PRISONERS
The turnkey at the inner door was slothful, sleepy and ill disposed to
listen when he heard that certain callers would be admitted to the
prisoner John Law.
"Tis late," said he, "and besides, 'tis contrary to the rules. Must not
a prison have rules? Tell me that!"
"We have come to arrange for certain matters regarding Mr. Law's
defense," said Mary Connynge, as she threw back her cloak and bent upon
the turnkey the full glance of her dark eye. "Surely you would not deny
us."
The turnkey looked at Will Law with a hesitation in his attitude. "Why,
this gentleman I know," he began.
"Yes; let us in," cried Will Law, with sudden energy. "'Tis time that we
took steps to set my brother free."
"True, so say they all, young master," replied the turnkey, grinning.
"'Tis easy to get ye in, but passing hard to get ye out again. Yet,
since the young man ye wish to see is a very decent gentleman, and
knoweth well the needs of a poor working body like myself, we will take
the matter under advisement, as the court saith, forsooth."
They passed through the heavy gates, down a narrow and heavy-aired
passage, and finally into a naked room. It was here, in such somber
surroundings, that Mary Connynge saw again the man whose image had been
graven on her heart ever since that morn at Sadler's Wells. How her
heart coveted him, how her blood leaped for him--these things the Mary
Connynges of the world can tell, they who own the primeval heart of
womankind.
When John Law himself at length entered the room, he stepped forward at
first confidently, eagerly, though with surprise upon his face. Then,
with a sudden hesitation, he looked sharply at the figure which he saw
awaiting him in the dingy room. His breath came sharp, and ended in a
sigh. For a half moment his face flushed, his brow showed question and
annoyance. Yet rapidly, after his fashion, he mastered himself.
"Will," said he, calmly, to his brother, "kindly ask the coachman to
wait for this lady."
He stood for a moment gazing after the form of his brother as it
disappeared in the outer shadows. For this half-moment he took swift
counsel of himself. It was a face calm and noncommittal that he turned
toward the girl who sat now in the darkest corner of the room, her head
cast down, her foot beating a signal of perturbation upon the floor.
From the corner of her eye Mary Connynge saw him, a tall and manly man,
superbly clad, faultless in physique and raiment from top to toe. He
stood as though ready to step into his carriage for some voyage to rout
or ball. Youth, vigor, self-reliance, confidence, this was the whole
message of the splendid figure. The blood of Mary Connynge, this
survival, this half-savage woman, unregulated, unsubdued, leaped high
within her bosom, fled to her face, gave color to her cheek and
brightness to her eye. Her breath shortened after feline fashion. Deep
was calling unto deep, ancient unto ancient, primitive unto primitive.
Without the gate of London prison there was one abject prisoner. Within
its gates there were two prisoners, and one of them was slave for life!
"Madam," said John Law, in deep and vibrant tone, "you will pardon me if
I say that it gives me surprise to see you here."
"Yes; I have come," said the girl, not logically.
"You bring, perhaps, some message?"
"I--I brought a message."
"It is from the Lady Catharine?"
Mary Connynge was silent for a moment. It was necessary that, at least
for a moment, the poison of some æons should distil. There was need of
savagery to say what she proposed to say. The voice of training, of
civilization, of unselfishness, of friendship raised a protest. Wait
then for a moment. Wait until the bitterness of an ambitious and
unrounded life could formulate this evil impulse. Wait, till Mary
Connynge could summon treachery enough to slay her friend. And yet, wait
only until the primitive soul of Mary Connynge should become altogether
imperative in its demands! For after all, was not this friend a woman,
and is not the earth builded as it is? And hath not God made male and
female its inhabitants; and as there is war of male and male, is there
not war of female and female, until the end of time?
"I came from the Lady Catharine," said Mary Connynge, slowly, "but I
bring no message from her of the sort which perhaps you wished." It was
a desperate, reckless lie, a lie almost certain of detection yet it was
the only resource of the moment, and a moment later it was too late to
recall. One lie must now follow another, and all must make a deadly
coil.
"Madam, I am sorry," said John Law, quietly, yet his face twitched
sharply at the impact of these cutting words. "Did you know of my letter
to her?"
"Am I not here?" said Mary Connynge.
"True, and I thank you deeply. But how, why-pray you, understand that I
would be set right. I would not undergo more than is necessary. Will you
not explain?"
"There is but little to explain--little, though it may mean much. It
must be private. Your brother--he must never know. Promise me not to
speak to him of this."
"This means much to me, I doubt not, my dear lady," said John Law. "I
trust I may keep my counsel in a matter which comes so close to me."
"Yes, truly," replied Mary Connynge, "if you had set your heart upon a
kindly answer."
"What! You mean, then, that she--"
"Do you promise?"
The brows of Law settled deeper and deeper into the frown which marked
him when he was perturbed. The blood, settled back, now slowly mounted
again into his face, the resentful, fighting blood of the Highlander.
"I promise," he cried. "And now, tell me what answer had the Lady
Catharine Knollys."
"She declined to answer," said Mary Connynge, slowly and evenly.
"Declined to come. She said that she was ill enough pleased to hear of
your brawling. Said that she doubted not the law would punish you, nor
doubted that the law was just."
John Law half whirled upon his heel, smote his hands together and
laughed loud and bitterly.
"Madam," said he, "I had never thought to say it to a woman, but in very
justice I must tell you that I see quite through this shallow
falsehood."
"Sir," said Mary Connynge, her hands clutching at the arms of her chair,
"this is unusual speech to a lady!"
"But your story, Madam, is most unusual."
"Tell me, then, why should I be here?" burst out the girl. "What is it
to me? Why should I care what the Lady Catharine says or does? Why
should I risk my own name to come of this errand in the night? Now let
me pass, for I shall leave you."
Tho swift jealous rage of Mary Connynge was unpremeditated, yet nothing
had better served her real purpose. The stubborn nature of Law was ever
ready for a challenge. He caught her arm, and placed her not unkindly
upon the chair.
"By heaven, I half believe what you say is true!" said he, as though to
himself.
"Yet you just said 'twas false," said the girl, her eyes flashing.
"I meant that what you add is true, and hence the first also must be
believed. Then you saw my message?"
"I did, since it so fell out."
"But you did not read the real message. I asked no aid of any one for my
escape. I but asked her to come. In sheer truth, I wished but to see
her."
"And by what right could you expect that?"
"I asked her as my affianced wife," replied John Law.
Mary Connynge stood an inch taller, as she sprang to her feet in sudden
scorn and bitterness.
"Your affianced wife!" cried she. "What! So soon! Oh, rare indeed must
be my opinion of this Lady Catharine!"
"It was never my way to waste time on a journey," said John Law, coolly.
"Your wife, your affianced wife?"
"As I said."
"Yes," cried Mary Connynge, bitterly, and again, unconsciously and in
sheer anger, falling upon that course which best served her purpose.
"And what manner of affianced wife is it would forsake her lover at the
first breath of trouble? My God! 'tis then, it seems to me, a woman
would most swiftly fly to the man she loved."
John Law turned slowly toward her, his eyes scanning her closely from
top to toe, noting the heaving of her bosom, the sparkling of her
gold-colored eye, now darkened and half ready to dissolve in tears. He
stood as though he were a judge, weighing the evidence before him,
calmly, dispassionately.
"Would you do so much as that, Mary Connynge?" asked John Law.
"I, sir?" she replied. "Then why am I here to-night myself? But, God pity
me, what have I said? There is nothing but misfortune in all my life!"
It was one rebellious, unsubdued nature speaking to another, and of the
two each was now having its own sharp suffering. The instant of doubt is
the time of danger. Then comes revulsion, bitterness, despair, folly.
John Law trod a step nearer.
"By God! Madam," cried he, "I would I might believe you. I would I might
believe that you, that any woman, would come to me at such a time! But
tell me--and I bethink me my message was not addressed, was even
unsigned--whom then may I trust? If this woman scorns my call at such a
time, tell me, whom shall I hold faithful? Who would come to me at any
time, in any case, in my trouble? Suppose my message were to you?"
Mary Connynge stirred softly under her deep cloak. Her head was lifted
slightly, the curve of cheek and chin showing in the light that fell
from the little lamp. The masses of her dark hair lay piled about her
face, tumbled by the sweeping of her hood. Her eyes showed tremulously
soft and deep now as he looked into them. Her little hands half twitched
a trifle from her lap and reached forward and upward. Primitive she
might have been, wicked she was, sinfully sweet; and yet she was woman.
It was with the voice of tears that she spoke, if one might claim
vocalization for her speech.
"Have I not come?" whispered she.
"By God! Mary Connynge, yes, you have come!" cried Law. And though there
was heartbreak in his voice, it sounded sweet to the ear of her who
heard it, and who now reached up her arms about his neck.
"Ah, John Law," said Mary Connynge, "when a woman loves--when a woman
loves, she stops at nothing!"