"There goes a
prisoner," my thought instantly ran, "one who wishes to escape, but
cannot."
What brought the outlandish notion, heaven only knows. The house was of
her own choice, she was twice an heiress, and the world lay open at her
feet. Yet she stayed--unhappy, frightened, caught. All this flashed over
me, and made a sharp impression even before I had time to dismiss it as
absurd. But a moment later explanation offered itself, though it seemed
as far-fetched as the original impression. My mind, being logical, was
obliged to provide something, apparently. For Mrs. Franklyn, while
dressed to go out, with thick walking-boots, a pointed stick, and a
motor-cap tied on with a veil as for the windy lanes, was obviously
content to go no farther than the little garden paths. The costume was a
sham and a pretence. It was this, and her lithe, quick movements that
suggested a caged creature--a creature tamed by fear and cruelty that
cloaked themselves in kindness--pacing up and down, unable to realize
why it got no farther, but always met the same bars in exactly the same
place. The mind in her was barred.
I watched her go along the paths and down the steps from one terrace to
another, until the laurels hid her altogether; and into this mere
imagining of a moment came a hint of something slightly disagreeable,
for which my mind, search as it would, found no explanation at all.
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