astray. The gardener, 
 in spite of his oath that he had locked it, had probably 
 left it unlocked. We now know from the Marchesa 
 that the murder took place within the garden, and the 
 locking and unlocking of the door was an accident 
 which looked like a clue. . . . But, if you wit- 
 nessed the murder, and wished to retire without raising 
 an alarm, or denouncing that unhappy lady, I ask my- 
 self why did you not open the garden door from within 
 the key was in the lock, I saw it and pass out on 
 to the high road. Why did you, instead, try so hard 
 to escape over the wall behind the ilexes that you tore 
 your hands on the cut glass on the top? I found the 
 place next day. There was blood on it. When you 
 were struggling to escape over that wall you were not 
 anxious to take the Marchesa's guilt upon your- 
 self. When you were hiding behind the screen in the 
 Duchess' apartment you were not at that moment 
 very determined to shield the Marchesa from the con- 
 sequences of her deed. All Italy is ringing with your 
 quixotic, your chivalrous, your superb action. Never- 
 theless, if I had quitted the Duchess' apartment, if 
 my natural and trained acuteness had not made one last 
 effort respecting the screen, I do not think you would 
 have followed me into the garden to denounce yourself " 
 
 The Delegato paused.
 
 PRISONERS 221 
 
 Michael was quite unmoved. Everything reached 
 him dimly as through a mist. He partly saw the diffi- 
 culty in the official's mind, but it did not interest him. 
 He was cleared. That was enough. 
 
 " In two years much is forgotten," said the Dele- 
 gate, sententiously, " and it is, perhaps, I alone who 
 recall the more minute details of the case, because I 
 was present and my interest was overwhelming. I have 
 not spoken of this to anyone but yourself. I shall not 
 speak of it again. I have taken a journey to discuss 
 it with you because I had hoped you would understand 
 my professional interest in unravelling that which re- 
 mains still obscure, a mystery, which is daily becoming 
 to me a greater mystery than before the Marchesa's 
 confession. You have it in your power to gratify my 
 natural desire for elucidation by an explanation which 
 can no longer injure you in any way. You are inno- 
 cent. It is proved. But even now you will not speak. 
 You prefer to preserve your attitude of silence to the 
 end. Good ! I will intrude on you no longer. I offer 
 you my congratulations. I deplore your inevitable 
 imprisonment. I withdraw." 
 
 The Delegato bowed yet again and went to the door. 
 
 " That of which you will not speak was known to 
 your friend the Duke of Colle Alto," he said. " The 
 Duke knew." 
 
 " The Duke is dead," said Michael. 
 
 " I am aware of that," said the Delegato, frigidly. 
 He bowed for the last time, and left the cell, gently 
 closing the door.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 Est-ce done une monnaie que votre amour, pour qu'il 
 puisse passer ainsi de main en main jusqu'a la mort? Non, 
 ce n'est pas meme une monnaie ; car la plus mince piece d'or 
 vaut mieux que vous, et dans quelques mains qu'elle passe 
 elle garde son effigee. A. DE MUSSET. 
 
 WENTWORTH came in the morning, tremulous, eager, 
 holding Michael by the shoulders, as he used to do when 
 Michael was a small boy, as he had never done since. 
 
 The brothers looked long at each other with locked 
 hands, water in their eyes. 
 
 " Wenty," said Michael at last, with his grave smile. 
 
 And that was all. 
 
 They sat down together in silence on the little bed. 
 Wentworth tried to speak once or twice, but it was no 
 use. 
 
 " Fay cried with joy at the news," he said at 
 last, looking with shy hungry love at his brother. 
 " If you could have seen her radiant face. I never saw 
 any creature so changed, so transfigured." 
 
 A faint flush rose to Michael's face. 
 
 " I know how she grieved over your imprisonment. 
 She is the most tender-hearted woman in the world. I 
 never knew anyone so sympathetic." Wentworth hesi- 
 tated. Then he added tremulously. " My great grief 
 has been her grief, too. She helped me to bear it." 
 
 " I did not know she had minded so much," said 
 Michael, almost inaudibly. 
 
 222
 
 .. i, r 
 
 PRISONERS 223 
 
 " You might have guessed it," said Wentworth, 
 
 knowing her to be what she is. She has always been 
 so pale and sad, as if bowed down by trouble. But 
 directly the news came that you were cleared I went 
 to see her at once if you could only have seen her face, 
 her tears of joy, her delight." 
 
 "Did she send a message, or a note? Just a line. 
 Perhaps you have a letter with you." 
 
 " No, she did not write," said Wentworth, self con- 
 scious, but beaming. " There was not time. There 
 was time for nothing. It was all such a rush. I only 
 saw her on my way to the station. But I know she 
 won't mind my telling you, Michael you ought to 
 know first of anyone it all seems so wonderful. But 
 I daresay no, I see you have guessed it I daresay I 
 have said things in my letters that showed you it was 
 coming it was the grief about you that first drew us 
 together. Fay and I are going to be married." 
 
 Michael put his hand to his head. 
 
 " Everything has come at once," said Wentworth. 
 " I have you again. And I have her. I've nothing 
 left to wish for." 
 
 Michael did not leave the prison in the gondola which 
 had brought Wentworth, and which was waiting to take 
 them both away. The excitement of his brother's 
 arrival had proved too great, and he fell from one 
 fainting fit into another. Wentworth was greatly 
 alarmed, but the doctor was reassuring and cheerful. 
 He said that Michael had borne the news with almost 
 unnatural calmness, but that the shock must have been 
 great, and a breakdown was to be expected. He
 
 224 PRISONERS 
 
 laughed at Wentworth's anxiety even while he minis- 
 tered to Michael, and assured him that no one in his 
 experience had died of joy. 
 
 But later in the evening when Wentworth, somewhat 
 pacified, had returned to Venice for the night, the 
 doctor felt yet again for the twentieth time that the 
 young Englishman baffled him. 
 
 It seemed to him that he was actually relieved when 
 the kind, awkward, tender elder brother had reluctantly 
 taken his departure, promising to come back early in 
 the morning. 
 
 " Do not distress yourself, you will be quite well 
 enough to leave to-morrow," the doctor said to him 
 many times. " I expected this momentary collapse. It 
 is nothing." 
 
 Michael's eyes dwelt on the kind face and then closed. 
 There was that in them which the doctor could not 
 fathom. 
 
 He took the food that was pressed on him, and then 
 turned his face to the wall, and made as if he slept. 
 
 And the walls bent over him, and whispered to him, 
 " Stay with us. We are not so cruel as the world 
 outside." 
 
 And that night the dying convict in the next cell, 
 nearly as close on freedom as Michael, heard all through 
 the night a low sound of strangled anguish that ever 
 stifled itself into silence, and ever broke forth anew, 
 from dark to dawn. 
 
 The next morning Michael went feebly down the 
 prison steps, calm and wan, leaning on Wentworth's 
 careful arm, and smiling affectionately at him.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 Les caracteres faibles ne montrent de la decision que 
 quand il s'agit de faire un sottise. DANIEL DARC. 
 
 A WEEK or two after the news of Michael's proved 
 innocence had convulsed Hampshire, and before Michael 
 and Wentworth had returned to Barford, Aunt Aggie 
 might have been seen on a fine May afternoon walking 
 slowly towards " The Towers." She had let her cot- 
 tage at Saundersfoot for an unusually long period, and 
 was marking time with the Blores. Whatever Aunt 
 Mary's faults might be she was always ready to help 
 her sister in this practical manner, when Aunt Aggie 
 was anxious to add to the small, feebly frittered away 
 income, on which her muddled, impecunious existence 
 depended. 
 
 In spite of the most pertinent remarks to the con- 
 trary from her sister, Aunt Aggie believed herself to 
 be an unsurpassed manager of restricted means. She 
 constantly advised young married couples as to the 
 judicious expenditure of money, and pressed on Mag- 
 dalen the necessity of retrenching in exasperating 
 directions, namely, where a minute economy entailed 
 a colossal inconvenience. 
 
 In her imagination she saw herself continually con- 
 sulted, depended on, strenuously implored to give her 
 opinion on matters of the utmost delicacy, fervently 
 blessed for her powerful spiritual assistance of souls 
 
 225
 
 226 PRISONERS 
 
 in jeopardy, and always gracefully attributing the 
 marvellous results of her intervention to a Higher 
 Power of which she was but the unworthy channel. 
 
 These imaginary scenes were the unfailing solace 
 of Aunt Aggie's somewhat colourless life, and the con- 
 sciousness of them in the background gave her a certain 
 meek and even patient self-importance, the basis of 
 which was hidden from Lady Blore. 
 
 Aunt Aggie had also another perennial source of 
 chastened happiness in recalling the romance of her 
 youth, those halcyon days before the Archdeacon had 
 been unsuccessfully harpooned and put to flight by 
 Lady Blore. 
 
 Her clerical love affair perfumed her conversation, 
 as a knife which has once associated with an onion 
 inevitably reveals, even in estrangement, that bygone 
 intimacy. 
 
 No one could breathe the word Margate without 
 Aunt Aggie remarking that she had had a dear friend 
 who had evinced a great partiality for Margate. Were 
 the clergy mentioned in her presence with the scant 
 respect with which the ministry and other secular bodies 
 have to put up, Aunt Aggie vibrated with indignation. 
 She had known men of the highest talents holding pre- 
 ferment in the Church. 
 
 But in her imagination her affair of the heart had 
 passed beyond reminiscence. Far from being buried 
 in the past it remained the chief factor in her life, 
 colouring and shaping the whole of her future. 
 
 Aunt Aggie could at any moment dip into a kind of 
 sequel to that early history. In the sequel the Arch- 
 deacon's wife was, of course, to die; but, owing to
 
 PRISONERS 227 
 
 circumstances which Aunt Aggie had not yet thor- 
 oughly worked out, that unhappy lady was first to 
 undergo tortures in some remote locality, nursed de- 
 votedly poor thing by Aunt Aggie. The result of 
 her ministrations was never in doubt from the first. 
 The Archdeacon's wife was, of course, to succumb, 
 calling down blessings on the devoted stranger at her 
 bedside, with the enigmatical smile which spoke of some 
 sacred sorrow. 
 
 Aunt Aggie had shed many delicious tears over that 
 deathbed scene, and the chastened grief of the saintly 
 Archdeacon, quite overshadowed by his boundless grati- 
 tude to herself. At this crisis his overwhelming deso- 
 lation wrung from him with gross disloyalty to the 
 newly dead a few disjointed sentences which revealed 
 only too clearly how unsuited to him his wife had been, 
 how little she had understood him, how lonely his 
 wedded life had been. She had evidently been one of 
 those tall thin maypoles of women who have but little 
 tenderness in them. 
 
 Aunt Aggie, after giving the children a sample of 
 what a real mother could be, was to retire to her little 
 home at Saundersfoot. Here the real joy of the situa- 
 tion was to begin. 
 
 After a decent interval the Archdeacon was to be 
 constantly visiting Saundersfoot, was to be observed 
 visiting Aunt Aggie at Saundersfoot, singling her out 
 from among the numerous spinsters of that watering- 
 place to make her the object of reverent attentions. 
 Others younger and better looking than Aunt Aggie 
 especially Miss Barnett, the doctor's sister, who, it 
 was whispered, wore an artificial cushion from Doug-
 
 228 PRISONERS 
 
 las's under her hair were to set their caps or cushions 
 at the dignified Archdeacon, seen pacing the sands. 
 But it was all of no avail. He had eyes for no one but 
 the gentle, retiring Miss Bellairs. Aunt Aggie was to 
 become the object of burning jealousy and detraction 
 on the part of the female that is to say almost the 
 whole population of Saundersfoot. But she herself, 
 while envious calumny raged round her, went on her 
 way calm and grave as ever. 
 
 But the proposal long warded off could not be par- 
 ried forever. The frenzied passion of the Archdeacon 
 was at last not to be restrained. Aunt Aggie had in 
 her mind a set of proposals, all good, out of which it 
 became harder and harder as time went on to select 
 one. But her answer was ever the same, a pained but 
 firm refusal. She was happy in her lot. She was 
 greatly needed where she was. She did not wish to 
 marry. She was no longer young. This last reason 
 was an enormous concession to realism on Aunt Aggie's 
 part. 
 
 Then came the cream of the whole story. The Arch- 
 deacon was to pine secretly. His work was to be neg- 
 lected. He was to be threatened with a nervous break- 
 down. He was to confide his sorrow to the paternal 
 bosom of his Bishop. When Aunt Aggie was in her 
 normal state it was the Bishop in whom the Archdeacon 
 was to confide. But sometimes in the evenings after a 
 glass of cowslip wine, her imagination took a bolder 
 flight. The Archbishop himself was to be the confi- 
 dant of the distracted cleric. This presented no real 
 difficulty after the first moment, for the Archbishop was 
 in the flower of his age the Archdeacon's age and
 
 PRISONERS 229 
 
 might easily have been at school with him. Aunt Aggie 
 had once seen Lambeth from a cab window as she passed 
 over Westminster Bridge. Under that historic tower 
 she heard the first subject of the King urge his brother 
 prelate to take heart, promising assistance. 
 
 We will pass over Aunt Aggie's amazed reception of a 
 cordial invitation to stay at Lambeth, her hesitating ac- 
 ceptance, her arrival, the magnificent banquet, crowded 
 with ministers and bishops, the fact that the Archbishop 
 himself singled her out as the object of courtly though 
 somewhat anxious attentions. And then after dinner 
 Aunt Aggie, in her plum-coloured satin, was to be uncon- 
 sciously but skilfully withdrawn from the glittering 
 throng by the Archbishop. And in his study he was 
 to make a great, a fervent appeal to her. Aunt Aggie 
 had bought a photograph of him in order to deaden the 
 shock of this moment. But nevertheless whenever she 
 reached this point she was always really frightened. 
 Her hands really trembled. The Archbishop was to 
 ask her with tempered indignation how much longer 
 she intended to nullify the labours of his ablest col- 
 league, how much longer her selfish predilection for 
 celibacy was to wreck the life and paralyse the powers 
 of a broken-hearted man. Her cruelty was placed be- 
 fore her in glowing colours. She was observed to waver, 
 to falter. A tear was seen in spite of her marvellous 
 self-control to course down her cheek. The eye of an 
 Archbishop misses nothing. With an ejaculation of 
 profound relief he beckons to a distant figure which 
 appears in a doorway. The Archdeacon in his evening 
 gaiters rushes in. Aunt Aggie gives way ! 
 
 After this final feat of the imagination Aunt Aggie
 
 230 PRISONERS 
 
 generally felt so worn out by emotion that food was 
 absolutely necessary to her. 
 
 On this occasion she sat down quivering on a heap of 
 stones by the roadside, and drew forth a biscuit which 
 she had secreted at luncheon at the Vicarage an hour 
 before. It must be owned that she was fond of food, 
 though not in the same way that most of us are addicted 
 to it. She liked eating buns out of paper bags at odd 
 moments in the open air, and nibbling a sponge cake 
 half forgotten and suddenly found in a drawer with 
 her handkerchiefs. But in justice to her it ought to 
 be added that she seemed only to care for the kind of 
 provender which yielded the largest increment in the 
 way of crumbs. 
 
 As she sat and nibbled an uneasy recollection stole 
 across her mind. 
 
 This recollection was becoming more disconcerting 
 day by day. And yet she had acted for the best. 
 That fact did not insure to her immunity from blame on 
 the part of that awful personage, her sister Mary. 
 Good intentions had never yet received their due as 
 extenuating circumstances in Lady Blore's sweeping 
 judgments. 
 
 If a certain secret chivalrous action of Aunt Aggie's 
 *' turned out wrong," she knew well the intonation in 
 which Lady Blore would ask her why she had been such 
 a fool. Nevertheless she, Aunt Aggie, had only done 
 with consummate tact what Mary herself had contem- 
 plated doing in her rough way, and had been persuaded 
 not to do. 
 
 Some weeks ago Aunt Aggie had concocted in secret, 
 recopied about twenty times, and had finally despatched
 
 PRISONERS 231 
 
 a letter to Lord Lossiemouth anent Magdalen. It had 
 been the boldest action of her life. At first, even after 
 she had seen that she was the only person able to deal 
 adequately with so delicate a matter, she had feared 
 that she would not have the strength to perform her 
 mission. But strength had apparently been lent to 
 her for the occasion. The letter had actually been 
 posted. 
 
 The moment it was irrevocably gone Aunt Aggie fell 
 into a panic. Supposing it failed in its object, and that 
 Algernon or Mary discovered what she had done. She 
 could not even face such a possibility. But then, sup- 
 posing on the other hand that her missive united two 
 loving, estranged hearts, and that dear Magdalen owed 
 her happiness and a titled happiness to her. Then 
 Algernon and Mary would be forced to admit that she 
 had shown a courage and devotion greater than theirs. 
 " We only talked, you acted," they would both say, 
 and she would thenceforth be recognised in her true 
 light, as an incomparable counsellor, and a judicious, 
 far-seeing friend. 
 
 But three weeks had elapsed since Aunt Aggie, steal- 
 ing out alone, had dropped that momentous letter into 
 the village post-box. Nothing had happened. She 
 had not even received an answer. She was becoming 
 frightened and anxious. Was he secretly married? 
 She wished she had thought of that possibility before 
 she posted the letter. 
 
 Many simple-minded men of disengaged affections, 
 cheerfully pursuing their virtuous avocations, would 
 be thunderstruck if they knew the dark suspicions har- 
 boured against them in spinster bosoms, that they are
 
 232 PRISONERS 
 
 concealing some discreditable matrimonial secret, which 
 alone can account for their well their extraordinary 
 behaviour in not coming forward! 
 
 It has actually been said that real life is not always 
 like a novel. This feebly false assertion was dis- 
 proved forever in Aunt Aggie's mind by the sight of a 
 dog-cart coming rapidly toward her from the direction 
 of Lostford. She glanced indifferently at it as it 
 approached, and then her pale eyes became glued 
 to it. In the dog-cart sat Everard Constable, now 
 Lord Lossiemouth. She had not seen him for fifteen 
 years, but nevertheless she recognised him instantly. 
 There was no doubt it was he: thickened and coarsened, 
 but still he. He whirled past leaning back in his seat, 
 looking neither to right nor left. 
 
 Aunt Aggie's heart gave a thump that nearly upset 
 her equilibrium. The biscuit dropped onto the road, 
 with a general upheaval of crumbs from all parts of 
 her agitated person. 
 
 Lord Lossiemouth! 
 
 Going in the direction of Priesthope ! 
 
 Her letter! 
 
 She nearly swooned with joy and pride. 
 
 Now Mary and Algernon, now everyone would be- 
 lieve in her. 
 
 She raised herself from the heap of stones and with 
 trembling legs hurried towards " The Towers." She 
 must tell Mary at once. 
 
 She found Lady Blore seated at her writing-table 
 in the drawing-room, which was choked by the eastern 
 and Japanese impedimenta, the draperies, the krises, 
 the metal bowls, the ivory boxes, which an Indian career
 
 233 
 
 seems so inevitably to entail. Sir John had brought 
 back crates of the kind of foreign bric-a-brac cheap 
 imitations of which throng London shop windows. The 
 little entrance hall was stuffy with skins. Horned skulls 
 garnished the walls, pleading silently for decent burial. 
 Even the rugs had once been bears. 
 
 Aunt Mary was bored with her drawing-room, which 
 looked like a stall at a bazaar, but, to her credit be 
 it said, that she had never made any change in it, except 
 to remove a brass idol from the writing-table, at which 
 she was at this moment sitting. 
 
 By one of those sudden instincts which make people 
 like Aunt Aggie the despair of those with whom they 
 live, she instantaneously conceived the idea (for no rea- 
 son except that she was thinking of her own letter) that 
 her sister was at that moment writing to Lord Lossie- 
 mouth. 
 
 She " had a feeling " that this was the case. The 
 feeling became in a second a rooted conviction. The 
 butler came in, arranged an uncomfortable Indian table, 
 placed a brass tray with tea things on it before Lady 
 Blore, and asked if there were any more letters for the 
 post. Aunt Mary was in the act of giving him one 
 when Aunt Aggie intervened. 
 
 " Don't," she said in wild agitation, clasping her 
 hands. " Mary, I beg of you, I conjure you not to 
 post that letter." 
 
 "Why not? I have resolved to give him another 
 chance." 
 
 " Keep it back one post, I implore you. I have a 
 reason." 
 
 Aunt Mary looked attentively at her sister, and
 
 234 PRISONERS 
 
 took back the letter. It was not like her to give way. 
 She seemed less overbearing than usual. 
 
 "Well? Why not employ him again?" she said 
 wearily. " The Irish butter is the cheapest after all. 
 Why do you make such a point of my leaving him." 
 
 Aunt Aggie was entirely nonplussed. A thousand 
 similar experiences had never lessened the shock of the 
 discrepancy between what she expected her sister to 
 say, and what she actually said. 
 
 " I thought, I thought," she stammered, " I felt sure 
 that, I see now I was wrong, but I had a conviction 
 that that letter you see I knew you were thinking of 
 writing was to, was in short to Lord Lossiemouth." 
 
 Aunt Mary's face became magenta colour. 
 
 " To Lord Lossiemouth ! Why should you think I 
 was writing to him? " 
 
 " Well, I could not help knowing don't you remem- 
 ber how you discussed the subject with me and dear 
 Magdalen some weeks ago? that the subject of a 
 judicious and dignified letter was in your mind." 
 
 " I was careful not to mention the subject to Mag- 
 dalen in your presence. I see now that you must have 
 listened outside the door." 
 
 Aunt Aggie experienced a second shock. How did 
 Mary always spy out these things? 
 
 " I can't think," continued Lady Blore, " how you 
 can lower yourself to eavesdrop in the way you do ; 
 and if you must do these underhand actions, why you 
 don't conceal them better. When you read a private 
 letter of mine the other day, because I inadvertently 
 left it for a moment on my writing-table " 
 
 " You always say you lock up your private letters,
 
 PRISONERS 235 
 
 you do, indeed, Mary. Be fair. I could not tell it 
 was private." 
 
 " You would have been wiser not to have alluded next 
 day to its contents. If you had not done so I might 
 not have known you had read it." 
 
 Aunt Aggie burst into tears. 
 
 " The truth is I am not secretive like you, Mary," 
 she said between her sobs. " It is as natural to me to 
 be open and trustful with those I love as it is for you 
 to be the reverse. Whatever I do you think wrong. 
 But perhaps some day and that before long you will 
 be forced to admit " 
 
 At this moment the drawing-room door opened and 
 Colonel Bellairs came in. He often came to tea at 
 " The Towers," though the meeting seldom passed off 
 without a sharp brush with Lady Blore. 
 
 " Draw up that chair, Algernon," said that lady, 
 with grim but instant cordiality. " The tea will be 
 ready in a moment." 
 
 Colonel Bellairs looked more floridly handsome than 
 usual. He was evidently in a state of supreme self- 
 satisfaction. 
 
 " Fine day," he said, " for the time of year." 
 
 At this moment a small parchment face, and bent 
 figure leaning on a stick, might have been seen peering 
 in through the closed windows. Sir John looked dispas- 
 sionately at the family group, and shook his head. 
 Then he hobbled back to his chair under the cedar. Tea 
 was evidently a meal to be dispensed with this after- 
 noon. 
 
 " I have news for you," said Colonel Bellairs, ex- 
 panding his chest.
 
 236 PRISONERS 
 
 Lady Blore held the tea-pot suspended. 
 
 " Everard Constable Lossiemouth, I should say 
 is at this moment sitting in the drawing-room at Priest- 
 hope, alone with Magdalen." 
 
 Colonel Bellairs was not disappointed in the effect 
 of his words on his audience. 
 
 Aunt Aggie trembled and looked proudly guilty. 
 Lady Blore put down the tea-pot suddenly, and said, 
 " Thank God ! " 
 
 Aunt Aggie, her mouth open to speak, began to choke. 
 She looked piteously from her brother to her sister, 
 struggling in vain to articulate. It was too cruel that 
 she should be bereft of speech at this supreme moment. 
 
 Lady Blore turned putty pale and magenta colour 
 alternately. A great relief softened her hard face. 
 There were actually tears in her eyes. Then she said 
 majestically, but with a tremor in her metallic voice: 
 
 " I am not surprised." 
 
 " It is my doing," shrieked Aunt Aggie, in the stran- 
 gled squeak in which we always explain that it is " only 
 a crumb " gone wrong. And she relapsed into a fresh 
 spasm. 
 
 Lady Blore sternly bade her be silent. Colonel Bel- 
 lairs was slightly annoyed. 
 
 " It is no use, Mary, your saying you are not sur- 
 prised, for you are," he said judicially, " and really," 
 relapsing into complacency, " so am I in a way. It is 
 fifteen years since I forbade Everard the house. I fear 
 that I was unduly harsh. I dismissed him, so it was 
 for me to recall him. Now that the cat is out of the 
 bag I don't mind telling you that I wrote to him a few 
 weeks ago."
 
 PRISONERS 237 
 
 " You wrote to him ! " said Aunt Mary in great 
 agitation. " Algernon, you sent me word by Magda- 
 len that you refused to meddle in the matter." 
 
 " I daresay I did. I may not have liked the tone you 
 took about it, Mary. You are so devilish high-handed. 
 In short, I don't mind telling you that I was annoyed 
 by your interference in the matter. But after mature 
 consideration I turned the matter over in my mind 
 I was not the least influenced by your long-winded 
 epistle that in fact rather put me off than otherwise 
 still after a time I wrote a manly, straightforward 
 letter to Everard, not blinking the facts, and I told 
 him that if his feelings were unchanged mark that 
 as I had reason to believe Magdalen's were he was at 
 liberty to come to Priesthope and resume cordial rela- 
 tions with us all. You observe that I only asked him to 
 come if his feelings were unchanged. He is there 
 now" 
 
 It would be impossible to describe the varying emo- 
 tions which devastated Lady Blore, as her brother made 
 his announcement. Her hands trembled so much that 
 she was obliged to give up any pretence of holding her 
 cup. It chattered against its saucer. 
 
 " When did you write? " she asked at last. 
 
 " About three weeks ago." 
 
 Aunt Mary seemed to make a mental calculation. 
 
 " It is my doing. I wrote a month ago," gasped 
 Aunt Aggie. " Algernon, you must not take the credit 
 of it. I waited till you and Mary had decided not to 
 write you know, Mary, you told Magdalen you would 
 not and then and then I could not stand by and see 
 that dear child's happiness slip away for want of one
 
 238 PRISONERS 
 
 bold word, one brave friend to say for her what she 
 could not say for herself, I have seen so many lives 
 wrecked for want of a sympathetic hand to draw two 
 severed hearts together, that I wrote. I wrote a 
 month ago. A week before you did." 
 
 " I might have known you would do some folly," said 
 Colonel Bellairs with contempt. " I am glad this did 
 not come to my ears earlier, or I should have been very 
 angry. It was most unsuitable, most undignified, that 
 you and I should both write. But," it was evidently 
 impossible for him to be seriously annoyed by anything 
 on this particular afternoon, " all's well that ends well. 
 We will say no more about it, Aggie. Don't cry. You 
 can't help being a fool. But don't do anything of that 
 kind, or of any kind again. I might not be so easy 
 going next time." 
 
 Lady Blore drank down a large cup of tea. Her 
 black silk bosom heaved. Contrary to all precedent 
 she did not turn on her quaking sister. 
 
 " Where are Fay and Bessie ? " she asked. 
 
 " Fay is spending the afternoon with the Carters, 
 and Bessie is out somewhere, I don't know where. But 
 I saw her start after luncheon." 
 
 " How fortunate ! Then you knew he was 
 coming? " 
 
 " Yes. I had a telegram from him this morning 
 saying he was in the neighbourhood, and would come 
 over this afternoon." 
 
 " Of course you warned Magdalen ? " 
 
 " Not I. I knew better than that. She has a cold, 
 so I knew she could not go out. So directly I had seen 
 him drive up I came off here. I did not think I was
 
 PRISONERS 239 
 
 particularly wanted at home. Two is company and 
 three's none." 
 
 " Oh, Algernon, what tact ! Most men would never 
 have thought of that," said Aunt Aggie. 
 
 " Have another cup, Algernon," said Lady Blore 
 graciously. 
 
 Colonel Bellairs stroked his moustache. He had an- 
 other cause, a secret one, for self-complacency. At last, 
 after many rebuffs from charming women, thirty years 
 his junior, he was engaged to be married. Should he 
 mention it? Was not this a most propitious moment? 
 Yes? No. Perhaps better not. Another time! The 
 lady had accepted him some weeks ago, but had ex- 
 pressed altruistic doubts as to whether she could play 
 a mother's part to daughters as old as herself, whether 
 in short, much as she craved for their society, they 
 might not feel happier, more independent in a separate 
 establishment, however modest. It was on a sudden im- 
 pulse of what he called " providing for the girls," that 
 Colonel Bellairs had written to Lord Lossiemouth. 
 
 The renewal of his engagement to Magdalen would 
 pave the way to Colonel Bellairs's marriage. He had 
 already decided that Bessie would live with Magdalen, 
 who would take her out. Fay had her jointure. But 
 he had a not unfounded fear that his second nuptials 
 would be regarded with profound disapproval, even 
 with execration, by his sisters. 
 
 Magdalen alone knew about it as yet. She had taken 
 the news, which her father had feared would crush her 
 to the earth, very tranquilly. She was a person of 
 more frigid affections than he had supposed. He had 
 already asked her to break the news to Fay and Bessie.
 
 240 PRISONERS 
 
 Perhaps it would be better to let her break it to his 
 sisters too. If he did it himself they might, at the 
 first moment, say things they might afterwards re- 
 gret. Yes, he would leave the announcement to Mag- 
 dalen.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 Our chain on silence clanks. 
 Time leers between, above his twiddling thumbs. 
 
 GEORGE MEREDITH. 
 
 LORD LOSSIEMOUTH had come into his kingdom. He was 
 rich, but not vulgarly so. He had a great position, and 
 what his artistic nature valued even more, the possession 
 of one of the most beautiful places in England. The 
 Lossiemouth pictures and heirlooms, the historic house 
 with its wonderful gardens all these were his. 
 
 He had at first been quite dazed by the magnitude of 
 his good fortune. When it came to him it found him 
 somewhat sore and angry at a recent rebuff which had 
 wounded his vanity not a little. But the excitement of 
 his great change of fortune soon healed what little 
 smart remained. 
 
 A few months before he succeeded, he had fallen in 
 love, not for the first time by many times, with a woman 
 who seemed to meet his requirements. She was gentle, 
 submissive, pretty, easily led, refined, not an heiress, 
 but by no means penniless. 
 
 To his surprise and indignation she had refused him, 
 evidently not without a certain tepid regret. He discov- 
 ered that the mother had other views for her daughter, 
 and that the daughter, though she inclined towards him, 
 was quite incapable or even desirous of opposing her 
 mother. She was gentleness and ph' ability itself. These 
 qualities, so admirable in domestic life, have a tendency 
 
 241
 
 242 PRISONERS 
 
 of which he had not thought before to make their 
 charming owner, if a hitch occurs, subside into be- 
 coming another man's wife. If only women could be 
 adamant until they reach the altar, and like wax 
 afterwards. 
 
 When everything bitter that could be said at the 
 expense of women had been ably expressed, Lord Lossie- 
 mouth withdrew. A month later, when he was making 
 an angry walking tour in Hungary, he learned from an 
 English paper, already many days old, of the two deaths 
 which effected his great change of fortune. He com- 
 municated with his lawyer, arranged to return by a 
 certain date, and continued his tour for another month. 
 
 On his return he had gone at once to Lossiemouth, 
 which he had visited occasionally as a poor and peppery 
 and not greatly respected relation. Business of all 
 kinds instantly engulfed him. He was impatient, dif- 
 ficult, distrait, slightly pleased with himself at showing 
 so little gratification at his magnificent inheritance. 
 
 On the third day he sorted out the letters which 
 looked like personal ones, from among a heap of cor- 
 respondence, the accumulation of many weeks. 
 
 Quantities of envelopes were torn open, and the con- 
 tents thrown aside, begging letters, decently veiled 
 congratulations from " old friends " who had not so 
 far shown any particular desire to make their friend- 
 ship a joy to him. 
 
 Presently he came upon a long, closely written letter 
 of several sheets, in a slanting hand, which he was about 
 to dismiss as another begging letter when his eye fell 
 on the signature. Bellows? Bulteel? Buller? Bel- 
 lairs?
 
 PRISONERS 243 
 
 Aunt Aggie's signature was quite illegible. It was 
 an arranged squiggle painfully acquired in youth, 
 which through life had resulted in all kinds of difficul- 
 ties with tradespeople, and in continual annoyance and 
 inconvenience to herself. Letters and parcels were fre- 
 quently directed to her as A. Buller, Esq. She could 
 only account for this mistake by the business-like nature 
 of her style and handwriting. She often told her 
 friends that, unless people knew her personally, her 
 letters were generally believed to be a man's. 
 
 It had never struck Aunt Aggie that Lord Lossie- 
 mouth might possibly, in an interval of fifteen years, 
 have forgotten who A. Bellows might be. 
 
 But the words " my beloved niece Magdalen " 
 strongly underlined, and the postmark on the en- 
 velope, showed him who A. Bellairs was. He thought 
 he remembered an old aunt who lived near Priesthope. 
 
 He read the long sentimental effusion and bit his 
 lip. 
 
 Ah, me! Was that half -forgotten, dim-in-the-dis- 
 tance boyish love of his to be raked up again now ! 
 
 He sighed impatiently. Why had Fate parted him 
 and Magdalen? He still regretted her in a way, when 
 he was depressed or harassed, or disgusted with the 
 world in general; and he was often depressed and har- 
 assed and disgusted. 
 
 More letters. What business had people to give 
 him the trouble of reading them? The floor was be- 
 coming strewn with his correspondence. The empty 
 fireplace had become a target for crumpled balls of 
 paper. 
 
 A short one in a large, scrambling, illiterate hand
 
 244 PRISONERS 
 
 with a signature that might mean anything. That tall 
 capital, shaped like a ham, was perhaps a B. 
 
 The letter was written on Priesthope notepaper. 
 " My daughter Magdalen" 
 
 This, then, was from Colonel Bellairs. 
 
 It was not such a very bad letter, but it was a de- 
 plorably unwise one. When had Colonel Bellairs ever 
 indited a wise one! But he made his precarious posi- 
 tion even less tenable by ignoring the fact that Lord 
 Lossiemouth's fortunes had altered, by asserting that 
 he had had it in his mind to write to this effect the pre- 
 vious Christmas but had not had time. When Colonel 
 Bellairs concocted that sentence he had felt, not without 
 pride, that it covered the ground of his fifteen years' 
 silence, and also showed that Lord Lossiemouth's wealth 
 had nothing to do with his recall. For the letter was 
 a recall. 
 
 " Blundering old idiot," said Lord Lossiemouth, but 
 he had become very red. 
 
 All kinds of memories were surging up in him ; Mag- 
 dalen's crystal love for him, her indefinable charm, 
 her gaiety, her humility, her shyness, her exquisite 
 beauty. 
 
 Life had never brought him anything so marvellous, 
 so enchanting, as that first draught of April passion. 
 And he had quenched his thirst at many other cups since 
 then. His lips had been blistered and stained at poi- 
 soned brims. Why had that furious old turkey-cock 
 parted him and Magdalen! His heart sank for a mo- 
 ment at the remembrance of his first love. 
 
 But what was the use ! The Magdalen he had loved 
 had ceased to exist. The wand-like figure with its
 
 PRISONERS 245 
 
 apple-blossom face faded, faded, and in its place rose 
 up the image of the thin, distinguished-looking grey- 
 haired woman who had supplanted that marvel. He 
 had met Magdalen accidentally once or twice in Lon- 
 don of late years, and had felt dismayed anger at the 
 change in her, an offended anger not wholly unlike that 
 with which he surveyed himself at his tailors', and in- 
 spected at unbecoming angles, through painfully frank 
 mirrors, a thick back and a stout neck and jaw which 
 cruelly misrepresented his fastidious artistic person- 
 ality. 
 
 He returned to his letters. 
 
 Three sheets in a firm, upright hand. 
 
 " I do not suppose you remember me," it began, " but 
 I intend to recall myself to your memory, which I be- 
 lieve to be none of the best. I am the wife of Sir John 
 Blore, and aunt to Magdalen Bellairs." 
 
 He flung the letter down. But this was intolerable, 
 a persecution. And what fools they were all to write. 
 Had Magdalen set them on? 
 
 He groaned with sudden self -disgust. What unwor- 
 thy thought would come to him next? Of course she 
 knew nothing of this. 
 
 He looked at the date of each letter carefully. Aunt 
 Aggie's according to her wont had only the day of the 
 week on it, just Tuesday, or it might be Thursday 
 but Colonel Bellairs's and Lady Blore's were fully dated, 
 and about a fortnight apart. Colonel Bellairs had 
 written last. 
 
 Lord Lossiemouth divined that each of the three be- 
 lieved him or herself to be the only one to tackle the 
 subject.
 
 246 PRISONERS 
 
 How ghastly ! What a cruelly good short story it 
 would make for a magazine! 
 
 Then he read Lady Blore's letter. Apparently it 
 was not pleasant reading. It seemed to prick some- 
 what sharply. He winced once or twice, and spoke 
 angrily to it. 
 
 " My good woman, as if I did not know that ! Men 
 are always behaving heartlessly to women in their opin- 
 ion. It is the normal male state. It is an established 
 fact that we are all brutes. Why do you want me to 
 marry your paragon if you have such a low opinion 
 of me?" 
 
 Still he could not put the letter down. 
 
 " It is possible though improbable," wrote that 
 dauntless woman, " that your vacillating and selfish 
 character may have improved sufficiently in the course 
 of years for you to have become aware that you have 
 behaved disgracefully to a woman, who, if she had had 
 any sense, ought never to have given you a second 
 thought, who was and still is deeply attached to you; 
 probably the only person on this earth who has the 
 misfortune to care two pins about you." 
 
 Lord Lossiemouth tried to feel sarcastic. He tried 
 to laugh. But it was no use. Lady Blore's arrow had 
 penetrated a joint in his harness. 
 
 After all he need take no notice of any of these mon- 
 strous effusions. 
 
 He was disgusted with opening letters. Neverthe- 
 less he hurried on. Perhaps he should find others less 
 intolerable. 
 
 A somewhat formal letter from his cousin the Bishop 
 of Lostford, who had never been cordial to him since his
 
 PRISONERS 247 
 
 engagement to Magdalen had been broken off. The 
 Bishop pointed out certain grave abuses connected with 
 house property at Lostford, at which the late Lord 
 Lossiemouth had persistently connived, but which he 
 hoped his successor might enquire into personally and 
 redress. 
 
 Quantities of other letters were torn open and aimed 
 in balls at the empty grate. But at last he came to a 
 long one which he read breathlessly. 
 
 It was from the mother of the girl who had so recently 
 refused him, an involved tortuous epistle, which implied 
 that the daughter was seriously attached to him, and 
 hinted that if he were to come forward again he would 
 not be refused a second time. There was also a short, 
 wavering, nondescript note with nothing in particular 
 in it from the girl herself. The mother had evidently 
 made her write. 
 
 A very venomous expression settled on Lord Lossie- 
 mouth's heavy face. He suddenly took up a Brad- 
 shaw and looked out the trains for Lostford.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 Tard oublie qui bien aime. 
 
 ON this momentous afternoon Magdalen was sitting 
 alone in the morning-room at Priesthope somewhat op- 
 pressed by an oncoming cold. It had not yet reached 
 the violent and weeping stage. That was for to- 
 morrow. She, who was generally sympathetically 
 dressed, was reluctantly enveloped in a wiry red crochet- 
 work shawl which Bessie had made for her, and had laid 
 resolutely upon her shoulders before she went out. 
 
 She tried to read, but her eyes ached, and after a 
 time she laid down her book, and her mind went back, as 
 it had a way of doing to Fay. 
 
 Fay had told her as " a great secret " that she had 
 accepted Wentworth. She was so transfigured by hap- 
 piness, so radiant, so absolutely unlike her former list- 
 less, colourless, carping self that Magdalen could only 
 suppose that two shocks of joy had come simultane- 
 ously, the discovery that she loved her prim suitor, and 
 the overwhelming relief to her tortured conscience of 
 Michael's release. 
 
 Wentworth and Michael were still at Venice. Michael, 
 it seemed, had been prostrated by excitement, and had 
 been too weak to travel immediately. But they would 
 be at Barford in a few days' time. 
 
 When Magdalen saw Fay entirely absorbed in trying 
 on a succession of new summer hats, sent for from 
 
 248
 
 PRISONERS 249 
 
 London in preparation for Wentworth's return, she 
 asked herself for the twentieth time whether Fay had 
 entirely forgotten her previous attraction for Michael, 
 or that there might be some awkwardness in meeting her 
 faithful lover and servant again, especially as the future 
 wife of his brother. 
 
 Two years had certainly elapsed since that sudden 
 flare-up of disastrous passion, and in two years much 
 can be forgotten. But after two years everything 
 may still be remembered, as Magdalen knew well. 
 And she feared that Michael was among those who 
 remember. 
 
 Magdalen had that day told Fay of her father's in- 
 tention of marrying again, but she took almost no 
 notice of the announcement. To use one of Aunt Ag- 
 gie's metaphors, the news " seemed to slide off her back 
 like a duck." 
 
 She only said, " Really ! How silly of him ! " 
 
 As Magdalen thought of Fay the door opened and 
 Bessie, who was supposed to have gone for a walk, 
 came in. 
 
 She had a spray of crab-apple blossom in her hand. 
 She held it towards Magdalen as if it were a bill de- 
 manding instant payment. These little amenities were 
 a new departure on Bessie's part. 
 
 Magdalen's pleasure in the apple blossom seemed to 
 her somewhat exaggerated, but she made allowances 
 for her, as she had a cold. 
 
 "Are you going out again?" asked Magdalen. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Then I should like to have a little talk with you. 
 I have something to tell you."
 
 250 PRISONERS 
 
 Bessie sat down. 
 
 " I am prepared for the announcement you have to 
 make. I have seen it coming. It is about Fay." 
 
 " No, it is about Father. He has asked me to tell 
 you that he is engaged to be married." 
 
 " Father ! " 
 
 " Yes, it is not given out yet." 
 
 " Father ! " 
 
 " It is to a Miss Barnett. You may have seen her. 
 The doctor's sister at Saundersfoot." 
 
 " I know her by sight, a tall, showy-looking woman 
 of nearly forty, with amber hair and a powdered 
 nose." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Father has sunk very low," said Bessie, judicially. 
 " He must have been refused by a lot of others, younger 
 and better-looking, and ladies, to be reduced to taking 
 her. And fancy anyone in their senses being willing 
 to take Father, with his gout, and his tendency to drink, 
 and his total disregard of hygiene. Well, she looks a 
 vulgar pushing woman, but I am sorry for her. And 
 I must own that I am disappointed that if there was to 
 be an engagement in our family it should be Father. 
 There is not likely to be more than one going for a 
 home like ours. It is just like him to grab it." 
 
 Magdalen tried not to laugh. 
 
 " I've looked round," continued Bessie. " I don't 
 say that at present I could entertain the thought of 
 marriage myself. I can't just yet, but I mean to in 
 the future. It's merely a question of time Marriage 
 is the higher life. Besides, if one remains unmarried 
 people are apt to think it is because one can't help
 
 PRISONERS 251 
 
 it. It would certainly be so in my case. And I 
 have looked round. There is not a soul in the neigh- 
 bourhood for any of us to marry that I can see ex- 
 cept Wentworth, who is of course extremely elderly. 
 Hampshire seems absolutely bare of young men. And 
 if there are a few sons in some of the houses, they are 
 never accessible. And the really superior ones like Lord 
 Alresford's only son would never look at me. It would 
 be waste of time to try. There is positively no opening 
 in Hampshire unless I marry the curate." 
 
 " That reminds me that he is to call this afternoon 
 about the boot-and-shoe club. I wish, my dear, in the 
 intervals between your aspirations towards the higher 
 life, you would go through the accounts with him. My 
 head is so confused with this cold." 
 
 " I will. And where on earth are you going to live 
 when Father marries again? Of course, I shall gradu- 
 ate at Cambridge. He won't oppose that now. Mag- 
 dalen, why don't you marry, too? " 
 
 " I can't, dear Bessie. No one wants me." 
 
 "May I go on?" 
 
 " No. Please don't." 
 
 " I think I will all the same. Why not marry 
 Lord Lossiemouth after all? Don't speak. I want to 
 place the situation dispassionately before you. I have 
 thought it carefully over. You are an extremely at- 
 tractive woman, Magdalen. I don't know what it is 
 about you, I fail to analyse it, but one becomes attached 
 to you. You can make even a home pleasant. And 
 if a man once cared for you it is improbable that he 
 would cease to care just because you are no longer 
 young. I take my stand on the basic fact that there
 
 252 PRISONERS 
 
 certainly has been a mutual attachment. I then ask 
 myself 
 
 At this moment the door opened and the footman 
 announced " Lord Lossiemouth." 
 
 The shock to both women was for the moment over- 
 whelming. 
 
 Magdalen recovered herself almost instantaneously 
 and welcomed him with grave courtesy, but she was 
 unable to articulate. 
 
 He had seen the amazement in the four eyes turned 
 on him as he came in, and cursed Colonel Bellairs in 
 his heart. Why had not the old idiot warned Mag- 
 dalen of his coming? 
 
 He had felt doubtful of his reception. A simulated 
 coldness on Magdalen's part was, perhaps, to be ex- 
 pected. But for her blank astonishment he was not 
 prepared. 
 
 " This is Bessie," she said in a shaking voice. 
 
 Bessie! This tall, splendid young woman. Could 
 this be the tiny child of three who used to sit on his 
 knee, and blow his watch open. 
 
 " I cannot be expected to remember you," said Bessie, 
 advancing a limp hand. She fixed a round dispassion- 
 ate eye on his heavy, irritable face, and found him 
 unpleasant looking. 
 
 He instantly thought her odious. 
 
 And they all three sat down simultaneously as if by 
 a preconcerted signal. 
 
 "Are you staying in the neighbourhood?" asked 
 Magdalen, as a paralysed silence became imminent. A 
 faint hectic colour burnt in her cheeks. 
 
 Lord Lossiemouth pulled himself together, and came
 
 PRISONERS 253 
 
 to her assistance. Together they held back the silence 
 at arm's length. 
 
 Yes, he was staying in the neighbourhood at Lost- 
 ford in fact. House property near the river. Liable 
 to floods. 
 
 Did he mention the word floods ? 
 
 Yes. Floods at certain seasons of the year. Time 
 to take measures now before the autumn, etc. 
 
 Magdalen was glad to hear of some measures being 
 taken. Long needed. 
 
 Yes, culpable neglect. 
 
 A wall? 
 
 Yes, a wall. Certainly a wall. 
 
 Bessie rose, marched to the door, opened it, hit her 
 body against it, and went out. 
 
 A certain degree of constraint went with her. 
 
 " I had your Father's leave to come," he said after 
 a moment. " I should not have ventured to do so 
 otherwise." 
 
 " I wish Father had warned me," she said. 
 
 They looked away from each other. Here in this 
 room fifteen years ago they had parted. Both shivered 
 at the remembrance. 
 
 Then they looked long at each other. 
 
 Magdalen became very pale. She saw as in a glass 
 what was passing through his mind ; and for a moment 
 her heart cried out against those treacherous deserters, 
 her beauty and her youth, that they should have fled 
 and left her thus, defenceless and unarmed to endure 
 his cruel eyes. But she remembered that he had left 
 her before they did. They had not availed to stay 
 him. They had only slipped away from her in his
 
 254 PRISONERS 
 
 wake. And at the time she had hardly noticed their 
 departure, as he was no longer there to miss them. 
 
 Lord Lossiemouth had come determined to propose 
 to Magdalen, his determination screwed " to the stick- 
 ing point " by a deliberately recalled remembrance of 
 the change the years had wrought in her. He had told 
 himself he was prepared for that. Nevertheless, now 
 that he was actually face to face with her, in spite of 
 his regard and respect for her, a horrid chasm seemed 
 to yawn between them, which only one primitive emo- 
 tion can span, an emotion which, like a disused bridge, 
 had fallen into the gulf years ago. 
 
 And yet how marvellously strong, how immortal it 
 had seemed once in this same room with this same 
 woman. It had seemed then as if it could not break, 
 or fall, or fade. 
 
 It had broken, it had fallen, it had faded. 
 
 As he looked earnestly at her he became aware that 
 though she had been momentarily distressed a great 
 serenity was habitual to her. The eyes which now met 
 his had regained their calm. It seemed as if her life 
 had been steeped in tranquil sunshine, as if the free 
 air of heaven had penetrated her whole delicate being, 
 and had left its clear fragrance with her. 
 
 Oh ! if only they had been married fifteen years ago ! 
 What happiness they might have given each other. 
 How perfect to have owed it all to each other. How 
 fond he would still be of her. How tender their mutual 
 regard would still be. Then his present feeling for her 
 would not be amiss. They ought to be sitting peace- 
 fully together at this moment, not in this intolerably 
 embarrassing personal relation towards each other,
 
 PRISONERS 255 
 
 but at ease with each other, talking over their boy at 
 Eton, and the new pony for their little daughters. He 
 did not want to begin being married to her now. 
 
 She knew what he felt. 
 
 " Magdalen," he said, " I am distressed that I have 
 taken you by surprise. I had hoped that you were 
 prepared to see me. But my coming is not, I trust, 
 painful to you." 
 
 A pulse fluttered in her cheek. 
 
 " I am glad to see you," she said. " If I did not 
 seem so the first moment it was only because I was taken 
 aback." 
 
 " A great change has come over my fortunes," he 
 continued, anxious to give her time, and yet aware that 
 no conversation except on the object of his visit 
 was really possible. " I am at last in a position to 
 marry." 
 
 " When I heard the news I thought that you would 
 probably marry soon." 
 
 " Our engagement was broken off solely for lack of 
 means," he continued. Her eyes dropped. " Now that 
 that obstacle is removed I have come to ask you, to beg 
 you most earnestly to renew it." 
 
 " It is very good of you," she said almost inaudibly. 
 " I appreciate your kindness." 
 
 He saw that she was going to refuse him. But he 
 was prepared for that contingency. It was a natural 
 feminine method of readjusting the balance between 
 them. He would certainly give her the opportunity. 
 He owed it to her. Besides, the refusal would not be 
 final. He knew from her relations that she still loved 
 him.
 
 256 PRISONERS 
 
 " If your feeling towards me is unchanged will you 
 marry me? " 
 
 The door opened, and the footman announced " Mr. 
 Thomson." 
 
 The new curate came slowly into the room, his short- 
 sighted eyes peering about him, a little faggot of 
 papers girdled by an elastic band, clasped in his care- 
 ful hand against his breast. 
 
 Magdalen started violently, and Lord Lossiemouth 
 experienced a furious exasperation. 
 
 Magdalen mechanically introduced the two men to 
 each other, and they all three sat down, with the same 
 sudden automatic precision as when Bessie had been 
 present. 
 
 " The days are beginning to lengthen already," 
 said Mr. Thomson. " I have noticed it, especially 
 the last few days, and the rooks are clamourous very 
 clamourous." 
 
 " It was to be expected," faltered Magdalen. 
 
 " The accounts are, I am glad to say, in perfect 
 order. I am proud to add, though I fear a statement 
 so unusual may lay me open to a charge of romancing, 
 that we have a small balance in hand." 
 
 How he had looked forward to saying these words. 
 With what a flash of surprised delight he had expected 
 this astounding, this gratifying announcement would 
 be received. 
 
 He paused a moment to let his words sink in evi- 
 dently Miss Bellairs had not heard. 
 
 " Three pounds five and nine," he said. 
 
 " It is wonderful," said Magdalen emphatically. 
 " Quite wonderful. I never heard of a boot-and-shoe
 
 PRISONERS 257 
 
 club which was not in debt. Have you ? " And she 
 turned to Lord Lossiemouth. 
 
 But Lord Lossiemouth's temper was absent. He 
 found the situation intolerable. He only answered, 
 " Never." 
 
 " Bessie is waiting to hear all about it in the school- 
 room," continued Magdalen. " I have asked her to go 
 over the papers with you. She will be as surprised 
 and delighted as I am. Shall we go and tell her? " 
 
 And without waiting for an answer she rose and led 
 the way to the schoolroom, followed by Mr. Thomson. 
 Bessie was sitting alone there, staring in front of her, 
 paralysed by Lord Lossiemouth's arrival, and indig- 
 nant at the possibility that Magdalen might marry 
 that " horrid old thing," who was not the least like 
 the charming photograph of him in her sister's album. 
 However, she grasped the situation, and after an im- 
 ploring glance from Magdalen, grappled with all her 
 might with the boot-and-shoe club. 
 
 Magdalen hurriedly tore off the little red shawl and 
 returned to the morning-room, and closed the door. It 
 was a considerable effort to her to close it, and by 
 doing so to invite a renewal of Lord Lossiemouth's offer. 
 But it could not be left open. 
 
 " It was not poor Mr. Thomson's fault," she said, 
 " but I wish I could have saved you this annoyance." 
 
 He struggled to recover his temper. Her quivering 
 face shewed him that she was suffering from the miser- 
 able accident of the interruption even more than he was. 
 
 " I was asking you to marry me," he said with cour- 
 age, but with visible irritation. " Will you? " 
 
 " I am afraid I cannot."
 
 258 PRISONERS 
 
 " I knew you would say that. I expected it. But 
 I beg you to reconsider it, that is if if your feeling 
 for me is still unchanged." 
 
 " It is unchanged." 
 
 " Then why not marry me? " 
 
 " Because you do not care for me." 
 
 " I felt certain you would say that. But I do care 
 for you. Should I be here if I did not? We are two 
 middle-aged people, Magdalen. The old raptures and 
 roses would be out of place, but I have always cared 
 for you. Surely you know that. Have you forgotten 
 the old days ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Neither have I. All we have to do is to forget the 
 years between." As he spoke he felt that the thing 
 could hardly have been better put. 
 
 " I have no wish to forget them." 
 
 He had made a great effort to control his temper 9 
 but he found her unreasonable. His anger got the 
 upper hand. 
 
 " It is one of two things that makes you refuse me. 
 Either you can't forgive me, and I daresay I don't 
 deserve that you should, I am not posing as a faultless 
 character or you have ceased to love me. Which 
 is it?" 
 
 " I have not ceased to love you," she replied. " Have 
 I not just told you so? But you would find yourself 
 miserable in the lop-sided kind of marriage which you 
 are contemplating. It is unwise to try to make bricks 
 without straw." 
 
 " Then if your mind was so absolutely made up be- 
 forehand to refuse me, why was I sent for? " he stain-
 
 PRISONERS 259 
 
 mered, white with anger. He struck the table with his 
 hand. " What was the use of urging me to come back, 
 if I was to meet with a frigid, elegantly expressed, 
 deliberately planned rebuff directly I set foot in the 
 house ! " 
 
 " Why were you sent for? " she said aghast. " Surely 
 you came of your own accord. Sent for! Who sent 
 for you? " 
 
 She sat down feebly. A horrible suspicion turned 
 her faint. 
 
 " Who sent for me?" he said venomously. "Why 
 am I here? " 
 
 He tore some letters out of his pocket, and thrust 
 them into her hands. Always sensitive to a slight, he 
 was infuriated by the low cunning, the desire to hu- 
 miliate him, with which he imagined he had been treated. 
 Others could be humiliated as well as himself. 
 
 " Read them," he said savagely, and he walked away 
 from her, and stood by the window with his back to 
 her. 
 
 Magdalen read them slowly, the three letters, her 
 father's, Aunt Mary's, Aunt Aggie's. Then she put 
 them back into their envelopes and wiped the sweat 
 from her forehead. 
 
 Humiliation, shame, despair, the anguish of wounded 
 love, she saw them creep towards her. She saw them 
 crouch like wild beasts ready to spring, their cruel 
 eyes upon her. She had known their fangs once. 
 Were they to rend her again? 
 
 She sat motionless and saw them pass, as behind bars, 
 pass quite away. They could not reach her. They 
 could not touch her.
 
 260 PRISONERS 
 
 She looked at the lover of her youth, standing as 
 she had so often seen him stand at that window in 
 years gone by, with his hands behind his back, looking 
 out to the sea. 
 
 She went softly to him, and stood beside him. 
 
 " I am more grieved that I can say about these," 
 she said, touching the letters. " I did not know the 
 poor dears had written. It was good of you to come 
 back at the call of these unhappy letters. Will you 
 not burn them, Everard, and forget them? There is 
 a fire waiting for them." 
 
 She put them into his hand. She had not spoken to 
 him by his Christian name before. His anger sank 
 suddenly. He took them in a shamed silence, and 
 dropped them into the fire. Magdalen sat down by the 
 hearth, and he sat down near her. Together they 
 watched them burn. 
 
 " I ought to have burnt them yesterday," he said 
 remorsefully. 
 
 " I am glad you did not. I am so thankful to see 
 you again, and that these foolish letters brought you. 
 I have often longed to have a talk with you. 
 
 " It seems unreasonable," continued Magdalen, her 
 clear eyes meeting his, " but the fact of your asking 
 me to marry you makes it possible for me to tell you 
 what I have long wished to tell you. I have often 
 thought of writing it. I did write it once, but I tore 
 it up. It seems as if a woman can't say certain things 
 to a man till he has said, ' Will you marry me ? ' Then 
 it is easy, because then nothing she may say can rouse 
 a suspicion in his mind that she wants to make him 
 say it."
 
 PRISONERS 261 
 
 " I have proposed to you twice, Magdalen. Is not 
 that enough ? " His voice was very bitter. " I ven- 
 ture to prophesy that you will be safe from my pester- 
 ing you with a third offer." 
 
 " I am sure of it. I never dreamed that you would 
 ask me this second time. I never thought we should 
 meet again except by chance, as we did a year ago. 
 But I have had you in my mind, and I have often feared 
 often that I was a painful remembrance to you; 
 that when you thought of me it was with regret that 
 you had perhaps it is not so easy to say after all 
 that you had spoilt my life." 
 
 " I did reproach myself bitterly with having made 
 love to you when you were so very young and inex- 
 perienced, and when I ought to have remembered that 
 I was not in a position to marry. Your father did rub 
 that in. As if I could help my poverty." 
 
 " Father is not a reasonable person. You were 
 nearly as young as I was. Looking back now it seems 
 as if we had both been almost children." 
 
 " It was a great misfortune for both of us," he 
 said, colouring. He had not felt it great after the 
 first. 
 
 " Not for me," she said. " That is what I have long 
 wished to tell you. It has been my great good fortune. 
 Not at first but after a time. I should never have 
 known love of that I am sure unless it had been for 
 you. You were the only person who could waken it 
 in me. The power to love is the great gift; to be 
 permitted to know that marvel, to be allowed once 
 in one's life to touch the infinite. Love opens all 
 the doors. Some opened in pain, but they did open.
 
 262 PRISONERS 
 
 I never knew, I never guessed until long after you had 
 come into my life, and gone away again, how much I 
 owed to you. Then I began to see, first in gleams, and 
 then plainly. Your momentary attraction towards 
 me was a tiny spark of the Divine love, a sort of little 
 lantern leading me home through the dark." 
 
 He stared at her amazed. Her transparency trans- 
 fixed him. What is superficial is also often deep in 
 clear natures such as Magdalen's, like a water lily 
 whose stem goes down a long way. 
 
 " Love releases us from ourselves, our hard proud 
 selves, and makes everything possible to flow in to us, 
 happiness, peace, joy, gratitude. I thank God for 
 having let me know you, for having made me love you. 
 I might have missed it. I see others miss it. I might 
 have gone through life not knowing. I might have had 
 to bear the burden of life, without the one thing that 
 makes it easy. I see other people toiling and moiling, 
 and getting hopeless and miserable and exhausted till 
 my heart aches for them. After the first I have never 
 toiled, never grieved, never despaired. I have been sus- 
 tained always. For there are not two kinds of love, 
 Everard, but only one. The love of you is the cup of 
 water, and the love of God is the well it is taken 
 from. . . . You had better go now before anyone else 
 comes in, but I want you to remember when you think 
 of me that I bless and thank you, and am grateful to 
 you. I have been grateful for years." 
 
 She took his leaden hand in both of hers, and held 
 it for a moment to her lips. 
 
 Lord Lossiemouth's face was pinched and aged. His 
 hand fell out of hers.
 
 PRISONERS 263 
 
 Then his face became suddenly convulsed, frightful 
 to behold, like that of a man being squeezed to death. 
 
 " I never loved you," he said in a fierce, suffocated 
 voice. " I was a little in love with you, that was all, 
 and that was not much. I soon got over it." 
 
 " I know," she said. 
 
 " I felt pain for a time. You were very beautiful, 
 and you were the first. I was the same as you then. 
 But I found other beautiful women. I took what I 
 could get out of life, and out of women. I rubbed out 
 my pain that way. It was not your father who parted 
 us, it was myself. I would not own it, I was always bit- 
 ter against him, but it was my fault. I did not mean to 
 work, and tie myself to an office stool : I had the chance, 
 but I wanted to travel and see the world. It was not 
 lack of means that parted us. I said a few minutes 
 ago that it had been the only obstacle to our marriage, 
 and your eyes dropped. You have known better all 
 the time, but you wouldn't say. All these years I 
 have put it down to that. But it was not. We were 
 parted by lack of love." 
 
 " I know," she said again. 
 
 " On my side." 
 
 " It was not your fault. We can't love to order, 
 or by our own will. It is a gift." 
 
 " Some of us can't love at all," he said fiercely. 
 " That is about it. We have not got any room for it 
 if if it is given us. It could not get a foothold. It was 
 crowded out. I was often glad afterwards that I did 
 not tie myself to you. Glad! Do you hear, Mag- 
 dalen? It left me free to it did give me pain when I 
 thought of you. I knew what I had done to you. I
 
 264 PRISONERS 
 
 used to tell myself that you gave me up very easily, 
 that you did not really want me. But I knew in my 
 heart that you did. But it only made me bitter, and 
 I put the thought away. That time, it is ten years 
 ago ; good God ! it is all so long ago, when you nearly 
 died of scarlet fever in London, I heard of it by chance 
 when you were at your worst, I was shocked, but I 
 did not really care, for I had long ceased to want you. 
 I used to visit a certain woman every day in that 
 street, and I once asked her who the straw was down 
 for, and she said it was for a ' Miss Magdalen Bel- 
 lairs.' I was in love with her at the moment, if you 
 can call it love. I have dragged myself through all 
 kinds of sordid passions since we parted." 
 
 Tears of rage stood in his eyes. He looked at her 
 through them. It seemed as if no wounding word 
 under heaven would be left to say by the time he had 
 finished. 
 
 " And I did not come back in order to make amends," 
 he went on. " You know me very little if you think 
 that. I came back solely out of pique. It was not 
 those absurd letters which brought me, or held me 
 back. It was another woman. I wanted to pay her 
 out." 
 
 " I thought perhaps it was something like that," said 
 Magdalen. 
 
 " It was a virtuous attachment this time. I am 
 nearly forty. I am getting grey and stout. Young 
 women have a difficulty in perceiving my existence. It 
 was high time to settle, and to live on some attractive 
 woman's money. There are thousands of women who 
 must marry someone. So why not me? I found the
 
 PRISONERS 265 
 
 attractive woman. I walked into love with her," he 
 stammered with anger. " I regarded it as a consti- 
 tutional. But the attractive woman, though she liked 
 me a little, weighed the pros and cons exactly as I 
 had done, and decided not to take her constitutional in 
 my impecunious company. She refused me when I 
 was poor, and now now that I am rich she is 
 willing." 
 
 The harsh voice ceased suddenly. Magdalen looked 
 for a moment at the savage, self -tortured face, and her 
 heart bled. 
 
 " That is how I have treated you," he said, choking 
 with passion. " Now you know the truth of me for 
 the first time. That is the kind of man I am, hard and 
 vindictive and selfish to the core: the man whom you 
 have idealised, whom you have put on a pedestal all 
 these years." 
 
 " I have known always the kind of man you were," 
 she said steadily. " I never idealised you, as you call 
 it. I loved you knowing the worst of you. Otherwise 
 my love could not have endured through. A foolish 
 idealism would have perished long ago." 
 
 " And then I come down here, on a sudden despicable 
 impulse, intending to use you as a weapon to strike 
 her with, not that she is worth striking, poor feeble 
 pretty toy. And I encouraged myself in a thin streak 
 of patronising sentiment for you. I wrote a little 
 cursed sonnet in the train how old affection outlasts 
 youthful passion, like violets blooming in autumn. How 
 loathsome! How incredibly base! And then, when 
 my temper is aroused by your opposition, I am das- 
 tardly enough, heartless enough to try to humiliate you
 
 266 PRISONERS 
 
 by shewing you those letters, to try to revenge myself 
 on you. On you, Magdalen ! On "you ! On you ! " 
 
 She did not speak nor move. Her face was awed, as 
 the face of one who watches beside the pangs of death 
 or birth. 
 
 Outside in the amber sunset a thrush piped. 
 
 " Magdalen," he said almost inarticulately, " you 
 have never repulsed me. Don't repulse me now, for I 
 am very miserable. Don't pour your love into the sand 
 any more. Give it me instead. I am dying of thirst. 
 Give me to drink. You can live without me, but I can't 
 live without you. I have tried I have tried every- 
 thing. I am not thinking of you, only of myself. I 
 am only asking for myself, only impelled towards you 
 by my own needs. Does not that prove to you that 
 I am at last speaking the truth? Does not that force 
 you to believe me when I tell you that I want you more 
 than anything in the world. I have wanted you all 
 my life without knowing it. I don't want to make 
 amends to you for the past. I want you yourself, for 
 myself, as my wife. I swear to God if you won't marry 
 me I will marry no one. You are the only woman I 
 can speak to, the only one who does not fail, who holds 
 on through thick and thin, the only one who has ever 
 really wanted me. I daresay I shan't make you happy. 
 I daresay I shall break your heart. God help me, I 
 daresay I shall put my convenience before your happi- 
 ness, my selfish whims before your health. I have always 
 put myself first. But risk it. Risk it, Magdalen. 
 Take me back. Love me. For God's sake marry me." 
 
 Each looked into the other's bared soul. 
 
 Something in his desperate face which she had always
 
 PRISONERS 267 
 
 sought for, which had always been missing from it 
 she found. 
 
 " I will," she said. 
 
 They made no movement towards each other. They 
 had reached a spiritual nearness, a passion of surrender 
 each to each, which touch of hand or lip could only at 
 that moment have served to lessen. 
 
 " You are not taking me out of pity ? You are sure 
 you can still love me a little ? " 
 
 " More than in the early days," she said. " For 
 you have not only come to me, Everard. You have 
 come to yourself."
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 Me, too, with mastering charm 
 
 From husks of dead days freeing, 
 The sun draws up to be warm 
 
 And to bloom in this sweet hour. 
 The stem of all my being 
 Waited to bear this flower. 
 
 LAURENCE BINYON. 
 
 IT would be hardly possible to describe the unholy, the 
 unmeasured rejoicing to which Magdalen's engagement 
 gave rise in her family. It is, perhaps, enough to say 
 that the twenty years of her cheerful, selfless devotion 
 to the domestic hearth had never won from her father 
 and her two aunts anything like the admiring approval 
 which her engagement at once elicited. The neigh- 
 bourhood was interested. Lord Lossiemouth was a 
 brilliant match for anyone (if you left out the man 
 himself). The announcement read impressively in the 
 Morning Post. The neighbours remembered that there 
 had been a youthful attachment, an early engagement 
 broken off owing to lack of means. And now it seemed 
 the moment he was rich he had come flying back to 
 cast his faithful heart once more at her feet. It was 
 a real romance. Magdalen was considered an extra- 
 ordinarily fortunate woman by the whole countryside, 
 but Lord Lossiemouth was placed on a pedestal. What 
 touching constancy. What beautiful fidelity. What 
 a contrast to " most men." " Not one man in a hun- 
 
 263
 
 PRISONERS 269 
 
 dred would have acted in that chivalrous manner," was 
 the feminine verdict of Hampshire. 
 
 A wave of cheap sentiment overflowed the Bellairs 
 family, in which Colonel Bellairs floated complacently 
 like a piece of loose seaweed, and in which even Aunt 
 Mary underwent a dignified undulation. 
 
 Bessie alone was unmoved. 
 
 " You said, ' Yes ' too soon," she remarked to Mag- 
 dalen in private. " I should never have thought you 
 would be so lacking in true dignity. He goes away 
 for fifteen years and I should not wonder a bit if he 
 had thought of someone else in the interim for all you 
 know to the contrary men are like that and then 
 he just lounges in and says * Marry me,' and you agree 
 in a second. You might at any rate have made him wait 
 for his answer till after tea. In my opinion you have 
 made yourself cheap by such precipitate action. He 
 thinks he has only got to ask, and he can have." 
 
 Magdalen did not answer. 
 
 " I don't understand you," continued the pained 
 monitor. " I have always had a certain respect for 
 you, Magdalen, and when he came back I supposed you 
 would give in to him in time if he pressed you without 
 intermission, and was constant for a considerable period 
 say a couple of years ; but I never thought it possible 
 you would collapse like this. I fear you have not taken 
 his character sufficiently into consideration. If I were 
 in your place I should be afraid that Everard would 
 not allow my nature free scope, or take an interest in 
 my mental development, and that the sacrifices which 
 make domestic life tolerable might have to be all on 
 my side. He is absolutely unworthy of you, and his
 
 270 PRISONERS 
 
 nose is quite thick. I daresay you have not remarked 
 it, but I did at once. And in my opinion he ought for 
 his own good to have been made to realise it. Even 
 Aunt Mary, though she says she entirely approves 
 of the marriage, admits that you have shown too much 
 eagerness." 
 
 Fortunately for Magdalen the interest of the neigh- 
 bours, and even of her own family, was speedily di- 
 verted to another channel by the return of Wentworth 
 and Michael to Barford. The enthusiastic welcome 
 which Michael received from all classes, and from dis- 
 tant families who had never evinced much cordiality 
 to his elder brother, astonished Wentworth, touched 
 him to the quick. 
 
 " I had no idea we had so many friends," he said 
 repeatedly. 
 
 Michael smiled vaguely and took everything for 
 granted. Wentworth was so anxious to shield him 
 from fatigue and excitement that at first he was only 
 too thankful that Michael took everything so quietly. 
 But after a few days he became uneasy at his brother's 
 inertness of mind and body. A great doctor, however, 
 explained Michael's state very much as the Italian doc- 
 tor had done. He was in an exhausted condition. What 
 was essential to him was rest. He must not be made 
 to see anyone or do anything he did not like. 
 
 " Your brother will regain his health entirely," 
 the great man had said, " if he is left in peace, and 
 nothing happens to overexcite him. He is worn to a 
 shadow by that accursed prison. Many men in his 
 condition can't rest. Then they die. He can. He 
 has the temperament that acquiesces. He will cure
 
 PRISONERS 271 
 
 himself if he is left alone. Let him lie in the sun, and 
 give nature a chance." 
 
 In spite of his anxiety Wentworth saw that Michael's 
 bodily strength was slowly returning. Every after- 
 noon he left him half asleep in the sun, and rode over 
 to see Fay. Since she had accepted him it had become 
 a necessity to him to see her every day. 
 
 Wentworth had long been bent to the dust under 
 the pain of Michael's imprisonment. Fay had been 
 bent with anguish to the dust by the weight of her 
 own silence which had kept him there. 
 
 And now in the twinkling of an eye they both stood 
 erect, freed. Life was transfigured for both at the 
 same instant. 
 
 This marvellous moment found them both just when 
 they were deciding mildly to love each other. It took 
 them and flung them together in a common overwhelm- 
 ing joy. It almost seemed as if the shock might make 
 a man of Wentworth. 
 
 Did he half know (he was certainly always tacitly 
 guarding himself against the assumption of such an 
 idea in the minds of others) that he had so far been 
 left out, not only from the whirl of life he had de- 
 liberately withdrawn from that but from the weft of 
 life itself. The great loom had not swept him in. It 
 had not appeared to need him. Some of us seem to 
 hang on the fringe of life, of thought, of love, of 
 everything. We are not for good or ill interwoven 
 into the stuff, part of the pattern. 
 
 Wentworth felt young for the first time in his life, 
 happy for the first time in his life, really energetic 
 for the first time. A certain languid fatigue which
 
 272 PRISONERS 
 
 had been with him from boyhood, which had always lain 
 mournfully on its back waving its legs in the air like 
 a reversed bettle, had now been jolted right side upper- 
 most, and was using those legs, not as proofs of the 
 emptiness of the world, but as a means of locomotion. 
 
 He had at first been enormously raised in his own self- 
 esteem by his engagement to a young and beautiful 
 woman. He was permanently relieved from the neces- 
 sity of accounting to his friends for the fact that he 
 was still unmarried, reminding them that it was his 
 own fault. Perhaps at the bottom of his heart a fear 
 lurked, implanted by the brutal Grenfell, that he was 
 going to be an old maid. That fear was now dispelled. 
 It was mercifully hidden from Wentworth that Grenfell 
 and the Bishop and most of his so-called friends would 
 still so regard him even if he were married. 
 
 But gradually and insensibly the many petty reasons 
 for satisfaction which his engagement to Fay had 
 given him, and even the delight in being loved, were 
 overshadowed by a greater presence. 
 
 At first they had never been silent together. Went- 
 worth liked to hear his own voice, and prosed stolidly 
 on for hours with exquisite enjoyment and an eye to 
 Fay's education at the same time, about his plans, his 
 aspirations, his past life (not that he had had one), 
 the hollowness of society (not that he knew anything 
 about it), a man's need of solitude, and the solace of 
 a woman's devotion, its softening effect on a life de- 
 voted hitherto, perhaps, too entirely to intellectual 
 pursuits. 
 
 Fay did not listen to him very closely. She felt that 
 his mind soared beyond her ken. But she was greatly
 
 PRISONERS 273 
 
 impressed, and repeated little bits of what he had 
 said to Magdalen afterwards. And she looked at him 
 with rapt adoration. 
 
 " Wentworth says that consideration in little things 
 is what makes the happiness of married life," she would 
 announce pontifically. 
 
 " How true ! " 
 
 " And he says social life ought to be simplified." 
 
 " Indeed ! Does he happen to mention how it is to 
 be done? " 
 
 " He says it ought to be regulated, and that every- 
 one ought to be at liberty to lead their own life, and 
 not to be expected to attend cricket matches and garden 
 parties, if you are so constituted that you don't find 
 pleasure in them. I used to think I liked garden par- 
 ties, Magdalen, but I see I don't now. I care more 
 for the big things of life now. Does Everard ever 
 talk to you like that when you and he are alone? " 
 
 " Never. Never." 
 
 " And Andrea never did, either. Wentworth is sim- 
 ply wonderful. You should hear him speak about 
 fame being shallow, and how the quiet mind looking 
 at things truly is everything, and peace not being 
 to be found in the market place, but in a walk by a 
 stream, and how in his eyes a woman's love outweighs 
 the idle glitter of a social success. Oh ! Magdalen, I'm 
 beginning to feel I'm not worthy of Wentworth. I've 
 always liked being admired, so different from him. I 
 did not know there were men so high-minded as he. 
 He makes me feel very petty beside him. And he is so 
 humble. He says I must not idealise him, that he does 
 not wish it, for though he may not be worse or better
 
 274 PRISONERS 
 
 than I think he is only too conscious of his many de- 
 ficiencies. But I can't help it. Who could? " 
 
 And Fay let fall a tear. 
 
 " We needs must love the highest when we see it." 
 
 But the highest some of us can see is the nearest 
 molehill. 
 
 What Michael and the Duke had failed to do for Fay 
 Wentworth was accomplishing. 
 
 " You are made for each other," said Magdalen, with 
 conviction. " Every day shows me that you and Went- 
 worth bring out the best in each other. Perhaps, grad- 
 ually, you will keep nothing back from each other, tell 
 each other everything." 
 
 " He tells me everything now," said Fay. " He 
 trusts me entirely." 
 
 " And you ? " said Magdalen. " Do you tell him 
 everything ? " 
 
 Wentworth, too, had reached the conviction that he 
 and Fay were made for each other. He might have 
 starved out the deeper love, the truth and tenderness 
 of a sincerer nature, if it had been drawn towards 
 him. He had often imagined himself as being the re- 
 cipient of the lavished devotion of a woman beautiful, 
 humble, exquisite and noble, whose truth was truth 
 itself, and had vaguely wondered why she had not come 
 into his life. But perhaps if he had met such a woman, 
 and if she had loved him as he pined to be loved, he would 
 have become suspicious of her, and would have left 
 her after many vacillations. He did not instinctively 
 recognise humility and nobility when he met them, 
 because they bore but slight resemblance to the stiff
 
 PRISONERS 275 
 
 lay figures which represented those qualities in his 
 mind. To meet them in reality would have been to 
 him bewilderment, disappointment, disillusion. 
 
 Fay was not only what he seemed to want, what he 
 had feebly longed for. She was more than this. Her 
 nature was the complement of his. A lack of shrewd- 
 ness, of mental grasp, a certain silliness were absolutely 
 essential to the maintenance of a lifelong devotion to 
 him. Wentworth had found the right woman to give 
 him what he wanted. Fay had found the right man. 
 
 Love, which had been knocking urgently at their 
 doors for so many futile years, heard at last a move- 
 ment as of someone stirring within, and a hand upon 
 the disused latch.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 O Yanna, Adrianna, 
 
 They buried me away 
 In the blue fathoms of the deep, 
 
 Beyond the outer bay. 
 
 But in the Yule, O Yanna, 
 
 Up from the round dim sea 
 And reeling dungeons of the fog 
 
 I am come back to thee! 
 
 BLISS CARMAN. 
 
 WENTWORTH stood at the open window of the library 
 watching Michael. 
 
 Michael was lying on a deck chair on the terrace 
 playing with a puppy. His face was losing a certain 
 grey drawn look which it had worn since he had left 
 prison. He looked more like himself since his hair 
 had time to grow. Wentworth felt that he ought to 
 be reassured about him, but a vague anxiety harrassed 
 him. 
 
 Suddenly, without a moment's warning, the puppy 
 fell asleep. Michael made a movement to reach it, but 
 it was just beyond his grasp. 
 
 In an instant Wentworth was beside him, lifting 
 the sleeping mass of sleek fat on to Michael's knee. 
 Michael's long hands made a little crib for it. 
 
 " He will sleep now for a bit," he said contentedly. 
 
 "Do you sleep better?" said Wentworth. He had 
 276
 
 PRISONERS 277 
 
 not forgotten those first nights at Venice when Michael's 
 feeble step had dragged itself to and fro in the next 
 room half the night. 
 
 " I sleep like a top. I'm asleep half the time." 
 
 " You are much better the last few days." 
 
 "Oh! I'm all right." 
 
 " All Hampshire has been to call. I knew you would 
 be bored, so I did not let them disturb you." 
 
 " Thanks." 
 
 " Is there anyone you would like to see ? " 
 
 " No one that I know of." 
 
 " No one at all? " 
 
 Michael made a mental effort which did not escape 
 Wentworth. 
 
 " I should like very much to see presently if it 
 could be done " 
 
 " Yes," said Wentworth eagerly. " Of course it 
 can be done, my dear boy. You would like to see? " 
 
 " Doctor Filippi," said Michael, looking deprecat- 
 ingly at Wentworth. " He was so good to me. And 
 I am accustomed to seeing him. I miss him all the time. 
 I wonder whether you would let him come and stay here 
 for his holiday. He generally takes it in June. And 
 let me see it's May now, isn't it? " 
 
 Wentworth's heart swelled with jealousy and disap- 
 pointment. The jealousy was of the doctor, the dis- 
 appointment was about Fay. The larger of the two 
 emotions was jealousy. 
 
 " You have sent Doctor Filippi a very handsome 
 present," he said coldly. " I chose it for you, a silver 
 salver. I went up to London on purpose at your 
 wish a week ago."
 
 278 PRISONERS 
 
 " Y-yes." 
 
 " And I don't think he would care to come here. No 
 doubt he has his own friends. You must remember 
 a man like that is poor. It would be putting him to 
 expense." 
 
 Michael looked down at the sleeping puppy. He did 
 not answer. 
 
 Wentworth was beginning to fear that his brother 
 had an ungrateful, callous nature. Was Michael so 
 self-aborbed egotism revolted Wentworth that he 
 would never ask to see Wentworth's future wife, the 
 woman who had shown such unceasing, such tender 
 interest in Michael himself. 
 
 " I hoped there was someone else, someone very dear 
 to me, and a devoted friend of yours, whom you might 
 like to see again." 
 
 Wentworth spoke with deliberation. 
 
 " I could send him a cheque. He need not be at any 
 expense," said Michael in a low voice. His exhausted 
 mind, slower to move than ever, had not left the sub- 
 ject of Doctor Filippi. His brother's last remark 
 had not penetrated to it. 
 
 Wentworth became scarlet. He made an impatient 
 movement. Then part of the sense of his brother's 
 last words tardily reached Michael's blurred faculties. 
 
 " An old friend of mine," he said, vaguely flurried. 
 "What old friend?" 
 
 " Fay," said Wentworth, biting his lip. " Have you 
 forgotten Fay entirely? How she tried to save you, 
 how she grieved for you? Her great goodness to you? 
 And what she is to me! " 
 
 " No," said Michael. " No. I don't forget. Her
 
 PRISONERS 279 
 
 goodness to me. How she tried to save me. Just so. 
 Just so. I don't forget." 
 
 "Won't you see her? She and Magdalen are driv- 
 ing over here this morning. You need not see Mag- 
 dalen unless you like." 
 
 " I should like. She is going to be married, too, 
 isn't she? I feel as if I had heard someone say so." 
 
 " Yes, to Lossiemouth. You remember him as Ever- 
 ard Constable, a touchy, ill-conditioned, cantankerous 
 brute if ever there was one, who does not care a straw 
 for anyone but himself. I can't think what she sees 
 in him. But an Earl's an Earl. I always forget that. 
 I have lived so much apart from the world and its sordid 
 motives and love of wealth and rank that it is always 
 a shock and a surprise when I come in contact with its 
 way of looking at things. I never liked Magdalen. 
 I always considered her superficial. But I never 
 thought her mercenary till now. But Fay " 
 
 " I will see her, too," said Michael. " Yes, of 
 course. I somehow thought of Fay as as but my 
 mind gets so confused as at a great distance, quite 
 removed all this time. Hundreds and hundreds of miles 
 away in England. Left Italy for good." 
 
 " My dear boy, she is living at Priesthope, four miles 
 off. I've told you so over and over again. I go and 
 see her every day." 
 
 " Yes, at Priesthope, of course. Four miles. I know 
 the way. You can go by Wind Farm, or Pilgrim Road. 
 You did tell me. More cheerful as time passes on." 
 
 Wentworth looked with perplexity at Michael's thin 
 profile. The doctor had most solemnly assured him 
 that his mind was only muffled and deadened by his
 
 280 PRISONERS 
 
 physical weakness. But it sometimes seemed to Went- 
 worth as if his brother's brain were softening. 
 
 He felt a sudden return of the blind despairing rage 
 which was wont to grip him after his visits to Michael 
 in prison. This inert, cold-blooded shadow ; was this 
 all that was left of his brother? 
 
 A great tenderness welled up in his heart, the old, old 
 protective tenderness of many years. He put his strong 
 brown hand on his brother's emaciated, once beau- 
 tiful hand, now disfigured by coarse labour, and scarred 
 and discoloured at the wrist. 
 
 " Get well, Michael," he said huskily. 
 
 Michael's hand trembled a little, seemed to shrink 
 involuntarily. 
 
 Then a servant appeared suddenly, coming towards 
 them across the grass, and Wentworth took back his 
 hand instantly. 
 
 " The Duchess of Colle Alto and Miss Bellairs are 
 in the library." 
 
 " Are you quite sure that you really wish to see 
 them that it will not tire you? " said Wentworth. 
 
 " Quite sure." 
 
 " I will bring them out." 
 
 " No. Send one at a time. Fay first." 
 
 Michael lay back and closed his eyes. 
 
 On this May morning as Fay and Magdalen drove 
 together to Barford, Magdalen looked at her sister's 
 radiant face, not with astonishment, she had got over 
 that, but with something more like fear. 
 
 The happiness of some natures terrifies those who 
 love them by its appearance of brittleness. To Mag-
 
 PRISONERS 281 
 
 dalen Fay's present joy seemed like a bit of Venetian 
 glass on the extreme edge of a cabinet at a child's elbow. 
 
 It is difficult for those who have imagination to 
 understand the insouciance which looks so like heart- 
 lessness of the unimaginative. The inevitable meeting 
 with Michael seemed to cast no shadow on Fay's spirits ; 
 Wentworth's ignorance of certain sinister facts did 
 not seem to disturb her growing love for him. 
 
 Their way lay through a pine wood under the 
 shoulder of the down. The whortleberry with its tiny 
 foliage made a miniature forest of pale golden green at 
 the feet of the dark serried trunks of the pines. 
 
 Small yellow butterflies hovered amid the topmost 
 branches of this underfoot forest. 
 
 Fay leaned out of the pony carriage and picked from 
 the high bank a spray of whortleberry with a butterfly 
 poised on it. 
 
 " I thought for one minute I might find a tiny, tiny 
 butterfly nest with eggs in it," she said. " I do wish 
 butterflies had nests like birds, Magdalen, don't you? 
 But this is a new butterfly, not ready to fly. I shall 
 hurt it unless I'm careful." 
 
 She made her sister stop the pony, and knelt down 
 amid the shimmering whortleberry, and tenderly placed 
 the sprig with the butterfly still clinging to it in a little 
 pool of sunshine. But as she did it the butterfly walked 
 from its twig on to her white hand and rested on it, 
 opening and shutting its wings. 
 
 It was a pretty sight to watch Fay coax it to a leaf. 
 But Magdalen's heart ached for her sister as sh knelt 
 in the sunshine. Words rose to her lips for the twen- 
 tieth time, but she choked them down again. What
 
 282 PRISONERS 
 
 use, what use to warn those who cannot be warned, 
 to appeal to deaf ears, to point out to holden eyes the 
 things that belong to their peace? 
 
 The vision is the claim, but it must be our own eyes 
 that see it. We may not look at our spiritual life 
 through another man's eyes. 
 
 As Magdalen waited her eyes wandered to the blue 
 haze between the tree trunks which was the sea, and 
 marked a white band like a ribbon between the blue and 
 the fields. That was a piece of land newly reclaimed 
 from the sea. When a tract of land is thus captured, 
 the first year that it is laid open to the ministry of 
 sun and air and rain it bears an overflowing crop of 
 white clover. The clover seed has lain dormant, per- 
 haps a thousand years under the wash of the wave. 
 The first spring tide after the sea is withdrawn it 
 wakes and rushes up. It was so now in that little 
 walled-in tract by the shore, where she had walked but 
 yesterday. Surely it was to be so in Fay's heart, now 
 that the bitter tides of remorse and selfishness were 
 ceasing to submerge it, now that at last joy and tender- 
 ness were reaching it. Surely, love itself, the seeds of 
 which lie dormant in every heart, love like a marvellous 
 tide of white clover, was finding its chance at last, and 
 would presently inundate her heart. 
 
 Then, unharassed, undelayed by vain words and 
 futile appeals from without all would go well. 
 
 At the last moment when the meeting with Michael 
 was really imminent Fay's insouciance began, as Mag- 
 dalen feared it might, to show signs of collapse. It 
 deserted her entirely as they drove up to Barford.
 
 283 
 
 " Come out with me," she whispered in sudden panic, 
 plucking at her sister's gown, when Wentworth asked 
 her to go and speak to Michael for a few minutes in 
 the garden. But Magdalen had drawn back gravely 
 and resolutely, and had engaged Wentworth's atten- 
 tion, and Fay had been obliged to go alone across the 
 lawn, in the direction of the deck chair. 
 
 Her step, lagging and irresolute, was hardly audible 
 on the grass, but Michael heard it, recognised it. We 
 never forget the footfall, however light, that has 
 trodden on our heart. 
 
 The footfall stopped and he opened his eyes. 
 
 Fay was standing before him. 
 
 And so they met again at last, those two who had 
 been lovers once. She looked long at the man she had 
 broken. He was worn down to the last verge of ex- 
 haustion, barely more than a shadow in the suave sun- 
 shine. She would hardly have recognised him if it had 
 not been for the tranquil steady eyes, and the grave 
 smile. They were all that was left of him, of the 
 Michael she had known. The rest was unfamiliar, 
 repellant. And his hands ! His hands were dreadful. 
 Oh ! if only she had known he was going to look like that 
 she would never have come. Never, never ! Fay ex- 
 perienced the same unspeakable horror and repugnance 
 as if, walking in long, daisy-starred grass, she had sud- 
 denly stumbled against and nearly fallen over a dead 
 body. 
 
 The colour ebbed out of her face and lips. She stood 
 before him without a word, shrinking, transfixed. 
 
 He looked long at her, the woman for whom he had 
 been content to suffer, that he might keep suffering
 
 284 PRISONERS 
 
 from her. Fay's self torture, her protracted anguish, 
 her coward misery, these were written as it were anew 
 in her pallid face. They had been partially effaced 
 during the heedless happiness of the last few weeks, but 
 the sudden shock of Michael's presence drew in again 
 afresh with a cruel pencil the haggard lines of remorse 
 and despair. 
 
 He had not been able to shield her from pain after 
 all. 
 
 " Oh, Fay ! " he said below his breath. " How you 
 have suffered." 
 
 " No one knows what it has been," she said hoarsely, 
 sinking into a chair, trembling too much to stand. " I 
 could not live through it again. I couldn't bear it, 
 and I had to bear it." 
 
 " You will never have to bear it again," he said with 
 compassion. " It is over and done with. You are 
 going to be happy now." 
 
 " You have suffered too," she said, reddening. 
 
 " Not like you. It has been worst for you. I never 
 guessed that you had felt my imprisonment so much as 
 I see now by your face you have." 
 
 " Not have felt it ! Not have suffered from it ! " 
 said Fay, amazed. " Michael, how could I help griev- 
 ing day and night over it? " 
 
 The question almost rose to his lips, " Why then did 
 you not release me? " But the words were not spoken. 
 There is one pain which we need not bear, but which 
 some of us never rest till we have drawn it upon our- 
 selves, that of extorting from the one we love vain ex- 
 cuses, unconscious lies, feeble, inadequate explanations 
 that explain nothing. Let be. The excuses, the lies,
 
 PRISONERS 285 
 
 these shadows of the mind will vanish the moment Love 
 lights his lamp. Till then their ghost-like presence, 
 their semblance of reality but show that the chamber of 
 the Beloved is dark. 
 
 Michael was silent. Though his body and mind 
 were half dead, his spirit was alive and clear, moving 
 swiftly where the spent mind could not follow. 
 
 " How could I help breaking my heart over the 
 thought of you in prison? " said Fay again, wounded 
 to the quick. 
 
 She stared at him, indignant tears smarting in her 
 eyes. Another long look passed between them, on her 
 side bewildered, pained, aghast at being so misunder- 
 stood, on his penetrating, melancholy, full of compas- 
 sionate insight, that look which seems to herald the 
 parting between two unequal natures, but which is in 
 reality a perception that they have never met. 
 
 " I knew you would rejoice when I was set free," he 
 said tranquilly, smiling at her. " Ah ! Here are 
 Magdalen and Wentworth. How radiant she looks ! " 
 
 When Magdalen and Fay had departed, and Went- 
 worth had seen them to the carriage, he came back and 
 sat down by Michael. 
 
 " Not over-tired ? " he said, smiling self-consciously, 
 and poking holes in the turf with his stick. 
 
 " Not in the least." 
 
 " She was looking a little pale to-day." It was ob- 
 vious that he wished to talk about Fay. 
 
 " She is more beautiful than ever," said Michael, 
 willing to give his brother a leg-up. 
 
 " Isn't she ! " said the affianced lover expansively. 
 " But it isn't her beauty I love most, it is her character.
 
 2S6 PRISONERS 
 
 She is so feminine, so receptive, so appreciative of the 
 deeper side of life, so absolutely devoted. Her heart 
 has been awakened for the first time, Michael. She 
 has, I feel sure, never been loved before as I loved her." 
 
 " I imagine not." 
 
 " I can't believe she ever cared for the Duke. I saw 
 him once, and he gave me the impression of a very cold- 
 blooded individual." 
 
 " I don't think he was cold-blooded." 
 
 " Evidently not the kind of man capable of drawing 
 the best out of a woman like Fay." 
 
 " Perhaps not." 
 
 The man who felt himself capable of this feat prodded 
 a daisy and then went on : 
 
 " You used to see a good deal of them in Rome be- 
 fore while you were attache there. Did you gather 
 that it was a happy marriage, a true union? " 
 
 " Not very happy." 
 
 " I daresay he was selfish and inconsiderate. That 
 is generally the crux in married life. Fay has had an 
 overshadowed life so far, but I shall find my chief hap- 
 piness in changing all that. It will be my object to 
 guard her from the slightest touch of pain in future. 
 The masculine impulse to shield and protect is very 
 strongly developed in me." 
 
 " It is sometimes difficult to guard people," said 
 Michael half to himself. 
 
 " I hope some day," Wentworth went on shyly, col- 
 ouring under his tan, " your turn may come, that you 
 may meet the right woman, and feel as I do now. It 
 will be a revelation to you. I am afraid it may seem 
 exaggerated in a person like myself, who am essentially
 
 PRISONERS 287 
 
 a man's man. (This was a favourite illusion of Went- 
 worth's.) But some day you will understand, and you 
 will find as I have done that love is not just slothfully 
 accepting a woman's slavish devotion." 
 
 " Indeed ! " 
 
 " No, Michael, believe me, it is something far 
 greater. It is living not only for self, but as for her 
 sake. To take trouble to win the smile of one we love, 
 to gladly forego one's momentary pleasures, one's con- 
 venience, in order to serve her. That is the best reward 
 of life." 
 
 Michael's eyes filled with tears. He felt a hundred 
 years older than Wentworth at that moment. A tender 
 pained compassion welled up within him. And with 
 it came a new protective comprehension of the man 
 beside him who had cherished him from his childhood 
 onwards. 
 
 He put out his hand and gripped Wentworth's. 
 
 " 4 God bless you, Wenty," he said. 
 
 And for a moment they who were so far apart seemed 
 very near together.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 She sees no tears, 
 Or any tone 
 Of thy deep groan 
 
 She hears : 
 
 Nor does she mind 
 Or think on't now 
 That ever thou 
 
 Wast kind. 
 
 HERRICK. 
 
 IT quickly became plain to Magdalen that Fay's peace 
 of mind had been shaken by her interview with Michael. 
 She had vouchsafed no word concerning it on her way 
 home. But in the days that followed she appeared ill 
 at ease, and a vague and increasing unrest seemed to 
 possess her. Magdalen doubted whether she had as 
 yet asked herself what it was that was disturbing her 
 tranquillity. But it was at any rate obvious that she 
 shrank from seeing Michael again, and that she was at 
 times dejected in Wentworth's presence. 
 
 Wentworth perceived the change in her, and attrib- 
 uted it to a most natural and pardonable jealousy of 
 Michael to which, while he made the fullest allowance 
 for it, he had no inclination to yield. 
 
 Michael had for a moment seemed to take more in- 
 terest in life after Fay's visit, and although he had 
 quickly relapsed into apathy Wentworth told himself 
 that he was anxious to foster this nascent interest by 
 
 288
 
 PRISONERS 289 
 
 another meeting between him and Fay. At the same 
 time he desired to rehearse the part of central figure 
 poised between two great devotions which was to be his 
 agreeable role in the future. For Michael would of 
 course live with them after his marriage with Fay. 
 And if there were any ebullitions of jealousy between 
 Fay and Michael Wentworth dwelt with complacency 
 on the possibility he felt competent to deal with them 
 with tact and magnanimity, reassuring each in turn 
 as to their equal share in his affections. 
 
 Michael at any rate showed no disinclination to meet 
 Fay again, and even evinced something verging on a 
 desire to see Magdalen. And presently Wentworth 
 arranged to drive him over to luncheon at Priesthope. 
 Throughout life he had always liked to settle, even in 
 the most trivial matters, what Michael should do, with 
 whom he should associate. The situation was not new, 
 nor was there any novelty in Michael's pliability. 
 
 But when the day came Wentworth arrived without 
 his brother, and evidently out of temper. Mag- 
 dalen asked if Michael were less well, and was curtly 
 assured that he was steadily improving. The luncheon 
 dragged through somehow as under a cloud. Colonel 
 Bellairs was fortunately absent on a visit to Miss Bar- 
 nett at Saundersfoot. His absence was the only silver 
 lining to the cloud. Fay hardly spoke. Magdalen 
 was thankful that her prickly Lord Lossiemouth had 
 departed the day before. 
 
 After luncheon, when they were sitting on the terrace 
 over their coffee, Bessie left them, and Magdalen 
 was about to do the same, when Wentworth said sud- 
 denly :
 
 290 PRISONERS 
 
 '" I left Michael with the Bishop of Lostford. That 
 is why he is not here now. The Bishop is inducting 
 the new Rector of Wrigley this afternoon, and he sent 
 a wire this morning he is always doing things at the 
 last moment he never considers others to say that he 
 would call at Barford on his way to see Michael. Mi- 
 chael is his godson, and he has always been fond of him. 
 I left them together." 
 
 Magdalen and Fay sipped their coffee in silence. 
 
 " Michael had been as inert and apathetic as usual," 
 continued Wentworth sullenly, " until the Bishop ap- 
 peared. The Bishop took him off into the garden, 
 though I said I did not like his going out so soon after 
 dressing he was only just up and it was perfectly 
 plain they did not want me. I believe that was why 
 they went out. I was of no account. The Bishop has 
 always been like that, your friend one day, and oblivious 
 of you the next. But he and Michael seemed to have 
 a great deal to say to each other. I watched them from 
 the library walking up and down. Michael can walk 
 quite well when he wants to. Then when the victoria 
 came round I thought he would find that less fatiguing 
 than the dogcart I went to tell him that it was time 
 to start, but he only stared vaguely at me, and the 
 Bishop took his arm and said that you must excuse him 
 for this once, as he did not mean to let him go at that 
 moment. So I came away without him." 
 
 " There will be many more opportunities of seeing 
 us, and one must clutch what few chances one can of 
 seeing the Bishop," said Magdalen. 
 
 " When I went to warn Michael that the carriage 
 was there," continued Wentworth, " he did not see me
 
 PRISONERS 291 
 
 till I was quite near there was a bush between and I 
 could not help hearing him say, ' That was half an 
 hour before I was arrested.' ' 
 
 There was an uneasy silence. 
 
 " It seems," said Wentworth with exceeding bitter- 
 ness, " that I have not Michael's confidence. The 
 Bishop has it, but I, his only brother. Oh, no. He 
 can talk to the Bishop about his imprisonment, but to 
 me not a word, not a single word. At first when we 
 were together at Venice I asked him quietly about it 
 once or twice. I asked him why he had never said a 
 word to me about it at the time, why he had not con- 
 fided to me at any rate that he was shielding the Mar- 
 chesa, but I soon saw that the subject distressed him. 
 He always became confused, and he never would reply. 
 Once, since we were back at Barford, when he seemed 
 clearer, I asked him most earnestly to tell me one thing, 
 whether he actually witnessed the murder of the Mar- 
 chese by his wife, as she supposed, and what had first 
 put it into his head to take the blame on himself. But 
 it seemed that any allusion to the subject exhausted and 
 worried him. I said to him at last : ' Do you still hate 
 talking of it as much as ever? ' And he said ' yes.' I 
 could understand that, and from that day to this J 
 never alluded to it again. But though he won't say 
 a word to me, it seems he can to others." 
 
 The miserable jealousy in Wentworth's face touched 
 Magdalen. 
 
 " He knew you had strained every nerve to save him," 
 said Wentworth, turning to Fay. " Has he ever shown 
 his gratitude for what you tried to do for him? " 
 
 " N-no," stammered Fay.
 
 292 
 
 " His imprisonment has changed his nature, that is 
 what it is. He went in alive, and he has come out dead. 
 He has ceased to care for anything or anyone. He has 
 been killed by inches. He was so affectionate as a boy. 
 I was father and mother to him. He used to trot after 
 me like a little dog. And if anyone had his whole con- 
 fidence I had. I was everything to him. My one fear 
 of marrying has always been that he might feel pained 
 at seeing another person first with me." (Wentworth 
 had never had this altruistic misgiving, but he stated it 
 with conviction.) " But now he is not the same. I 
 suppose he still has some affection for me. He shows 
 it sometimes by a kind of effort. He seemed to 
 wake up a bit after you came over, Fay. I think 
 he had a sort of glimpse from things I said to him of 
 what love can be, and just for a moment he was more 
 like his old self, and appeared to enter into my feelings. 
 But he soon sank back again. As often as not he 
 seems to shrink from any real conversation. We some- 
 times sit whole evenings together without speaking. 
 He does not really want me any more, or anyone. He 
 talked at first a little about the Italian doctor, but he 
 never mentions him now. And as for my marriage, as 
 for being distressed by my caring for someone else," 
 resentfully, " he is absolutely indifferent. You would 
 think that Fay and I, the two people of all others who 
 have done most for him, who have grieved most over 
 him, who have shown him most affection, were nothing 
 to him." 
 
 There was a ghastly silence. 
 
 " I don't blame him," said Wentworth with some- 
 thing nearer passion than he had ever experienced be-
 
 PRISONERS 293 
 
 fore, in which even his petty jealousy was momentarily 
 extinguished. " At least, I can't look at him and remain 
 angry with him. It breaks my heart to see him like 
 this, so callous, so regardless of all I have suffered on 
 his account. I don't blame him. He is not himself. 
 His brain is weakened by his poor body. No. The 
 person I do blame is that accursed woman who allowed 
 him to suffer for her, who skulked behind him for two 
 endless years, who let him sacrifice his life for hers, 
 who never had the courage to say the word, and take 
 her crime upon herself, and get him out of his living 
 grave." 
 
 Fay became cold as death in the May sunshine. What 
 ghost was this which was taking form before her? 
 What voice was this, how could it be Wentworth's voice, 
 which was saying at last aloud with passion what that 
 other accusing voice within had so hoarsely, so per- 
 sistently whispered from its cell, during the long years? 
 Her brain reeled. 
 
 " The Marchesa did repent," said Magdalen. 
 
 Wentworth laughed harshly. 
 
 " Oh, yes. On her deathbed, in order to save her 
 soul. She wanted to be right with the next world. But 
 how could she go on, year in year out, letting him burn 
 and freeze alternately in that vile cell? She must have 
 known, someone must have told her, what his life was 
 like. How well I remember, Fay, your saying : ' Why 
 does not the real murderer confess? How can he go 
 on letting an innocent man wear out his life in prison, 
 bearing the punishment of his horrible crime?' How 
 little we both knew. I always supposed the assassin 
 was a man, a common criminal of the lowest order.
 
 294 PRISONERS 
 
 Yet it seems there are women in the world, educated, 
 refined women, who can remorselessly pinch a man's life 
 out of him with their white hands. The Marchesa has 
 murdered two people, first her husband, and then my 
 boy, my foolish, quixotic, generous Michael. May God 
 forgive her ! I never will ! "
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you. 
 
 W. B. YEATS. 
 
 Je veux aimer, mais je ne veux pas souffrir. 
 
 A. DE MUSSET. 
 
 Ix the days that followed the Bishop's visit Michael's 
 mind showed signs of reasserting itself. He was as 
 quickly exhausted as ever, and with fatigue came the 
 old apathy and helpless confusion of ideas. But his 
 languid intelligence had intervals of increasing clear- 
 ness. His face took on at these times a strained ex- 
 pression, as if he dimly saw something with which he 
 felt powerless to cope. We see such a look sometimes, 
 very piteous in its impotence, in the faces of the old, 
 when an echo reaches them of the anguish of the world 
 in which they once lived, which they have well nigh 
 forgotten. 
 
 Michael's body, which had so far profited by the 
 inertness of his faculties, resented the change, and gave 
 unmistakable signs of relinquishing the slight degree of 
 strength it had regained. 
 
 Wentworth became suddenly frantically anxious once 
 more, and in a moment the wrongs on which he was 
 brooding were forgotten. He decided to go to Lon- 
 don the same day under the guise of business, and to 
 consult the great doctor privately about Michael, per- 
 haps arrange to bring him back with him. 
 
 295
 
 296 PRISONERS 
 
 " I wish you would drive oftener," he said to Michael 
 before he left. " It's much better for you than walk- 
 ing up and down. Why not, if you feel inclined, as 
 you will be alone all day, drive over to Priesthope this 
 afternoon. I said you would come the first day you 
 could. It's only four miles, just an easy little drive." 
 
 An indefinable change passed over Michael's vacant 
 face at the mention of Priesthope. His eyes became 
 fixed. He looked gravely at his brother, as if the latter 
 had solved some difficult problem. 
 
 " It's a good idea," he said slowly. " I ought to 
 have gone before, but 
 
 " The Bishop stopped you most inconsiderately 
 last time." 
 
 "Did he? I don't remember being stopped. Oh! 
 
 yes, yes, I do. But if I had gone that day But 
 
 anyhow I will go to-day." 
 
 Fay was sitting alone in the morning-room at 
 Priesthope, pretending to read, when Michael was 
 announced. 
 
 When he had been conveyed to a chair and had over- 
 come the breathlessness and semi-blindness that any 
 exertion caused him he saw that she looked ill, and as 
 if she had not slept. 
 
 " I ought to have come before," he said mechanically, 
 making a great mental effort and putting his hand to 
 his head. " I meant to come, but " he looked hope- 
 lessly at her. He had evidently forgotten what he in- 
 tended to say. 
 
 " The day you were coming with Wentworth the 
 Bishop stopped you," said Fay drearily. Every word
 
 PRISONERS 297 
 
 that Wentworth had said that afternoon was still echo- 
 ing discordantly in her brain. 
 
 " That's it. The Bishop," said Michael with relief. 
 " He told me, we had a long talk " his mind was clear- 
 ing rapidly " how you meant to save me." 
 
 " Yes, I meant to do it," said Fay, looking at him 
 with miserable eyes. " But the Marchesa, the same 
 day it was in the papers." 
 
 " I know, I know. The Bishop told me. He said I 
 ought to know that you had been willing to make the 
 sacrifice. I have come to thank you, Fay, and to ask 
 you to forgive me for misjudging you. You see I was 
 not aware you had thought of it." 
 
 " It's for you to forgive me, Michael, not me you. 
 And you don't bear me a grudge, do you? I somehow 
 don't feel as if you did. And oh, Michael, you never, 
 never will say anything or do anything, will you you 
 could, you know to stop my marrying Wentworth? " 
 
 Michael's eyes turned on her almost with scorn. 
 
 " When first we met again, that second time in Italy," 
 he said gently, " do you remember it by the tomb in 
 the gardens ? There were roses all over it. I never saw 
 such roses. Perhaps there were none like them. Then 
 I had no faintest thought or hope of marrying you, 
 though I had not forgotten you, Fay. I had put it 
 all away, buried it. You were another man's wife. 
 Now that we meet again the position is the same." 
 
 Fay looked at Michael. 
 
 The impersonal detached look which she had set her- 
 self to extinguish that day amid the roses, which had 
 been in his face when she saw him first as a lad, which 
 she had twice extinguished, was in his eyes again.
 
 298 PRISONERS 
 
 There was no pain in them now, any more than there 
 had been when they leaned together beside the tomb: 
 only the shadow of something exceeding sharp, endured, 
 accepted, outlived. Michael looked through her, be- 
 yond her. 
 
 " And yet the position is not quite the same," he said 
 tranquilly, " for then you were married to a man you 
 did not love, and now you are to marry a man you Oh ! 
 Fay, you do care for Wentworth, don't you? " 
 
 " I would not have kept him in prison for a day," 
 she said, and hid her face in her hands. 
 
 If only it might have been Wentworth who had sacri- 
 ficed himself for her with what desperate rapidity she 
 would have rescued him. How calm her agonised heart 
 would be now. Fay was beginning to learn that it is 
 ill to take a service save from the hand we love. And 
 perhaps, too, in her heart she knew that Wentworth 
 would never have sacrificed himself for her, for Michael 
 possibly, but not for her. 
 
 " Wentworth is worth caring for," said Michael. 
 " Not worth caring for in part, a bit here and a bit 
 there, who is? but worth caring for altogether. I have 
 loved him all my life. I love him more than anyone in 
 the world. You asked me just now not to say anything 
 to stop his marrying you. But that is just what I've 
 come about. I am so afraid of his marriage with you 
 being stopped." 
 
 Fay raised her face out of her hands, and stared at 
 him. 
 
 " It's the only thing I've ever known him really wish 
 for, almost keen about. He can't care much about 
 things, not as other men care. He has always waited
 
 PRISONERS 299 
 
 to see whether things will come to him of themselves, 
 and then if they didn't he thought it was a wise Provi- 
 dence taking them away, showing him the vanity of 
 setting his heart on anything, while all the time it's 
 his own nature really that makes things somehow slip 
 away from him. People slip away from him. I've 
 seen it happen over and over again. He can't take hold 
 like other men. He does not put himself out for any 
 one, you know, and he doesn't realise that other people 
 do; he has no idea how men like the Bishop and Gren- 
 fell and the Archbishop stand by each other, and hold 
 together through thick and thin. Wentworth has no 
 friends, but he doesn't know it. He has only you and 
 me. The Bishop said we must remember that, and that 
 if anything happened to shake his his feeling for 
 either of us, his belief in either of us, it would be 
 cruelly hard on him." 
 
 " Why should anything happen," said Fay faintly, 
 "if you don't tell him?" 
 
 " I shan't tell him on purpose, you may be sure of 
 that, but since since the Bishc,/ came over I'm certain 
 he suspects something, I don't know what, and I have 
 to be careful all the time. Fay, I've grown so stupid 
 and muddle-headed since I've been in in Italy that I 
 can't remember what I may say and what I mayn't about 
 that time. My only safety is in absolute silence, and 
 lately that has begun to vex him. And he asks such 
 odd questions, which I don't see the meaning of at first, 
 like traps. He often tells me he never asks any ques- 
 tions, but he does, indirect ones, all the time. I'm 
 getting afraid of being alone with him. Sometimes I 
 think if I stay much longer at Barford I'm so idiotic
 
 300 PRISONERS 
 
 he'll get it out of me. Has he asked you any leading 
 questions ? " 
 
 " No. Once he asked if you showed any gratitude 
 for what I had done for you in the past. And I said 
 no. It was the first time I had told him a lie, for it was 
 a lie except in the actual words." 
 
 " Aren't you afraid," said Michael gently, " that it 
 may not be the only one, that perhaps there may be 
 some more? " 
 
 There was a long pause. 
 
 " I think Wentworth will find out some day," he went 
 on. " I'm sure he will. Then, Fay, it might be too 
 late for you and me to save him from a great pain. 
 He might feel that we had both betrayed him." 
 
 Fay turned her quivering face towards him. 
 
 " Oh, no. I haven't done that. It's you I betrayed, 
 Michael. I'm so thankful it was you, and not him." 
 
 " I was yours to keep or to throw away. You could do 
 what you liked with your own. But it is not the same 
 for Wentworth. Wentworth belongs to himself." 
 
 In her heart she knew it. Love had shown even her 
 certain things about the man she loved. 
 
 " And I am afraid he might feel it if he found out 
 that you had let me stay in Italy." 
 
 " I'd give anything I have," she said with a sob ; " I'd 
 give both my hands, I'd give my being pretty, which I 
 think so much of, and he thinks so much of, I'd 
 give anything if only I had not done that, if I could 
 only undo that. Sometimes I wake in the morning 
 and think I haven't done it, that it's only a dream. 
 And it's like Heaven! I cry for joy. And then the 
 knowledge comes. I did not know, Michael, what I
 
 PRISONERS 301 
 
 was doing. But since you came back I've seen; since 
 I loved Wentworth I've seen what I've done to you ; 
 just brushed you aside when you got in the way, and 
 left you to die." 
 
 He looked at her in silence. It had come, the mo- 
 ment of anguished realisation that he had foreseen for 
 her, but it had come to her through love for another. 
 That to which his great love would fain have drawn 
 her, she had reached at last by a lesser love than his. 
 
 " I have been cruel to Wentworth. I might have 
 tried to get you out for his sake if not for yours. He 
 never had a moment's happiness while you were shut 
 up. But I didn't. I didn't really care for him then. 
 I only tried at last to get you out, because I could not 
 bear the misery of it any longer. I have never cared 
 for anyone but myself till now. I see now that I have 
 been hard and cruel. I have always thought myself 
 gentle and loving and tender-hearted, like you thought 
 me, poor, poor Michael. You have paid for that. 
 Like Wentworth thinks me now. Oh, Michael, must 
 Wentworth pay too? " 
 
 Michael looked at her with compassion. " I am 
 afraid he must. But do not let him pay a penny more 
 than is necessary. You still have it in your power to 
 save him part of the the expense. Let him pay the 
 lesser price instead of the greater. Tell him, instead 
 of letting him find out." 
 
 Silence. 
 
 " It is the only thing to do, Fay." 
 
 No answer. 
 
 ** I am afraid you do not love him after all," said 
 the inexorable voice.
 
 PRISONERS 
 
 Again silence. 
 
 Michael dragged himself feebly from his chair, and 
 took her clenched hands between both of his. 
 
 " Love him a little more," he said. " Take the risk 
 and tell him everything while there is still time. Lis- 
 ten, Fay, and try to forgive me if I seem cruel. You 
 thought you loved me once. But it was not enough to 
 risk anything for me. You threw me away by your 
 silence because you found the truth too difficult. Don't, 
 don't throw Wentworth away too, because the truth is 
 difficult. Fay, believe me," Michael's voice shook, " it's 
 hard to find out you've been deceived. It's hard to be 
 betrayed." His voice had sunk to- a broken whisper. 
 " Don't put him through it. You wouldn't if you 
 if you knew what it was like." 
 
 Magdalen, coming in half an hour later found Fay 
 lying on her face on the sofa alone. She looked, poor 
 little creature, with her outstretched arms, not unlike 
 a cross on which Love might very well be crucified anew. 
 It does not matter much whether it is on a cross of wood, 
 or of fear, or of egotism, that we nail Love to his 
 slow death. 
 
 Fay loved for the first time. Was she going to cru- 
 cify that love, to pierce its upholding hands, to betray 
 that benign saviour, come so late but come at last, to 
 help her in her sore need?
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 His own thought drove him like a goad. TENNYSON. 
 
 " Now," said the great doctor to Michael next day, 
 " I have been hustled down here against my will by Mr. 
 Maine. I'm wanted elsewhere. I calculate my time at 
 a pound a minute. Out with it. What is it that's 
 worrying you? " 
 
 Michael did not answer. 
 
 The great man groaned. But his eyes were kindly. 
 
 " You want something you have not got, eh ? like the 
 rest of us. We are all in the same steam launch." 
 
 " I don't want anything, thanks." 
 
 "In love?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Quite sure? I have always observed that people 
 who are in love are desperately offended at the bare 
 supposition that such a thing is possible. Things might 
 be arranged, you know. Young women aren't intended 
 by nature to live single any more than you are. Would 
 a few weeks in London meet the case? The season's 
 just beginning. No theatres, of course, and no late 
 hours. Your brother here seems made of money, 
 though he will soon be ruined if he goes on sending for 
 me. For I always charge double if I'm sent for un- 
 necessarily. Come, sir, what do you want ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Michael, half amused. He was 
 still exhausted by his expedition to Priesthope of the 
 
 303
 
 304 PRISONERS 
 
 previous day. " I don't want anything, thanks. I'm 
 all right." 
 
 " What do you say to a change? " 
 
 " I had not thought of that," said Michael with a 
 flicker of interest. " Now you mention it yes. That's 
 the very thing. I should like a change." 
 
 Wentworth came forward at once. 
 
 " Norway ? " he said eagerly, " or Switzerland. We 
 must be guided by you, doctor. Or a yacht? You 
 used to be fond of yachting, Michael. We will go 
 anywhere you like." 
 
 Michael's face fell. 
 
 The doctor leaned back and examined his finger tips. 
 He had seen what he wanted. 
 
 " The yacht won't do," he said with decision. " And 
 Norway's out of the question. Much too far. In fact, 
 there's only one place that will do." 
 
 " Where is that ? " said Wentworth. 
 
 " I don't know yet. Where is it, Mr. Carstairs ? " 
 
 " I should like," said Michael, colouring painfully, 
 for he knew he was going to hurt Wentworth, " I 
 should like to go to Lostford; not for long, just for a 
 little bit." 
 
 " Lostford ! " exclaimed Wentworth, amazed. " Lost- 
 ford, down in that hole. Oh ! no." 
 
 " Well, and why not Lostford? " said the doctor with 
 asperity. " Mr. Carstairs shows his sense. He is 
 not up to a long journey. Quite near. Interesting 
 cathedral. Cultivated society. I should have sug- 
 gested Lostford myself if he had not." 
 
 " I will ride over and take rooms at the ' Prince Con- 
 sort ' to-day," said Wentworth meekly.
 
 PRISONERS 305 
 
 " You will do no such thing. Are you taking leave 
 of your senses. Your brother is not fit to stay in a 
 rackety hotel." 
 
 " The Bishop has asked me," said Michael faintly, 
 " to spend a week or two with him whenever I like. I 
 believe it's very quiet there." 
 
 " The Bishop ! " said Wentworth. " It would be far 
 from quiet at the Palace. Worse than an hotel. The 
 Bishop lives in a perpetual turmoil." 
 
 Then he suddenly stopped short, and became very 
 red. Michael preferred the Bishop to himself. 
 
 " It's a good idea," said the doctor. " I know the 
 Bishop. Splendid man. The best of company." He 
 got up with decision. " My orders are, Mr. Carstairs, 
 that you proceed to Lostford without delay. How far 
 is it? Six miles. Go to-morrow." Then he turned 
 to Wentworth. " You will go over and see him in a 
 week's time, and report to me." 
 
 " You think him worse," said Wentworth nervously 
 to the doctor in the hall. 
 
 " No," said the doctor emphatically, watching his 
 motor sliding to the door, " but he is not better. He is 
 anxious about something, and he can't afford to be 
 anxious. He is not in a fit state to have a finger ache 
 with impunity." 
 
 " He has nothing to be anxious about," said Went- 
 worth. " And if he had a trouble I should be the first 
 to hear of it. I have his entire confidence at least, I 
 had till lately. I must own he has become very changed 
 of late. Of course, I never appear to notice it, 
 but " 
 
 " Quite right. Quite right. I wish others were as
 
 306 PRISONERS 
 
 sagacious as you are. Let him go to Lostford for a 
 week or two and get you off his nerves," the doctor 
 added to himself as the motor shot down the beech 
 avenue. 
 
 A few days later Wentworth was sitting idly watch- 
 ing the stream of Piccadilly from the windows of his 
 club. The same day that Michael had gone to Lost- 
 ford he had discovered that he had business in London. 
 He would have found it difficult to say what his busi- 
 ness there was. But one of Wentworth's many theories 
 about himself was that he was a very busy man. He 
 had so constantly given " urgent business " as a reason 
 for evading uncongenial social engagements that he 
 had finished by believing himself to be overwhelmed with 
 arduous affairs. So he went to London, and visited a 
 publisher anent his forthcoming history of Sussex, and 
 dined with a man whom he met at Lord's, whom he had 
 not seen for years, and wrote daily to Fay, expressing 
 ardent but vague hopes that he might be able to " get 
 away " from London by the end of the week. 
 
 He was in no hurry to return. 
 
 A vague fear of something grievously amiss with 
 Michael, he knew not what; an unformulated anxiety 
 weighed upon him. And he was jealous. Jealousy 
 had brought him up to London. He was not going to 
 remain deserted at Barford. Jealousy was keeping 
 him there now. He had seen that Michael was glad to 
 get away from him, that he had caught at the doctor's 
 suggestion of a change. His sullen heart was very 
 sore about Michael. Why did he want to leave him? 
 Where would he meet anyone more devoted to him than
 
 PRISONERS 307 
 
 himself? What could any man do for another that he 
 had not done for Michael? Was it true then, after all, 
 what he had so often heard was the fate of men of deep 
 affections like himself, that they give all, and are given 
 nothing in return. 
 
 A sudden exclamation made him look up. 
 
 " Why, Maine, is it you ? " 
 
 A tall, bald man was holding out his hand to him. 
 For a moment Wentworth did not recognise him. Then 
 he remembered him. Lord John Alington. 
 
 He shook hands with tepid civility, but Lord John 
 always mistook a pained recognition for an enthusi- 
 astic welcome. He drew up a chair at once. 
 
 " Now this is what I call luck," he said, his red face 
 beaming. " And so your brother is freed at last. Only 
 heard the news when I landed from Norway a week 
 ago. I congratulate you with my whole heart. I 
 never was so glad about anything before." And Lord 
 John sawed Wentworth's limp hand up and down. 
 
 " I was present, you know," he went on. " Made a 
 great impression on me. Sobered me for a long time 
 I can tell you. I saw Carstairs come forward and give 
 himself up. Never had such a shock in my life." 
 
 " I remember now you were there." 
 
 " Rather. And I was dead certain from the first 
 that he had never done it. I always said so. And now 
 at last the mystery is cleared up. And I was proved 
 right. He hadn't. But fancy shielding that old Mar- 
 chesa with her long teeth. Why, she was forty if she 
 was a day. Who would ever have thought of it ! " 
 
 " No one did," said Wentworth. 
 
 " I didn't. I may tell you frankly that I did not.
 
 308 PRISONERS 
 
 The Marchesa! I knew her. But it never so much as 
 crossed my mind that she had massacred her old hubby. 
 4 Good God ! The Marchesa ! ' Those were my exact 
 words when I heard a week ago. Is Carstairs in Lon- 
 don? I should like just to shake him by the hand." 
 
 " He is not in town. He is still feeling the effects 
 of his imprisonment." 
 
 " I should like to have seen him. It was my fault he 
 was found you know. I said * Perhaps he's behind the 
 screen.' Dreadfully sorry. Wish I hadn't. Only my 
 fun. Never thought he was there, or anyone. I've 
 never forgotten his coming out from behind the screen. 
 But what I want to know is," Lord John tapped Went- 
 worth on the arm with his eyeglass, and lowered his 
 voice confidentially, '* isdiy lie ever went behind it. That's 
 what has been puzzling me ever since I read the Mar- 
 chesa's confession. If he wanted to shield her, why the 
 deuce did he hide at all? Why not strike a noble atti- 
 tude bang in the middle of the room from the first? " 
 
 Wentworth looked at him astonished. The vague 
 suspicion of the last weeks that Michael was concealing 
 something from him was taking shape at last. 
 
 There was no doubt that Lord John had got hold of 
 a listener. 
 
 " No, no, Maine. When Carstairs was hiding behind 
 the screen he was not dying with anxiety to take the 
 Marchesa's crime on his white shoulders not at that 
 moment. That explanation don't wash. I believe I 
 know a better one." 
 
 Wentworth became very red. 
 
 " The Duchess's maid! Did you ever see her? No, 
 evidently not. You've no time for looking at young
 
 PRISONERS 309 
 
 maids. Taken up with contemplating an old maid in 
 the glass. You miss a lot, I can tell you. She was the 
 prettiest little baggage I've set eyes on for years. And 
 she was not of an iron virtue. But she wouldn't look 
 at a little thing like me. Can't think why. Come, 
 now, don't look so demure. We aren't all plaister saints 
 like you. I'm not, in spite of my Madonna face. 
 Wasn't that the truth? The Marchesa story is for 
 the gallery. But you and I are behind the scenes. 
 Mum's the word. But wasn't that why Carstairs was 
 hanging about the house after everyone else had gone 
 just for the same reason that I was to get a word 
 with that little hussy?" 
 
 At that moment a tall, middle-aged man came into 
 the room, and Lord John's roving eye fell upon him. 
 He sprang to his feet. 
 
 " Lossiemouth," he said, seizing the latter's unwill- 
 ing hand. " Why, you're the very man I wanted to 
 see. Congratulations, my dear chap. All my heart. 
 Ship come in, and ancestral halls, and going to be mar- 
 ried too, all in one fell swoop. Know Miss Bellairs a 
 little. Jumped with her in the same skipping rope in 
 childhood's happy hours, danced with her at her first 
 ball. Madly in love with her. Never seen her since." 
 
 Wentworth escaped. 
 
 The chamber of his soul had been long in readiness, 
 swept and garnished for the restless spirit that had 
 returned to it not alone.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 Est-il indispensable, qu'on s'eleve a un point d'ou le 
 devoir n'apparaisse plus comme un choix de nos sentiments 
 les plus nobles, mais comme une silencieuse necessite de 
 toute notre nature. 
 
 THE following afternoon Fay was sitting in the little 
 morning-room at Priesthope, trying to write a letter, 
 a long, long letter. Wentworth's last note to her, just 
 arrived by the second post, was open before her, telling 
 her that he could not return for two days. And then 
 the door opened gently and he was before her. 
 
 She turned a white, miserable face towards the door. 
 Then as she suddenly recognised him the colour rushed 
 to her face, and she flew to him with a cry and locked 
 him in her arms, kissing his shoulder, his coat, his 
 hands. 
 
 He was thunderstruck. Could a few days' absence 
 so profoundly move these delicate, emotional creatures, 
 whom an all-wise Providence had made almost too sus- 
 ceptible to masculine charm ! He had never seen Fay 
 like this. But then, he had never seen anything like 
 anything. She withdrew herself suddenly, and stood a 
 little apart, her face and neck one carnation of soft 
 shame. 
 
 " But you are in London," she said, her lip quiver- 
 ing, her eyes falling before his. " I have your own 
 word for it that you are still in London." And she 
 
 310
 
 PRISONERS 311 
 
 pointed at his letter. " I was not expecting to see 
 you." 
 
 A joy so great that it was akin to pain laid its 
 awakening hand on him. 
 
 " I am glad you were not expecting me," he said, in 
 a voice that he hardly recognised as his own. " I'm 
 thankful." 
 
 And he drew her back into his arms more moved than 
 he had ever been. 
 
 Yes. He was loved. He loved and was loved. He 
 had not known the world contained anything as great as 
 this. He had always thought that life at its best was a 
 solitary thing, that passion was a momentary madness 
 with which he did not care to tamper, that celibacy was 
 a cheap price to pay for his independence. But he and 
 this woman were one. This was rest and peace and 
 joy and freedom. This was what he had always 
 wanted, without knowing he wanted it. One of the 
 many barriers between them went down. He thought 
 it was the only one. 
 
 They sat a long time in silence, his head against her 
 breast. Her face had become pinched and sharp, the 
 lovely colour had faded. All its beauty and youth had 
 gone out of it. Her terrified eyes stared at the 
 wall. 
 
 " Speak ! Speak now," said the inner voice. " You 
 were too late last time. Speak now." 
 
 " I am very miserable, Fay," in a whisper against 
 her cheek. 
 
 Her arms tightened round him. 
 
 " Not so miserable now I am with you, but "
 
 312 PRISONERS 
 
 It seemed to Fay that she was holding to her breast 
 the point of the sword that was to stab her to death. 
 
 He raised his head, and she saw that there were tears 
 in his eyes. Twice she had seen tears in those narrow 
 grey eyes before: once when he had talked to her of 
 Michael in prison, and once when Michael was exon- 
 erated. 
 
 They had drawn a little apart. 
 
 " When I came here I had not meant to tell you any- 
 thing about it, I had decided not to, but Fay, I can't 
 believe it, I haven't slept all night, I have known for two 
 days, I only found it out by the merest accident that 
 that has happened which I never thought could hap- 
 pen, something impossible." Wentworth's lip quivered. 
 " Michael has deceived me, not by mistake, not just for 
 a moment, but systematically, purposely for years." 
 
 There was anger as well as pain in his voice. 
 
 " It was about the murder of the Marchese," he said 
 hoarsely, " but I don't care what it was about. That is 
 not the point. He has deceived me for reasons of his 
 own. I don't know what they were. And I am afraid, 
 my darling, he has not stopped there. I am afraid he 
 has deceived you too. I am afraid he hoodwinked you 
 when he persuaded you to let him hide in your room. 
 Why did he hide if he wanted to shield the Marchesa? 
 Don't you see that there was no sense in his hiding, 
 though I never thought of it till lately? I always 
 believed in him implicitly, as you have done. I thought 
 him just the kind of person who would sacrifice himself 
 for a woman. I can understand doing it. It appeals 
 to a nature like mine. I was deeply hurt by his reserve 
 about it, since he came home, but I never thought, it
 
 PRISONERS 313 
 
 never struck me for one single second that it concealed 
 anything discreditable." 
 
 " It does not," said Fay suddenly. 
 
 " My dearest, I am afraid there is no doubt it does. 
 What was Michael doing in the garden at that time of 
 night. You forget that. I am the last person in the 
 world to think him capable of anything disgraceful, but 
 I can't resist the conclusion that he was waiting Oh! 
 Fay, your ears ought not to be polluted by such things 
 was waiting about in the garden because he was at- 
 tracted by someone in the house." 
 
 He felt her hand quiver in his. 
 
 How womanly she was, how pure. How could any 
 man have had the heart to throw dust in those inno- 
 cent eyes. He kissed the cold hand reverently. 
 
 " I hate to speak of such a thing to you, and it some- 
 how seems out of the question when I think of Michael's 
 character. I had brought him up so carefully. I had 
 impressed on him my own high code of morals from the 
 first. And yet and yet I am afraid, dearest, that 
 Michael must have been hanging about to have a word 
 with don't start so, why do you tremble? with your 
 maid." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Fay shook her head. 
 She was unable to articulate. 
 
 " Then why was he there? You must have been very 
 much surprised and alarmed at his coming to your room 
 so late. And unless he had given you some reason, you 
 would not have tried to hide him. We always come 
 back to that. Fay, why did Michael hide? " 
 
 Fay struggled to speak. Her white lips moved, but 
 no sound came forth.
 
 314 PRISONERS 
 
 " You and the Duke tried to save him from being dis- 
 covered. We all know that. The Duke told me so 
 himself." 
 
 Another silence. Fay's face became convulsed. 
 
 " You are no diplomatist, Fay, thank God. I see 
 very well, my darling, that you know more than you 
 will say. It is plain to me that in the goodness of your 
 soul you are trying to shield Michael for the second 
 time." 
 
 He kissed her on the forehead and rose to go. 
 
 " Stop ! " said Fay, almost inarticulately. " It isn't 
 the second time. I didn't shield him last time. I let 
 him slide. But I will now . - . . I want to tell 
 you ... I must tell you . . . Michael has 
 been here, he came when you were away in London. 
 And he has begged me, Oh, Wentworth, he has im- 
 plored me to tell you everything." 
 
 Wentworth became very red. His face hardened. 
 
 " He has begged you to tell me ! He has gone behind 
 my back and tried to depute you to do it, to plead his 
 cause for him. He has not even the courage to come 
 to me himself. No, Fay, I am going. It is no use 
 imploring me to stay. I'm not going to listen to you 
 making excuses for him. I don't blame you, but you 
 ought not to have agreed to do it. Whatever I ought 
 to know I must hear from Michael himself. I shall 
 go over and see him to-morrow morning. Even you, 
 dearest, must not come between Michael and me."
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 Aimer quelqu'un, c'est a la fois lui oter le droit, et lui 
 donner la uuissance de nous faire souffrir. 
 
 THE following morning the Bishop and Michael were 
 sitting in the library at Lostford Palace. The Bishop 
 was reading a letter, while Michael watched him, sunk 
 in an arm-chair. 
 
 Presently the Bishop thrust out his under lip, and 
 gave back the letter to Michael. 
 
 " Wentworth has dipped his pen in gall instead of 
 in his inkpot," he said. " For real quality and strength 
 give me the venom of a virtuous person. The ordinary 
 sinner can't compete with him. Evil doers are out of 
 the running in this world as well as in the next. I often 
 tell them so. That is why I took orders. What do 
 you suppose Wentworth suspects when he says Aling- 
 ton has suggested a discreditable reason for your being 
 in the di Collo Alto villa that night, and that he is not 
 going to allow you to skulk behind a woman any longer ? 
 He will be here directly to extort what he is pleased to 
 call * the truth.' What are you going to say ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Michael. ** That is the worst 
 of me. I never know." 
 
 The Bishop frowned and rubbed his chin. 
 
 " I see one thing," continued Michael, " and that is 
 that it's all important that he should not break with 
 Fay." 
 
 315
 
 316 PRISONERS 
 
 " That will be his first step if he knows the truth." 
 
 " I am afraid it will, and yet that's the pity of it, 
 she will last longer than I shall, and he does like her 
 a little which is a great deal'for him. You don't be- 
 lieve it, but he really does. And he'll want her more 
 than ever when I'm gone." 
 
 The Bishop looked keenly at his godson. 
 
 Michael had never before alluded to his precarious 
 hold on life. It was obvious that he was only consider- 
 ing it now in its bearings on Wentworth's future. 
 
 " Can a man who has grown grey looking at himself 
 in the glass, and recording his own microscopic expe- 
 riences in a diary, can such a man forgive? " said the 
 Bishop. " Forgiveness is tough work. It needs knowl- 
 edge of human nature. It needs humility. I forgave 
 somebody once long ago. And it nearly was the death 
 of me. I've never been the same man since." 
 
 " Wentworth will have his chance," said Michael. 
 " It's about all we can do for him." 
 
 " We all know he says he can, but then he says such a 
 lot of things. He dares to say he loves his fellow men. 
 But I've never yet found that assertion coincide with 
 any real working regard for them. There are certain 
 things which those who care for others never say, and 
 that is one of them. The egoist on the contrary is 
 always asserting of himself what he ought in common 
 decency to leave others to say of him, only they never 
 do. Wentworth actually told me not so long ago that 
 he was intent on the service of others. I told him it 
 was for those others to mention that interesting fact, 
 and that nobody had lied about him to that extent so 
 far in my diocese."
 
 PRISONERS 31T 
 
 " He always says that there is perfect confidence 
 between us," said Michael. " I've heard him say so 
 ever since I can remember, and I've heard him tell peo- 
 ple that I always brought him my boyish troubles. But 
 I never did, even as a boy, even when I got into a scrape 
 at Eton. My tutor stood by me in that. Wentworth 
 never could endure him. He said he was such a snob. 
 But snob or not, he was a firm friend to me. And I 
 never told him even at the first of my love for Fay. 
 I somehow could not. You simply can't tell Wentworth 
 things. But he has got it into his head that I al- 
 ways have, and that this is the first time I have kept 
 anything from him. If I had only Fay's leave to tell 
 him ! It is the only thing to do." 
 
 The door opened, and to the astonishment of both 
 men, Fay and Magdalen came in. Fay looked as ex- 
 hausted, as hopeless, as she had done three months ago 
 when Magdalen had brought her to make her confession 
 to the Bishop in this very room. 
 
 She evidently remembered it. She turned her lustre- 
 less eyes on him and said, " Magdalen did not make me 
 come this time. I have come myself. Do you think, 
 is there any chance, Uncle John, that God will have 
 mercy on me again, like He did before? " 
 
 " Do you mean by God having mercy, that Went- 
 worth will still marry you if he knows the truth? " 
 
 She did not answer. That was of course what she 
 meant. 
 
 She looked from one to the other of her three friends 
 with a mute imploring gaze. Their eyes fell before 
 hers. 
 
 " I have not slept all night," she said to the Bishop.
 
 318 PRISONERS 
 
 " Magdalen stayed with me. And we came quite early 
 because I had to come. Wentworth must be told. It 
 isn't because Magdalen says so. She hasn't said so, 
 though I know she felt he ought to be told from the 
 first. And it isn't because he's sure to find out. And 
 oh! Michael, it isn't for your sake, to put you right 
 with him. It ought to be, but it isn't. But I can't let 
 him kiss me any more, and not say. It makes a kind 
 of pain I can't bear. It has been getting worse and 
 worse ever since Michael came back, only I did not 
 
 know what it was at first, and yesterday " she 
 
 stopped short, shuddering. " He came to see me yes- 
 terday," she said in a strangled voice. " He was so 
 dear and good, so wonderful. There never was any- 
 one like him. It is in my heart that he will forgive me. 
 And he trusts me entirely. I can't deceive him any 
 more." 
 
 The eyes of Michael and Magdalen met in a kind of 
 shame. Those two who had loved her as no one else 
 had loved her, who had understood her as no one else had 
 understood her, saw that they had misjudged her. 
 They had judged her by her actions, identified her 
 with them. And all the time the little trembling " pil- 
 grim soul " in her was shrinking from the pain of those 
 very actions, was growing imperceptibly apart from 
 them, was beginning to regard them with horror, not 
 because they had caused suffering to others, but because 
 they had ended by inflicting anguish upon herself. 
 The red-hot iron of our selfishness with which we brand 
 others becomes in time hot at both ends. We don't 
 know at first what it is that is hurting us, why it burns 
 us. But our blistered hands, cling as they will, must
 
 PRISONERS 319 
 
 needs drop it at last. Fay's cruel little white hand had 
 let go. 
 
 Michael took it in his and kissed it. 
 
 " Wentworth is coming here this morning," said the 
 Bishop gently. " He may arrive at any moment. Stay 
 here and speak to him. And ask him to forgive you, 
 Fay. You need his forgiveness." 
 
 " I don't know how to tell him," gasped Fay. " I 
 tried yesterday, and I couldn't." 
 
 " Let me tell him," said Michael, arid as he spoke, the 
 door opened once more, and Wentworth was announced. 
 
 He had got ready what he meant to say. The ven- 
 omous sentences which he had concocted during a sleep- 
 less night were all in order in his mind. 
 
 Who shall say what grovelling suspicions, what sor- 
 did conjectures, had blocked his inflamed mind as he 
 drove swiftly across the downs in the still June morn- 
 ing? He meant to extort an explanation from his 
 brother, to have the whole subject out with him once for 
 all. He should not be suffered to make Fay his accom- 
 plice for another hour. His tepid spirit burned within 
 him when he thought of Michael's behaviour to Fay. 
 He said to himself that he could forgive that least of all. 
 
 He had expected to find Michael alone, or possibly 
 the Bishop only with him, the Bishop who knew. He 
 was disconcerted at finding Fay and Magdalen there 
 before him. 
 
 A horrible suspicion that Magdalen also knew darted 
 across his mind. 
 
 It was obvious to him that he had broken up a con- 
 ference, a conspiracy. His bitter face darkened still 
 more.
 
 320 PRISONERS 
 
 " I don't know what you are all plotting about so 
 early in the morning," he said. " I must apologise 
 for interrupting you. I seem to be always in the way 
 now-a-days. People are always whispering behind my 
 back. But I have come over to see Michael. I want 
 a few plain words with him without delay, and I intend 
 to have them." 
 
 " That is well," said the Bishop, " because you are 
 about to have them. We were speaking of you when 
 you came in." 
 
 " I wish to see Michael alone," said Wentworth, 
 stung by the Bishop's instant admission of being in his 
 brother's confidence. 
 
 He looked only at Michael, who, his eyes on the 
 ground, was leaning white as death against the man- 
 telpiece. 
 
 " Do you wish us to go, Michael? " said the Bishop. 
 
 " I wish you all to stay," he said, raising his eyes 
 for a moment. His hand shook so violently that he 
 knocked over a little ornament on the mantelpiece, and 
 it fell with a crash into the fireplace. His voice shook, 
 too, but his eyes were steady. His great physical weak- 
 ness, poignantly apparent though it was, seemed a 
 thing apart from him, like a cloak which he might dis- 
 card at any moment. 
 
 " I cannot say all I have to say before others," said 
 Wentworth fiercely, " even if they are all his confed- 
 erates in trying to keep me in the dark, all, that is, ex- 
 cept Fay. We know by experience that she can shield 
 a man who has something to hide even from his best 
 friends. We know by experience that dust can be 
 thrown in her unsuspecting eyes."
 
 PRISONERS 321 
 
 " You have been kept in the dark," said the Bishop 
 with compassion ; " you have not been fairly treated, 
 Wentworth, you have much to forgive." 
 
 In spite of himself Wentworth was awed. He had 
 a sudden sense of impending calamity. He looked 
 again at Michael. 
 
 Michael's hand shook. His whole body shook. His 
 lips trembled impotently. 
 
 Wentworth sickened with shame. His love was 
 wounded to the very depths to see his brother like this, 
 as it had never been wounded even by the first sight of 
 him in his convict's blouse. 
 
 " I always trusted you," he said with a groan, putting 
 up his hand so as to shut out that tottering figure. " I 
 don't know what miserable secret you're keeping from 
 me, and I don't care. It isn't t hat I mind. It is that 
 whatever it was, however disgraceful it was, you should 
 have kept it from me. God knows I only wanted to help 
 you. Surely, surely, Michael, you might have trusted 
 me. What have I done that you should treat me as 
 if I were an enemy? I thought I was your friend." 
 
 No one spoke. 
 
 " After all, I don't know that I care to hear. Why 
 should I care. It's rather late in the day to hear now 
 what everyone knows except me, what I've been breaking 
 my heart over, racking my brains over as you well 
 know for these two endless years, what you aren't even 
 now telling me of your own accord, what you have been 
 persuaded to by this this " Wentworth looked at 
 the Bishop " this outsider, this middle man." 
 
 A great jealousy and bitterness were compressed into 
 the words " middle man."
 
 322 PRISONERS 
 
 " You have got to hear," said Michael, and the 
 trembling left him. 
 
 He turned towards his brother, still supporting him- 
 self with one hand on the mantelpiece. The two stern 
 faces confronted each other, and Magdalen for the 
 first time saw a likeness between them. 
 
 " I have kept things from you. You are right 
 there," said Michael, speaking in a low, difficult voice. 
 " But I never intentionally deceived you till the Mar- 
 chese was murdered. Long before that, four years 
 before that, I fell in love." 
 
 Wentworth's heart contracted. He had always 
 feared that moment for Michael, had always awaited it 
 with a little store of remedial maxims. He had felt 
 confident that Michael had never even been slightly at- 
 tracted by any woman. How often he had said to him- 
 ^elf that if there had been any attraction he should 
 have been the first to know of it. Yet the incredible 
 truth was being thrust at him that Michael had strug- 
 gled through his first love without drawing upon the 
 deep wells of Wentworth's knowledge. 
 
 " The woman I fell in love with was Fay. She was 
 seventeen. I was nineteen." 
 
 The room went round with Wentworth. 
 
 " Fay," he said, in blank astonishment, " Fay ! " 
 Then a glare of light broke in on him. 
 
 " Then it was she," he stammered, " not her maid, as 
 that brute Alington said it was she she herself 
 that " 
 
 " It was her I went to see the night I was arrested. 
 I was deeply in love with her." 
 
 Michael paused a moment, and then added gently,
 
 PRISONERS 323 
 
 " She never cared for me. I did not see that clearly at 
 the time, because I was blinded by my own passion. I 
 have seen it since." 
 
 Wentworth made no movement. 
 
 " I decided to leave Rome. Fay wrote to me that I 
 ought to go. I went to say good-bye to her in the 
 garden the night the Marchese was murdered. While 
 I was in the garden, the murder was discovered and the 
 place was surrounded, and I could not get away. I 
 hid in Fay's boudoir. The Duke came in and explained 
 to Fay what had happened. It was the first I knew of 
 it. Then, when they searched the house and I saw 
 that I must be discovered in another moment, I came 
 out and gave myself up as the murderer, because I 
 could not be found hiding in Fay's rooms at night. 
 It was the only thing to do." 
 
 Fay took a long breath. What a simple explanation 
 it seemed after all. Why had she been so terrified? 
 Wentworth could not blame her seriously now. 
 
 " I never tried to shield the Marchesa," Michael went 
 on. " That was her own idea. I only wanted to shield 
 Fay from being misconstrued. The Duke under- 
 stood. He saw me hiding behind the screen, and tried 
 to save me. He told me so next day. The Duke was 
 good to me from first to last." 
 
 Wentworth turned a fierce, livid face towards his 
 brother. 
 
 " Have I really got at the truth at last? " he said. 
 " How can I tell ? The Duke could have told me, but 
 he is dead. Did he really connive at your romantic 
 passion for his wife? If I may venture to offer an 
 opinion, that part of the story is not quite so well
 
 324 PRISONERS 
 
 thought out as the rest, though it is excessively modern. 
 Anyhow he is dead. You tell me he saw you behind the 
 screen in his wife's rooms at midnight, and felt no 
 need of an explanation. How like an Italian. But he 
 is dead. And you forced your love on another man's 
 wife, though you own she did not return it, wormed 
 yourself into her rooms at night, and then then yes, 
 I begin to see a grain of truth among these heaps of 
 lies then when by an evil chance, an extraordinary 
 stroke of bad luck, there was danger of your being 
 discovered, then you persuaded her, the innocent, inex- 
 perienced creature whom you would have wronged if 
 you could you worked upon her feelings, you made 
 her into your accomplice, you persuaded her to hide 
 you . . . You mean cur ! You only 
 
 sneaked out of your hole when escape was absolutely 
 impossible. And so the truth, or some garbled part 
 of it, is choked out of you at last. No wonder you were 
 silent all these years. No wonder you would not 
 speak. No wonder you let your poor dupe of a brother 
 break his heart over your silence. Credulous fool that 
 I have been from first to last. So help me God, I will 
 never speak to you again." 
 
 The violent, stammering voice ceased at last. 
 
 Fay shivered from head to foot, and looked at her 
 lover. 
 
 Both men had forgotten her. Their eyes never left 
 each other. Wentworth's fierce face was turned with 
 deadly hatred upon his brother. Michael met his eye, 
 but he did not speak. 
 
 There was death in the air. 
 
 Suddenly as in a glass she saw that Michael was
 
 PRISONERS 325 
 
 saving her again, was sacrificing himself for a second 
 time at enormous cost, the cost of his brother's love. 
 
 " Michael ! " said Fay with a sob, " Michael, I can't 
 bear it. You are trying to save me again, but I can't 
 bear to be saved any more. I have had enough of being 
 saved. I won't be saved. It hurts too much. I won't 
 let you do it a second time. I have had enough of being 
 silent when I ought to speak, I have had enough of 
 hiding things, and pretending, and being frightened." 
 
 Fay saw at last that the truth was her only refuge 
 from that unendurable horror which was getting up 
 out of its grave again. She fled to it for very life, 
 and flung herself upon it. 
 
 She took Michael's hand, and turning to Wentworth 
 began to speak rapidly, with a clearness and directness 
 which amazed Magdalen and the Bishop. 
 
 It all came out, the naked truth ; her loveless mar- 
 riage, the great kindness of her husband towards her, 
 her determination bred of idleness and vanity to enslave 
 Michael anew when he came to Rome, his resistance, 
 his decision to leave Italy, her inveigling him under plea 
 of urgency to come to the garden at night, his refusal 
 to enter the house, her frantic desire to keep him, his 
 determination to part from her. 
 
 There was no doubt in the minds of those who listened 
 in awed silence that here was the whole truth at last. 
 
 Fay looked full at Wentworth and then said : " He 
 asked me why I had sent for him, what it was that he 
 could do for me. And I said I said ' Take me with 
 you.' " 
 
 " No," said Michael, wincing as under a lash, " No, 
 you did not. Fay, you never said that."
 
 32G PRISONERS 
 
 " You did not hear it, but I said it." 
 
 Michael staggered against the mantelpiece. 
 
 Wentworth had not moved. His face had become 
 frightful, distorted. 
 
 " I am a wicked woman, Wentworth," said Fay. " I 
 tried to make him in love with me. I tried to tempt 
 him. I could make him love me, but not do wrong. 
 And then I let him take the blame when he was trapped. 
 I had trapped him there first. He did not want to 
 come. I forced him to come. I let him spoil his life 
 to save my wretched good name. He is right when he 
 told you just now that I never loved him. The love 
 was all on his side. He gave it all. I took it all, and 
 I went on taking it. It was I who kept him in prison 
 quite as much as the Marchesa. It was I who let him 
 burn and freeze in his cell. A word from me would 
 have got him out." 
 
 Wentworth laughed suddenly, a horrible, discordant 
 laugh. 
 
 They had rotted down before his eyes to loathsome 
 unrecognisable corpses the man and the woman he 
 had loved. 
 
 Fay looked wildly at him. 
 
 " But you are good," she said faintly. " You won't, 
 Wentworth, you won't cast me off like like I did 
 Michael." 
 
 He did not look at her. 
 
 He took up his gloves and straightened the fingers 
 as his custom was. 
 
 " There is no longer anything which need detain me 
 here," he said to the Bishop, and he moved towards the 
 door.
 
 PRISONERS 327 
 
 " Nothing except the woman whose fate is in your 
 hands," said the Bishop gently. " What of her? She 
 deserted Michael because her eyes were holden. Now 
 you can make the balance even if you will. But will 
 you? You can repay cruelty with cruelty. You can 
 desert her with inhumanity even greater than hers, be- 
 cause you do it with your eyes open. But will you? 
 Is it to be an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth? 
 She loves you and is at your mercy, even as Michael was 
 once at hers. You can crush her if you will. But will 
 you?" 
 
 " Wentworth ! " said Fay, and she fell at his feet, 
 clasping his knees. 
 
 His face was as flint, as he looked down at her, and 
 tried to push away her hands. 
 
 " Let him go, my child," said the Bishop sternly, and 
 he took Fay's hands, and held them. " It is no use 
 trying to keep a man who does not love you. Go, 
 Wentworth. You are right. There is nothing to keep 
 you here. In this room there are two people, one of 
 whom has sinned and has repented, and both of whom 
 love you and have spoken the truth to you. But there 
 is no love and truth in you to rise up and meet 
 theirs. You do not know what love and truth are, 
 even when you see them very close. You had better 
 go." 
 
 " I will go," said Wentworth, his eyes blazing. And 
 he went out and shut the door behind him. 
 
 Fay's hands slipped out of the Bishop's, her head fell 
 forward, and she sank down on the floor. The Bishop 
 and Magdalen bent over her. 
 
 Michael looked a moment at her, and swiftly left th2
 
 328 PRISONERS 
 
 room. He overtook Wentworth in the hall, groping 
 blindly for his hat. 
 
 " Come in here," said Michael, " I want a word with 
 you," and he half pushed Wentworth into a room lead- 
 ing out of the hall. It was a dreary little airless 
 apartment with a broken blind, intended for a waiting- 
 room, but fallen into disuse, and only partially fur- 
 nished, the corners piled with great tin boxes contain- 
 ing episcopal correspondence. 
 
 Michael closed the door. 
 
 " Wentworth," he said breathlessly, " you don't see. 
 You don't understand. Fay loves you." He looked 
 earnestly at Wentworth as if the latter were acting in 
 some woeful ignorance, which one word would set right. 
 He seemed entirely oblivious of Wentworth's insulting 
 words towards himself. 
 
 " I see one thing," said Wentworth, " and that is 
 that I'm not inclined to marry your cast-off mistress." 
 
 Michael closed with him instantly, but not before 
 Wentworth had seen the lightning in his eyes ; and the 
 two men struggled furiously in the dim, airless little 
 room with its broken blind. 
 
 Wentworth knew Michael meant to kill him. The 
 long, scarred hands had him by the throat, were twist- 
 ing themselves in the silk tie Fay had knitted for him. 
 He tore himself out of the grip of those iron fingers. 
 But Michael only sobbed and wound his arms round 
 him. And Wentworth knew he was trying to throw 
 him, and break his back. 
 
 Wentworth fought for his life, but he was over- 
 matched. The awful, murderous hands were feeling 
 for his neck again, the sobbing breath was on his face,
 
 PRISONERS 329 
 
 the glaring eyes staring into his. The hands closed 
 on his throat once more, squeezing his tongue out of 
 his mouth, his eyes out of his head. He made a last 
 frightful struggle to wrench the hands away. But 
 they remained clutched into his flesh, choking his life 
 out of him. There was a thin, guttural, sawing noise 
 mixed in with the sobbing. Then all in a moment the 
 sobbing ceased, he felt the hands relax, and then an 
 avalanche of darkness crashed down on him, and buried 
 him beneath it.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 That game of consequences to which we all sit down, the 
 hanger-back not least. R. L. STEVENSON. 
 
 DOWN, very deep down. Buried in an abyss of dark- 
 ness, shrouded tightly in a nameless horror that pressed 
 on eyes and breath and hands and limbs. 
 
 At last a faint sound reached Wentworth. Far away 
 in some other world a clock struck. His numbed facul- 
 ties apprehended the sound, and then forgot it when it 
 ceased. 
 
 At last he felt himself stir. He found himself 
 staring at a glimmer of light. He could not look at 
 it, and he could not look away from it. What was it? 
 It had something to do with him. It grew more dis- 
 tinct. It was a window with a broken blind. 
 
 Someone close at hand began to tremble. Went- 
 worth sat up suddenly and f^und it was himself. He 
 was alone, lying crumpled u, .gainst the wall where he 
 had been flung down. He krn_ # where he was. He saw 
 the piles of tin boxes. He remembered. 
 
 He leaned his leaden throbbing head against the wall, 
 and wave after wave of sickness even unto death shud- 
 dered over him. Michael had tried to kill him. His 
 stiff wrenched throat throbbed together with his head. 
 For a long time he did not move. 
 
 At last the clock struck again. 
 
 He staggered to his feet as if he had been called, and 
 looked with intentness at a fallen book and upset 
 
 330
 
 PRISONERS 331 
 
 inkstand. There was a quill pen balancing itself in 
 an absurd manner with its nib stuck in the cane bottom 
 of an overturned chair. He took it out and laid it on 
 the table. He saw his hat in a corner, stooped for it, 
 missed it several times, and then got hold of it, and put 
 it on. There was a little glass over the mantelpiece. 
 A ghastly face with a torn collar was watching him 
 furtively through it. He turned fiercely on the spy 
 and found the face was his own. He turned up his 
 coat and buttoned it. Then he went to the half -open 
 door and looked out. 
 
 His ear caught a faint sound. Otherwise the house 
 was very still. 
 
 A maid servant on her knees with her back to him was 
 washing the white stone floor of the hall at the foot 
 of the staircase. Another servant, also with her back 
 to him, was watching her. 
 
 " Then it is early morning," he said. And he 
 walked out of the room, and out of the house, through 
 the wide open doors. A fine rain was falling, but he 
 did not notice it. He passed out through the gates 
 and found himself in the road. He stopped uncon- 
 sciously, not knowing what to do next. 
 
 A fly dawdling back to the town from the station, 
 passed him, and pulled up, as he hesitated. 
 
 " Station, sir? " said the driver. 
 
 " No, Barf ord," said Wentworth, and he got in. 
 The fly with its faded cushions and musty atmosphere 
 seemed a kind of refuge. He breathed more freely 
 when he was enclosed in it. 
 
 As in the garden of Eden desolation often first makes 
 itself felt as a realisation of nakedness. We must creep
 
 332 PRISONERS 
 
 away. We must hide. We have no protection, no 
 covering. 
 
 Wentworth cowered in the fly. He passed without 
 recognising them all the old familiar landmarks, the 
 twisting white road that branched off to Priesthope, 
 the dew ponds, the half hidden, lonely farms. He was 
 in a strange country. 
 
 He looked with momentary curiosity at a weather- 
 worn sign post which pointed forlornly where four roads 
 met. It was falling to pieces with age, but yet it must 
 have been put up there since the morning. He had 
 never seen it before. He shouted to the driver that he 
 had taken the wrong road. The man pointed with his 
 whip to where, a mile away, the smoke of Barford rose 
 among its trees. The landscape suddenly slid into 
 familiar lines again. He recognised it, and sank back, 
 confused and exhausted. The effort of speaking had 
 hurt his throat horribly. Was he going mad? How 
 could his throat hurt him like this if it wasn't if 
 Michael had not 
 
 He thrust thought from him. He would wait till 
 he got home, till his own roof was safely over him, the 
 familiar walls round him. 
 
 This was his gate. Here was his own door, with his 
 butler looking somewhat surprised, standing on the 
 steps. 
 
 He found himself getting out, and giving orders. 
 He listened to himself telling the servant to pay the 
 fly and to send word by it to his dog-cart to return 
 home. Of course he had gone to Lostford in the dog- 
 cart. He had forgotten that. 
 
 Then he heard his own voice ordering a whiskey and
 
 PRISONERS 333 
 
 soda to be brought to him in the library. And he 
 walked there. 
 
 The afternoon post had arrived with the newspapers 
 and he took up a paper. But it was printed in some 
 language unknown to him, though he recognised some 
 of the letters. 
 
 How long had he been gone, an hour, a day, a year? 
 
 He looked at the clock. 
 
 Half-past two. But this great shock with which the 
 air was still rocking might have stopped it. He put 
 his ear to it. Strange! It was going. And it al- 
 ways stopped so easily, even if the housemaid dusted it. 
 
 Was it half-past two in the afternoon or in the 
 night ? 
 
 There was a band of sunshine across the floor and 
 outside the gardens and the downs were steeped in it. 
 
 Perhaps it was day. 
 
 The butler brought in a tray, and placed it near him. 
 
 " Have you had luncheon, sir ? " 
 
 Wentworth thought a moment, and then said " yes." 
 
 "And will Mr. Michael return to-day, sir?" 
 
 Wentworth remembered some old, old prehistoric ar- 
 rangement by which Michael was to have come back 
 with him to Barford this afternoon. 
 
 " No," he said, the room suddenly darkening till the 
 sunshine on the floor was barely visible. " No. He is 
 not coming back." 
 
 The man hesitated a moment, and then left the 
 room. 
 
 Wentworth groped for the flagon of whiskey, 
 poured out a quantity, and drank it raw. Then he 
 waited for the nightmare to lift.
 
 334 PRISONERS 
 
 His mind cleared gradually. His scattered faculties 
 came sneaking back like defeated soldiers to camp. But 
 they had all one tale of disaster and one only to tell. 
 He must needs believe them. 
 
 Michael had tried to kill him. Whatever else shifted 
 that remained true. 
 
 Wentworth bowed his stiffening head upon his hands, 
 and the sweat ran down his face. 
 
 Michael had tried to kill him, and had all but suc- 
 ceeded. Oh! if only he had quite succeeded. If only 
 his life had not come back to him! He had died and 
 died hard in that little room. And yet here he was still 
 alive and in agony. 
 
 Michael first. That thought was torture. Then 
 Fay. That thought was torture. The woman he had 
 so worshipped, on whom he had lavished a wealth of love, 
 far greater than most men have it in them to bestow, 
 had deceived him, had been willing to be his brother's 
 mistress. 
 
 Why had he ever believed in Fay and Michael? Had 
 he not tacitly distrusted men and women always from 
 his youth up? Had he not gauged life and love and 
 friendship at their true value years ago? Why had he 
 made an exception of this particular man and woman? 
 They were no worse than the rest. 
 
 What was any man or woman worth? They were all 
 false to the core. What was Fay? A pretty piece of 
 pink and white, a sensual lure like other women, 
 not better and not worse. And what was Michael but 
 a man like other men, ready to forget honour, morality, 
 everything, if once his passions were aroused. It was 
 an old story, as old as the hills, that men and womem
 
 PRISONERS 
 
 betray each other. It was as old as the psalms of 
 David. 
 
 Pah! what a fool he was to allow his heart to be 
 wrung by what was only the ordinary vulgar experi- 
 ence of those who were so silly as to mix themselves up 
 with their fellow creatures. 
 
 He had only himself to thank. 
 
 Well, at any rate, he was free now. He was awake 
 now. He was not going to put his hand in the fire a 
 second time. 
 
 He was going abroad immediately. He would start 
 to-morrow morning. In the meanwhile, he would go and 
 see somebody, call somewhere, be in high spirits some- 
 where with others. They (they were Fay and Michael) 
 would hear of that afterwards, would see how little he 
 cared. 
 
 He seized up his hat and went out. But when he had 
 walked a few hundred yards he sank down exhausted 
 on a wooden seat in the alder coppice overhanging the 
 house, and remained there. The baby pheasants crept 
 in and out, all round him. Their little houses, each with 
 an anxious step-mother in it, were set at regular inter- 
 vals along the grassy path. Only yesterday he had 
 walked along that path with the keeper, and had 
 thought that in the autumn he and Michael would be 
 shooting together once more. 
 
 They would never shoot together again. 
 
 As the dusk fell he heard a sound of wheels. His 
 dog-cart returning from Lostford, no doubt. It did 
 not turn into the court-yard, but came on up to the 
 house. Wentworth peered down through the leaves.
 
 336 PRISONERS 
 
 It was the Bishop's dog-cart. He recognised the 
 groom who drove it. To his amazement he saw Lord 
 Lossiemouth get out. After some parley he went into 
 the house. 
 
 Why should he have come? 
 
 Oh ! of course, how dense he was. He had been sent 
 over on an embassy by Magdalen and the Bishop. They 
 wanted to hush up the fight, and bring about a recon- 
 ciliation between him and Fay. He should be told Fay 
 was making herself ill with crying. His magnanimity 
 would be appealed to by that pompous prig. Well, 
 he had had his journey for nothing. Wentworth saw 
 his servants looking for him, and hid himself in the 
 coppice. 
 
 A couple of hours later he left the wood, and went 
 down the steep path to the gardens. It was nearly 
 dark now. Lights twinkled in the house. The lamp 
 in the library laid a pale finger of light upon the lawn, 
 through the open glass doors. 
 
 Wentworth went up to it, and then as he was about 
 to enter, shrank back astonished. 
 
 Lord Lossiemouth was sitting there with his back to 
 the window. Wentworth stood a long time looking at 
 him. He was evidently waiting for him to come in. 
 He sat stolidly on as if he were glued to his chair, 
 smoking one cigarette after another. 
 
 At last he got up. Surely he would go now. He 
 walked to the bookshelves that lined the walls, inspected 
 the books, selected one, and settled himself with a volu- 
 minous sigh in his arm-chair once more. 
 
 Wentworth stole away across the grass as noiselessly 
 as he had come, and disappeared in the darkness.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 Age by age, 
 
 The clay wars with His fingers and pleads hard 
 For its old, heavy, dull, and shapeless ease. 
 
 W. B. YEATS. 
 
 WENTWORTH never knew how he spent the night, if 
 indeed that interminable tract in which time stopped 
 could have been one night. It was longer than all the 
 rest of his life put together. In later years, in peace- 
 ful later years, confused memories came to him of 
 things that he must have seen then, but of which he took 
 no heed at the time ; of seeing the breath of animals like 
 steam close to the ground; of stumbling suddenly 
 under a hedgerow on a huddled, sleeping figure with a 
 white face, which struggled up unclean in the clean 
 moonlight, and menaced him in a foul atmosphere of 
 rags. 
 
 And once, many years later, when he was taking an; 
 unfamiliar short cut across the downs, he came upon 
 a little pool in an old chalk pit, and recognised it. He 
 had never seen it by day, but he knew it. He had wan- 
 dered to it on a night of moon and mist, and had seen a 
 fox bring down her cubs to drink just where that 
 twisted alder branch made an arch over the water. 
 
 Wentworth sat by that chalk pit on the down utterly 
 spent in body and mind hour after hour, till the moon 
 which had been tangled in the alder stooped to the 
 
 337
 
 338 PRISONERS 
 
 violet west with one great star to bear her company. 
 Who shall say through what interminable labyrinths, 
 through what sloughs, across what deserts, his tortured 
 mind had dragged itself all night? The sun had gone 
 down upon his wrath. The moon had gone down upon 
 his wrath. 
 
 The land was grey. The spectral horses moving 
 slowly in the misty fields were grey. A streak of palest 
 saffron light showed where the dim earth and dim sky 
 met. 
 
 A remembrance came to him of a summer dawn such 
 as this, years and years ago, when Michael had been 
 dangerously ill, and how his whole soul had spent itself 
 in one passionate supplication that he might not be 
 taken from him. 
 
 A tender green transparent as the light seen through 
 a leaf in May was welling up the sky. Two tiny clouds 
 floated in it like rafts of rose colour upon a sea of 
 glass. 
 
 . ** '.'. 
 
 A deep and bitter sense of injustice was growing 
 within him with the growing light. 
 
 A hundred times during the night he had recalled in 
 cold anger every word of that final scene in the library, 
 his own speech, his own actions, his great wrongs, 
 his unendurable pain. 
 
 And yet again it returned upon him, always with 
 Fay's convulsed face, and clinging hands, always with 
 the Bishop's scathing words of dismissal. Their hor- 
 rible injustice rankled in his mind, their abominable 
 cruelty to himself revolted him. Hideous crimes had
 
 PRISONERS 339 
 
 been committed against him, but he had done no evil, 
 unless to love and to trust were evil. Why then was he 
 to be thus thrust into the wrong, thus condemned un- 
 heard, cast forth with scorn because he had not obedi- 
 ently fallen in with the Bishop's preposterous demand 
 on him to condone everything? It was not to be ex- 
 pected of him. 
 
 Suddenly the faces of the others watching him after 
 Fay's confesson rose before him, the Bishop's, Magda- 
 len's, Michael's. He saw that they had not expected 
 it of him either not even Michael. Only in Fay's up- 
 raised eyes as she held him by the knees had there 
 been one instant's anguished hope. Only in hers. And 
 that had been quickly extinguished. He had extin- 
 guished it himself. 
 
 The little clouds turned to trembling flame. The 
 whole .sky flushed and then paled. A thread of fire 
 showed upon the horizon. It widened. It drew into an 
 arch. The sun rose swiftly, a sudden ball of living 
 fire ; and in a moment the smallest shrub upon the down, 
 the grazing horses, the huddled sheep, were casting 
 gigantic shadows across the whole world. 
 
 A faint sound of wheels was growing clearer and 
 nearer. 
 
 Wentworth saw a dog-cart coming towards him 
 along the great white road. As he looked it pulled up 
 and then stopped. A man got out and came towards 
 him. The raw sunlight caught only his face and shoul- 
 ders. He seemed to wade towards him waist deep 
 through a grey sea. 
 
 Lord Lossiemouth again!
 
 340 PRISONERS 
 
 Lord Lossiemouth's heavy tired face showed sharp 
 and white in the garish light. 
 
 " I have been looking everywhere for you," he said, 
 not ungently. " I waited half the night at Barford, 
 and then went on to Saundersfoot station, and then to 
 Wrigley. Your servants thought you might possibly 
 have gone there. But you had not been seen there. 
 Magdalen sent me to tell you you must go back to the 
 Palace. Your brother is very ill. He had an attack 
 of haemorrhage apparently just after you and he parted 
 in the hall. I promised her not to go back without you. 
 Shall we drive on? "
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 Alles vergangliche ist nur ein Gleichniss. GOETHE. 
 
 MICHAEL, was dying. All night Magdalen and the 
 Bishop, with nurse and doctor, fought for his life, 
 vainly strove to stem the stream of blood with which 
 his life was ebbing away. 
 
 He had been found by Lord Lossiemouth and a serv- 
 ant lying unconscious at the foot of the staircase in the 
 hall. He had been carried into a room on the ground 
 floor. Everything had been done, but without avail. 
 Michael was dying, suffocating in anguish, threshing 
 his life out through the awful hours, in wild delirium. 
 
 He was in prison once more, beating against the bars 
 of his narrow window looking out over the lagoon. 
 His hoarse strangled voice spoke unceasingly. His 
 hands plucked at his wrists, and then dropped ex- 
 hausted beneath the weight of the chains which dragged 
 him down. 
 
 Magdalen would fain have spared Fay the ordeal of 
 that vigil. But the Bishop was inexorable. He bade 
 her remain. And shrunk away in a corner, shivering 
 to her very soul, Fay listened hour by hour to the wild 
 feeble voice of her victim, back once more in the cell 
 where he had been so silent, where the walls had kept 
 his counsel so well. She saw something at last of 
 what he had endured for her, of what he had made so 
 fight 
 
 341
 
 342 PRISONERS 
 
 At last the paroxysm passed. Michael pushed back 
 the walls with his hands, and then suddenly gave up the 
 struggle. 
 
 " They are closing in on me," he said. " I cannot 
 keep them back any longer." 
 
 The contest ceased all in a moment. He lay back 
 motionless with half -closed eyes, his face blue against 
 the white pillows. The blood had ceased at last to flow 
 from his colourless lips. Death was very near. 
 
 He knew no one. Not the Bishop, not Magdalen 
 who kept watch beside him, listening ever for Went- 
 worth's step outside. 
 
 In the dawn Michael's spirit made as if to depart, 
 but it seemed as if it could not gain permission. 
 
 The light grew. 
 
 And with the light the laboured breathing became 
 easier. He stirred feebly, and whispered incoherently 
 from time to time. He was still in his cell. Went- 
 worth's name, the Italian doctor's, rose to his lips. 
 Then, after a pause, he said suddenly: 
 
 " The Duke is dead. She will come now." 
 
 There was a long silence. He was waiting, lis- 
 tening. 
 
 The Bishop and Magdalen held their breath. Fay 
 knew at last what it is to fail another. She had failed 
 Michael. Wentworth had failed her. 
 
 " Fay ! " Michael said, " come soon." 
 
 She had to bear it, the waiting, the faltered anguish, 
 the suspense, the faint reiterated call to deaf ears. 
 
 The Bishop got up from his knees beside Michael, 
 and motioned Fay to take his place. She went timidly 
 to the low couch and knelt down by it.
 
 PRISONERS 343 
 
 " Speak to him," said the Bishop sternly. 
 
 "Michael!" she said. 
 
 He knew her. All other voices had gone from him, 
 but hers he knew. All other faces had faded from him, 
 but hers he knew. He looked full at her. Love 
 stronger than death shone in his eyes. 
 
 " Fay," he said in an awed voice " at last." 
 
 She had come to release him, after the Duke's death, 
 as he knew she would. 
 
 She leaned her white cheek a moment against his in 
 speechless self-abasement. 
 
 He whispered to her. 
 
 " Have I served you ? " 
 
 She whispered back, " Yes." 
 
 He whispered again, " Do you still love me? " ^The 
 words were quite inaudible. 
 
 Again she said, " Yes." 
 
 Again a movement of the lips, but no sound. 
 
 He looked at her with radiant questioning eyes. 
 
 Again she murmured, " Yes." 
 
 It had to be like that. He had always known that 
 this moment had to come. Had he not foreseen it in 
 some forgotten dream? 
 
 A great trembling laid hold on Michael, and then a 
 stillness of exceeding joy. 
 
 In the silence the cathedral bells chimed out sud- 
 denly for early service. The sound of the bells came 
 faintly to him as across wide water, the river of death 
 widening as it nears the sea. It was all part of his 
 dream. The bells of Venice were rejoicing with him, in 
 this his blessed hour. 
 
 He was freed at last, free as he had never been, free
 
 344 PRISONERS 
 
 as the seagull seen through the bars that could no longer 
 keep him back. Useless bars, why had he let them hold 
 him so long? He was out and away, sailing over the 
 sheening water in a boat with an orange sail ; in a boat 
 like a butterfly with spread wings; sailing away, past 
 the floating islands, past that pale beautiful grief of 
 sea lavender he laughed to see it shine so beautiful 
 sailing away into a pearly morning, under a luminous 
 sky. 
 
 The prison was far away now. Left behind. There 
 was a great knocking at its gates, hurried steps upon 
 the stairs, and a voice crying urgently through the 
 bars. 
 
 But he could not stay to listen. He was too far 
 away to hear. The voice was to him but like the thin 
 harsh cry of the sea-mew wheeling near, blended in with 
 the marvel of his freedom. He took no heed of it. He 
 was afloat on the great sea-faring tide. Far away be- 
 fore him, but nearer, nearer, and yet nearer, the sea 
 gleamed in trembling ecstasy. 
 
 " He does not know me. He does not hear me," 
 said Wentworth, on his knees beside Michael, raising a 
 wild, desperate face to Magdalen. Was Michael's last 
 look of deadly hatred to remain with him through 
 life? 
 
 " Speak to him again, Fay," said Magdalen. " Tell 
 him Wentworth is here." 
 
 Fay was still kneeling on the other side. The two 
 lovers' eyes met across the man they had murdered. 
 
 " Michael," the tremulous voice whispered. 
 
 " Louder," said Wentworth hoarsely.
 
 PRISONERS 345 
 
 " Michael," said Fay again. 
 
 But Michael's face was set. He was sunk in a great 
 rest, breathing deep and slow, deeper and slower yet, 
 his long arms faintly rising and falling with each 
 breath. 
 
 " Oh, Fay. For God's sake make him hear," said 
 Wentworth with a cry. 
 
 The Bishop and Magdalen standing apart looked at 
 each other. 
 
 " He has forgiven her, though he does not know it," 
 he said below his breath. 
 
 Fay stooped down. She raised Michael in her arms, 
 and laid his head on her breast, turning his fading face 
 to his brother. 
 
 " Michael," she whispered into his ear, with a passion 
 which would have cloven death itself. " Come back, 
 come back and say one word to Wentworth." 
 
 Very near the sea now. Very near the great peace 
 and light. This was the real life at last. All the rest 
 had been a vain shadow, a prison where he had dwelt a 
 little while, not seeing that this great all-surrounding 
 water, which had seemed to hem him in, was but a high- 
 way of light. 
 
 Who were these two with him in the boat? Who but 
 the two he loved best ! Who but Fay and Wentworth ! 
 They were all floating on together in exceeding joy. 
 They were very near him. He felt them one on each 
 side, but the light was so great that he could not see 
 them. His head was on Fay's breast. His hand was 
 in Wentworth's hand. It was all as in dim dreams he 
 had longed for it to be.
 
 346 PRISONERS 
 
 Fay's voice reached him, pressed close to his ear, like 
 the sound of the sea, held in its tiniest shell. 
 
 He opened his eyes and his brother's white face came 
 to him for a moment, like sea foam, blown in from the 
 sea of love to which he was going, part of the sea. 
 
 " Wenty ! " he said, and smiled at him. 
 
 And like blown foam upon a breaking wave, the face 
 passed. 
 
 And like the whisper in the shell under the hush of 
 the surge, the voice passed. 
 
 The shadow which we call life passed. 
 
 THE END
 
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