"DARLING,--Did you really think I meant all I said that day?
Don't you know a woman better than that? I suppose you think I
am very hard-hearted and can never forgive, but...."
No, that was wrong, too.
"VICTOR,--Don't you think I have been punished enough? It has
been very hard for me, yet I love you still...."
But the trembling of her handwriting betrayed the emotion she wished
to conceal. At last, after a long day of solitude and abandonment,
two little lines--
"Vic,--I am so lonely. Come to me. Your
broken-hearted--FENELLA."
But all her letters, with their cries and supplications, were torn up
and thrown into the fire.
Why did he stay away? Did he expect her to bridge all the gulf
between them? At length she thought he must be ill. The idea that
he could be suffering (for her sake perhaps) swept down all her
pride, and she determined to go to him.
But just as she was setting out for Ballamoar somebody brought word
that Stowell was staying at Fort Anne. That quenched her humility.
So near, yet never coming to see her! Oh, very well! Very well!
For two days she felt crushed and abased. Then she heard that
Stowell was constantly to be seen at the Law Library, and that
brought a memory and an explanation. She remembered that she had
said (in that wild moment when she didn't know what she was saying)
that she would never forgive him while the girl Bessie lay in prison.
That was it! He was finding a solid legal ground on which the
prisoner could be liberated, and when he had convinced the law
officers of the Crown that this was a proper case for the exercise of
mercy, he would come up to her and say, "Bessie Collister is
free!--the barrier between us is broken down."
For a full day after that her heart was at ease. Nay more, she was
almost happy, for hidden away in some secret place of
semi-consciousness was the thought that the measure of Stowell's
efforts for Bessie Collister was the meter of his love for herself.
At length her impatience got the better of her tranquillity and she
became eager to know what was going on. There was only one person
who could tell her that--her father.
Coming down to breakfast on the sunny morning after the storm, she
saw, among the letters by the Governor's plate, a large envelope
superscribed, "_HOME SECRETARY_." When her father had opened it she
said, as if casually,
"Any news yet about that poor thing in Castle Rushen?"
"Yes, there's something here."
"Of course she's pardoned?"
"On the contrary, her death-sentence has been confirmed."
"Confirmed?"
"Yes, she's to die, and it only remains for me to fix the date of the
execution."
The sun went out as before a thunderstorm, and, rising from her
unfinished breakfast, Fenella fled from the room. A great wave of
pity seemed to sweep down every other feeling. She determined to go
to Castle Rushen again and break the news tenderly to the unhappy
woman.
On her way to the railway station her mind swung back to Stowell.
After all he could have done nothing to save the girl's life. It was
inconceivable that the authorities in London could have been
indifferent to the opinion of the Judge who had tried the case.
"No, he can have done nothing--nothing whatever."
Then came a shock to her also.
As her carriage dipped into the hill going down to the station she
saw Stowell coming up from the bridge with rapid strides. Something
told her that, having heard the news, he was going to Government
House to protest. But what was the good of going now? Useless!
Worse than useless!
One glance she got of his face before she dropped her own. It was
whiter and thinner than before, as if from sleepless nights and
suffering. She wanted to stop; she wanted to go on; she did not know
what she wanted.
At the next moment her coachman, who had seen nothing of Stowell,
being occupied with the difficulties of the hill, had swept into the
station-yard.
When she got out of the carriage her heart was burning with the pangs
of mingled love and rage.
"If that girl dies in prison there shall never be anything between
us--never," she thought.
But deep in her heart, almost unknown to herself, there was a still
more poignant cry,
"He does not care for me--he cannot."