Part 21 (2/2)

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 regret 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, 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 ent.i.tled to, was a situation in which the n.o.blest att.i.tude should also be the easiest.--EDITH WHARTON.

On a stormy night, towards the end of March, Magdalen 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 absorb 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 pa.s.sage to Fay's door, and listened again. No sound within. At least none that could be distinguished 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?”

Then with a cry she threw herself into the outstretched 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 pa.s.sion 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 myself 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.”

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