SOMEHOW or other Chester failed to charm. Neither of them could
understand why. Perhaps the Stratford Hotel had given them a momentary
surfeit of half-timber; perhaps the fact that the skies turned gray and
substituted drizzle for sunshine had something to do with it; perhaps it
was the extreme badness of the hotel to which ill-luck led them, a hotel
that smelt of stale seed-cake and bad coffee and bad mutton-fat, and was
furnished almost entirely with bentwood chairs and wicker tables;
perhaps it was the added aggravation of seeing a river which might have
been to them a second Medway, and seeing it quite impossible and
miserably pitted with little rain-spots. Whatever the reason, even next
morning's sunshine and the beauty of the old walls and the old walks
failed to dispel the gloom. They bought rain-coats and umbrellas in a
shop that had known ruffs and farthingales, paid their hotel bill,
which was as large as the hotel was bad, and took the afternoon train
to Caernarvon.
The glimpse of Conway Castle from the train cheered them a little. The
sight of the sea did more--but still he felt a cloud between them, and
still she felt more and more that he was aware of it. Charles sat
between them, as before, and over that stout white back his eyes met
hers.
"What is it?" he asked, suddenly. "Yesterday I thought it was the
half-timber and the rain--this morning I thought it was yesterday, but
it isn't. Something's happened that you haven't told me."
She turned her eyes from his and stroked the flappy white ears of
Charles.
"Hasn't it?" he urged. "Ah, you will tell me, won't you? Was it
something from the aunts?"
For there had been letters that morning, sent on from Warwick.
"No, the letters were all right. Everybody's furious except Aunt Alice,
but she's the only one that matters."
"Then what is it?"
"It's almost gone," she said. "Oh, look at the rocks and the heather on
that great hill."
"Then there was something," he said; "something you won't tell me."
"Not won't," she said, gently.
"Can't? Something that's happened and you can't tell me?"
He remembered how on the last night at Warwick he had held that hand of
hers against his face. They had seemed so very near then. And now there
was a gulf suddenly opened between them--the impassable gulf of a
secret--a secret that was hers and not his.
"Yes, something did happen and I have promised not to tell you. If ever
I can, I will."
"Something has come between us and you have promised not to tell me what
it is?"
"Oh no--no!" she said, very earnestly, and her dear eyes looked full in
his. "Nothing has come between us--nothing could--"
He realized, with some impatience, that Charles, at least, was between
them. But for Charles he could, quite naturally and _ayant l'air de
rien_ have leaned a little toward her as he spoke--so that his shoulder
might, perhaps, if she had leaned also, have just touched hers. But
across Charles this could not be. And to lean, after the removal of
Charles, would bear an air of premeditation not to be contemplated for
an instant.
"If it's nothing that comes between us--" he said. "But even then, it's
something that's made you sad, made you different. I suppose, though,
it's unreasonable to expect that there shall be no secrets between any
two human beings, no matter how--how friendly they are," he ended, with
conscious lameness.
"Of course it's unreasonable," she said; "it would mean, wouldn't it,
that neither of us could ever be trusted by any one else? Whereas now
people can tell you things they wouldn't want to tell me, and tell me
things they wouldn't care about telling you."
"Then this--I'm not worrying you to tell me--but if it is somebody
else's secret--"
"Well, it is," she said. "Now, are you satisfied? And if you'll only let
me look at the sea and the mountains and the heather the Chester cloud
will go right away. It's nearly gone now. And I've never seen any real
mountains before, not mountains like these, with warm colors and soft
shapes--only the Pyrenees and the Maritime Alps, and they look just like
white cardboard cut into points and pasted on blue sugar-paper--that's
the sky."
"It's prettier at sunrise, with the mountains like pink and white sugar,
and Corsica showing like a little cloud over the sea. We had a villa at
Antibes when I was a little chap, before we lost our money. We'll go
there again some day, shall we, and see if the mountains have changed at
all? Not this winter, I think. I've never had an English winter free
from work I didn't like. I must have just this one. You don't mind?"
What he hoped she wouldn't mind was less the English winter than his
calm assumption that there was plenty of time, that they would always be
together and might go where they would and when--since all the future
was before them--all the future, and each other's companionship all
through it.
"Why should I mind?" she answered. "I've never had a free winter in
England, either, or anywhere else, for that matter."
"Then that's settled," said he, comfortably, "and you can't think what a
comfort it is to me that you don't hate Charles. You might so easily
have hated dogs."
"If I'd been that sort of person I shouldn't be here."
"Ah, but Charles might so easily have been the one kind of dog you
couldn't stand. He's not everybody's dog, by any means. Are you,
Charles? Of course it's almost incredible that this earth should contain
people who don't like Charles, yet so it is."
"The people he's bitten?"
"Oh, those!" said Edward, adding, with a fine air of tolerance, "I could
almost find excuses for them--they've not seen the finer aspects of his
character. No, there are actually human beings to whom Charles's
personality does not appeal--persons whom he has borne with patiently,
whom he has refrained from biting, or even sniffing at the trousers legs
of. Prejudice is a mysterious and terrible thing. Oh, but it's a good
world--all the same."
"Isn't it," she said, "with the sun shining and the mountains and the
rocks and the sea all there, just like a picture? Oh, there's no doubt
but it's a beautiful world."
"And you and I and Charles going out to see it all together. It's a fine
world, every bit of it--and the little bit we're just coming to is
Caernarvon."
Caernarvon it was, and they spent nearly a week there. The castle is all
that a castle should be; and as for the sea, what can be better, unless
it's in Cornwall; and there is Anglesea, lying flat against the sky, and
the Elephant Mountain and the Seven Sisters, and old Snowdon topping
all.
The inn was comfortable, the weather had grown kind again, the hostler
was one of those to whom Charles's personality so much appealed that the
dog was almost too replete with good living to appreciate the rats
provided for his recreation. This hostler, Owen Llewellyn, became such
an enthusiast in the service of Charles that Mr. Basingstoke was only
able by a fortunate chance, the strong exercise of authority, and a
golden offering for the soothing of wounded feelings to stop the
entertainment which Owen had arranged with several of his friends in a
handy field and the cool of the evening: a quiet little dog-fight, as
the friends indignantly explained, with Charles and a worthy antagonist
filling the leading rôles.
"It isn't as if the dogs wouldn't enjoy it more than any one else, and
me putting all my money on your dog, sir," one of the friends (from
London) complained. "There ain't nothing that that there dog 'u'd love
better nor a bit of a scrap. An' you to go agin the animal's natural
desires and keep him for a lap-dog for the lady. It ain't right," he
ended, feelingly, as the lap-dog was led off, yapping defiance at the
adversary whom, so his admirers swore, he could have licked hollow with
one paw tied behind him.
It was at Caernarvon that Edward and his princess lived the quiet life
that does not lead to sight-seeing. There was something poignantly
domestic to his mind in those long mornings in green fields or among the
broken and still beautiful colonnades of the castle, he with a book from
which he read to her, she with some work of embroidery in which a bright
needle flashed among pleasant-colored silks. It was in the castle, in
one of those mysterious narrow passages, that they came face to face
with a tall, handsome man of middle age, who shook Edward's hand with
extreme vigor, clapped him on the back, and announced that he would have
run a mile for the sake of seeing him. Edward would have run two to
avoid the meeting, because the eyes of the back-clapper were turned on
Katherine, awaiting the introduction which must come. Colonel Bertram,
an old friend of Edward's father's, knew well enough that Edward was an
only child. No brother-and-sister tale was possible here.
"Do you hang out in these parts?" Edward asked. "I wonder you knew me. I
don't believe we've met since I was about sixteen."
While he spoke he looked a question at her, and read the slightest
possible sign with which she answered.
"Colonel Bertram--my wife. Katherine, the Colonel used to tip me
sovereigns when I was at school, and he gave me my first pony."
The colonel's grip ground her rings into her hand. "'Pon my word!" he
said, "I don't know when I've been so pleased. You must come and dine
with us, my boy, to-night-- To-morrow? Make him come, Mrs. Basingstoke.
I know it's not manners to intrude on a honeymoon, but I am such an old
friend, and our meeting like this is such a remarkable coincidence,
almost like the finger of Providence--upon my soul it is."
"It's very, very nice of you to ask us," she said, in a voice of honey,
"but, unfortunately, we're leaving this afternoon."
"Well, at any rate, let's lunch together. No, of course; too late for
that. Well, look here, you've seen the castle, of course; come and see
over the prison. I'm governor there, for my sins. Come and let me show
you my prison!"
His simple pride in the only sight he had to show prevailed even against
the shrinking she felt and did not wholly understand.
"When are you leaving? The six o'clock train? Plenty of time. We've made
wonderful reforms, I can tell you. The cells are pictures, perfect
pictures. 'Pon my word, I never was so glad to see any one. And so
you're married. Dear, dear, dear! Makes me feel an old boy, that it
does! The young ones growing up around us--eh, what?"
He led the way out of the castle, and Edward and Katherine exchanged
behind his cordial back glances almost of despair. They had not wanted
to leave Caernarvon, but Edward could only bless Katherine for her
decision. The relations of Mr. and Mrs. Basingstoke could never have
stood the affectionate cross-questionings of Mrs. Bertram. They must go;
Katherine was right.
Katherine, meantime, was wishing she had invented a headache, an
appointment at the local dentist's, had even simulated a swoon at
Colonel Bertram's feet, before she had consented to visit a prison.
From the first moment of her entrance there the prison appalled her. It
was a very nice prison, as prisons go. But the grating at the door, the
locks that clicked, the polished keys, the polished handcuffs, the
prison records which their host exhibited with so much ingenuous
enthusiasm; the cells, one little cage after another in which human
birds were pent. . . .
"What have they all done?" she asked, as they walked along a stone-paved
gallery; and wished she had not asked, for the details of horrible
crimes were the last things she wished to hear.
"Oh, petty felonies, mostly," said the governor, airily.
It seemed more and more horrible to her that she and he and the governor
should tread the mazes of this place free to come and go as they chose,
while these other human beings, for whatever fault--and it seemed the
faults could hardly rank as crimes--should be here encaged, never more
to go out free till their penance should have purged them.
"I suppose one mustn't give them anything?"
"A little good advice wouldn't be amiss. 'Don't do it any more,' and so
on. Would you like to give them an address, Mrs. Basingstoke?"
She hated his badinage. "I mean tobacco or chocolate or books, or
anything that they'd _like_," she explained, patiently.
"No, no," said the governor. "They aren't pets, you know. Mustn't feed
them through the bars as though they were rabbits or guinea-pigs. The
townspeople _will_ throw tobacco over into the yard. Can't stop them.
But of course we punish the offenders very severely whenever we manage
to bring it home to them."
The horrible sense of slavery grew on her--the prisoners were slaves to
the warders, the warders slaves, and super-subservient slaves, to the
governor, the governor himself a slave to some power unseen but
all-potent.
She watched her opportunity and while Colonel Bertram was explaining to
Edward the method of the manufacture of post-office bags she opened her
purse in her pocket and let all its contents fall loose, therein. Then
she gathered the money in a handful, careful that no rattle or chink
should betray her, and when the governor was explaining how wire
netting, spread over each gallery to catch any object thrown from above
rendered suicide difficult, if not impossible, she knotted the money in
her handkerchief. Then she watched for further opportunity, hoping
against hope, for it seemed that her chance would never come. There were
eyes everywhere.
"If I can't do it here, I'll buy tobacco and throw it over the wall,"
she told herself.
It was in the kitchen that the chance came. Three prisoners were there
acting as cooks, and the governor had sent the attendant warder on some
errand, to order tea for them in his office, as events showed.
"Very nice--very neat--very clean." She praised all in the simplest and
most direct words.
The governor again addressed himself to Edward. It was a tale of
poaching that he told--the theft of two hares and a pheasant--a
desperate crime duly punished. He and Edward left the kitchen, talking.
She followed, but first she laid her hand on a table near the door and
looked full at the nearest prisoner. Then she smiled. The three smiled
back at her. Then she opened her hand, showing plainly the knotted
handkerchief. "Good luck!" she said, low, but so that they all heard
her.
Then she followed the governor and Edward, but at the door she turned
and kissed her hand to the three prisoners. The faces they turned to her
will stay with her as long as she lives. Wonder, delight,
incredulity--that any one--that _she_ should have cared to say "good
luck," should have smiled at them, should have left them her
handkerchief, though they did not yet know what was in it. The wonder
and worship in their eyes brought tears to her own.
They were still there when the governor turned.
"A cup of tea, now, Mrs. Basingstoke," he said, "it's all ready."
She answered hurriedly, "It's very kind of you, but, do you know, if you
don't mind, I think we ought to be going. We've got to pack and all
that."
Colonel Bertram, who was no fool, heard the quivering voice and saw the
swimming eyes. "So sorry," he said, "but charmed to have met
you--charmed," and stood back for her to pass the door of the corridor.
"_I_ understand," he said; "your wife's a bit upset. Ladies often are;
they don't understand the law, you know, the great principles of
property and the law. Don't mention it; I like them soft-hearted. You're
a fortunate man, my boy--deuced fortunate. Good-by. So very, very
pleased we happened to meet. Good-by."
The well-oiled locks clicked to let them out. In the street she caught
his arm and clung to it.
"There, there!" he spoke as one speaks to a frightened child. "It's all
over; don't distress yourself."
"It's not all over for them," she said.
"Prisons have to be," said Edward.
"Have they?" said she. "I suppose they do, but such little things. To
take a pair of boots because your feet are cold and you have no money,
and to pay for what you've done--with _that_. Horrible! horrible!"
Neither of them spoke again till they were nearly at the hotel. Then he
said, "What did you give them?"
"What do you mean?"
"I saw you knotting something in that little scented handkerchief of
yours. What was it you gave them."
"Every penny I had. And I said, 'Good luck to you,' and I kissed my hand
to them. There!" she said, defiantly.
"It was like you," he said, and took her arm. "But I wish I hadn't let
you go inside the place. I didn't realize how it would be to you. I
didn't realize what it would be to me."
"It was silly of me, I suppose," she said.
"I dare say. But you were lucky; I only managed to drop my tobacco-pouch
among the post-office bags, but our guilt is equal. The sooner we get
out of Caernarvon the better. By the way, don't let's catch the
six-o'clock train to nowhere in particular. Let's take a carriage and
drive to Llanberis and see the slate-quarries and go up Snowdon."
"Don't let's ever go into another prison," she said, blinking so that
the tears should drop off her eyelashes and not run down her face, "it
hurts so horribly, and we can't do any good."
"Not do any good?" he said. "Do you suppose that life can ever be the
same to a man to whom you've smiled and kissed your hand? Ah, I don't
mean it for empty gallantry, my dear. I mean that to know that you, free
and beautiful, care for them in their misery and imprisonment--don't you
think that's worth something?"
"If it is, I'm glad we went," said she.
Their departure for Llanberis, though sudden, was the less deplored by
the hotel management because of a regrettable misunderstanding which had
arisen during the afternoon between Charles and the house cat.