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To the man and woman to whom Abel Perris wished to speak his last words, the preliminaries of their visit to him seemed like the stages of some hideous dream from which, struggle as he may, a dreamer has no power to awake. In after years neither had any clear conceptions of the events of that day. It was a jumble of confused recollections. There was the journey to the town in which Perris lay in prison; there was the sight of the prison itself; of its towers, from one of which the black flag would be displayed next morning about the time that the townsfolk would settle to their business for the day; there were locks, and bolts, and bars, and formalities, and rooms and places which were strangely unlike all other rooms and places; there were men with keys, and dismal corridors to be traversed; there was a curious odour, which they were never again to forget; there was a feeling that the busy life of the town through which they had just passed was so far off that Heaven or Hell seemed nearer. And there was the awful realisation of the fact that it was the eve of the day on which Perris was to die, and that no news had come of a reprieve, and that Wroxdale's hopes had fallen to the lowest degree, and that they were going to hear words from a living man, who in a few short hours would be dead and buried. And then there was the further and more horrible realisation that the man himself was there before them; caged, like some wild animal, behind bars before which his keepers sat; they caged too, as if they also were wild animals that must be kept from the other. There was to be no touching of hands, then, nothing but an exchange of sight and sound?—why, truly, then, this was to show indeed that between the man who was to die and the folk who were to live there was a gulf fixed which nothing could bridge.

The man and woman who were to live, who were presently to walk out of that awful place free to breathe the air, to see the sun, to hold converse with their fellow-creatures, stared at the man who was going into the darkness as if he were something that they had never seen before and could not comprehend. There was no word in them; they could only look-and marvel with a terrible fear. But the man beyond the bars spoke, and there was little of fear or trouble in his voice.

"Well, Rhoda, my lass, I tek' it kind of you that yer should come here, and you too, Mestur Taffendale," said Perris. "It seems a queer place to meet in, but theer's a deal o' queer things i' this world, and I expect we mun put up wi' 'em. Theer were summut I wanted to say to both on you before—well, before to-morrow—so I had to ask Mestur Wroxdale to get yer to come. Ye see, both on yer, I've thought and studied matters a deal since I were in this place, havin' naught else to do, and I come to t' conclusion 'at I owt not to—to go away, as it weer, wi'out tellin' yer summat 'at I think I owt to tell. I wouldn't tell nowt to Mestur Wroxdale, nor to t' judge, nor to t' clergyman, but I'll tell you two—I've a sort of feelin', a conviction like, 'at I mun tell yer! Ye see, I want yer to know why all that theer occurred, an'—"

Rhoda cried out and tried to speak, and could not, and Taffendale suddenly heard his own voice as if it had been somebody else's and wondered at the horror in it.

"Don't tell us anything, Perris, that'll hurt you! Never mind anything, Perris, but—"

"It'll none hurt me, Mestur Taffendale! T' hurt 'ud be if I didn't tell now I feel I owt to tell you two. I understand 'at what I say to you two here is for yourselves—theer's no lawyers here. Ye see, Rhoda, and you, Mestur Taffendale, I wanted to tell you why I made away with yon Pippany Webster. An' I'll tell you t' truth, as I've told it all along this matter. Listen well to what I say, and happen you'll understand."

The men sitting between the double sets of bars became conscious of two white, strained faces pressed close to one set staring at the other face, not so white, which confronted them from across the narrow space.

"Ye see, it were that Sunda' night, Rhoda, my lass, 'at ye were singing that grand solo piece down at t' chappil, and ye and t' preacher hed setten off, and ye'd left me at home, all by misen. An' then come yon Pippany Webster, sneaken' round t' place, and I see'd his head poppin' up first i' one place and then in another, and at last I went out and tackled him, and axed him his business on my premises. And then he tell'd me—and yell both excuse me for mentionin' t' matter—'at he'd been a deal o' late in that theer Badger's Hollow, and he'd seen you two keepin' company. An' then he went on to tell me 'at one night when I were away he'd spied on t' Cherry-trees, and he'd seen you, Mestur Taffendale, come theer late and stop a long time wi' Rhoda theer. An' all t' time he were talkin' and tellin' his spy tales I were thinkin' o' two things at once, in a manner o' speakin'. One were this—'at I'd been a fool, and 'at I niver owt to hey expected 'at a young woman like you, Rhoda, my lass, could ha' cared owt for a poor sort of a chap like me, an'—"

Again Rhoda cried out inarticulately, and Taffendale standing at her side, could feel her shaking in agony. But Perris went quietly on.

"—an' I owt to hev had t' sense to see 'at sooner or later she'd meet some man 'at were more suited, like. An' t' other thowt were this—how many folks i' t' village knew what that theer rascal, Pippany Webster, knew? So I set to work to pump all t' knowledge 'at I could out on him, and I very soon convinced misen, 'at nobody but him did know, and 'at he hadn't telled a soul, not even theer owd Tibby Graddige. An' so then I thinks to misen, 'I'll soon keep thy tongue quiet, mi lad!' and I 'ticed him up into t' granary, and theer I choked him."

Taffendale, gripping the bars at which he stood, bent his head on his hands and groaned. He understood now, and he saw the uselessness, the utter purposelessness of what this poor, dull intellect before him had meant to be so purposeful, so useful.

"Oh, Perris!" he cried. "Why did you do it for that! I'd rather the whole world had known than it should have brought you to this!"

In the dull light Perris smiled.

"Aye, but ye see, I thowt different, Mestur Taffendale," he said. "I were none goin' t' hey' a chap like that theer carryin' his tales round t' countryside, as he would ha' done. I knew he wouldn't keep his tongue quiet. So, as I tell yer, I quietened him. An' then I made away wi' him down t' owd well—but theer's no need to go into that theer. Rhoda, my lass, theer's no call to cry."

"Let her cry," said Taffendale; "it's the best thing for her. Oh, Perris, you made a great mistake!"

"Aye, but I tell yer 'at I considered different!" said Perris. "Happen I think in a way o' mi' own, Mestur Taffendale. Howsomiver, I want to tell ye both why I went off. Ye see, I studied a deal after I'd made away wi' Webster—I were allus thinkin' about t' matter. An' I thowt to misen—well, I'm nowt and nobody, nowt but a poor uneddicated chap 'at 'll niver mek' owt on't, and if so be as Rhoda and Mestur Taffendale's fallen i' love—ye'll excuse me for mentionin' such things—why, t' sooner I'm out o' t' way the better for all parties; it doesn't matter what comes to me, and they'll be free to please theirsens. Ye see, theer were a chap 'at I used to know—a chap 'at reads books—as told me many a year ago 'at if a man run away fro' his wife she could very soon wed agen, and so I considered to be off. But mind yer, I were not goin' wi'out money, and so I selled what I could, and got t' brass i' hand and away I went. I niver meant a soul to hear tell o' me agen: I were goin' to Canada, but I came bi chance to do a bit o' horse-tradin' i' London. Howsomiver, ye know how things has turned out. It never struck me 'at yon theer owd well 'ud iver be opened agen; I thowt 'at wi' Webster quietened and me gone ye'd hey plain sailin'. But I niver were nowt but a fool."

Taffendale felt that words were useless. He looked in dumb misery at the floor of the open space which lay between him and Perris, and thought that the stones were more likely to speak than he was. And above the sound of Rhoda's quiet weeping Perris spoke again.

"Howsomiver—to-morrow 'll settle all. An' then ye'll be free enough. Ye'll be good to her, Mestur Taffendale. An', Rhoda, my lass—"

But Rhoda's weeping suddenly ceased, and she stopped Perris with a fierce gesture that made Taffendale start.

"Don't!" she said in a tense voice. "I can't bear it! Mark—tell him—he's a dying man—tell him that, however foolish we may have been, there never was aught wrong between you and me—if he dies thinking that there was I shall—"

Perris lifted his hand quietly.

"I niver thowt theer were owt wrong, my lass," he said, with a simple dignity. "That were why I killed t' man 'at were sayin' theer were, before he could go an' say it to others. But I knew ye loved each other, and so—"

And the scene came to an end, for Rhoda fell in a heap at the foot of the bars, and while Taffendale helped to carry her away in one direction, Perris was taken off by his custodians in another.

There were women in the prison who took charge of Rhoda, and when Taffendale had seen her into their care he went, half-fainting himself, to the room where he had left Wroxdale. There were others there officials, and when he entered they were talking VI Wroxdale, and Wroxdale turned hastily from them to him.

"Taffendale—it's come!" he exclaimed. Taffendale stared at him vacantly.

"What's come?" he asked dully.

"What? The reprieve, man! They're just going to tell him. It came—"

But Taffendale, for the first time in his life, had fainted, and the warder who had brought him to the room caught him as he reeled and fell. And only Wroxdale of all the men around knew that the message which saved Perris's life had also saved Taffendale from a long future of ceaseless torture and a hell of remorse.

"It's true?" he said, when he came round and found Wroxdale at his side. "He's—not to die?"

"It's true, Mark. He's not to die. And he's a young man, remember. He'll be a free man yet," replied Wroxdale.

Taffendale rose unsteadily to his feet.

"Let me get into the air," he said. "And—leave me alone a minute or two, Wroxdale."

There was a dismal little garden outside the room, and on a bench which stood against a blank wall Taffendale sat down and stared at the patch of grey sky, which was all that he could see of the outer world. His mind was growing calmer and clearer and he began to see the future. For him and Rhoda, as human minds linked together, there was no future; he knew, had known ever since the hour in which he found her on the edge of the quarry, that whatever might chance, Perris, dead or alive, would always stand between them. And now Perris was alive and was to live, and was to atone for his sin, and hers would be to wait until the years of that atonement were over, and then to give him what cheer she could in the days that would yet be left. And his owni—his, Taffendale's?

"She shall never want for aught until he's free," he said to himself. "And when he's free they shall have a new life. But from to-day she and I shall never meet again."

Then he went within, and found Wroxdale, and gave him instructions as to Rhoda's care, and himself went away. And as the wicket-gate closed upon him with a harsh clang, he lifted his head and drew a deep and long breath. He knew that he had passed out of a worse prison, a harder captivity, than any Abel Perris would ever know.

THE END