CONTENTS
| PART I | |
| I.— | [The Machine] |
| II.— | [The Breakdown] |
| III.— | [A Business Proposition] |
| IV.— | [The Accuser] |
| V.— | [The Holiday] |
| VI.— | [The Capture] |
| VII.— | [Roger] |
| VIII.— | [The Road to Nowhere] |
| IX.— | [The Lions’ Den] |
| PART II | |
| I.— | [The Strangers] |
| II.— | [Roger’s Master] |
| III.— | [The Beast] |
| IV.— | [Rebels] |
| V.— | [Mr. Dermot] |
| VI.— | [Maggie] |
| VII.— | [The Path Through the Wilderness] |
| VIII.— | [The Stones] |
| IX.— | [The Letter] |
| X.— | [Revelation] |
| XI.— | [Failure] |
| XII.— | [The Fires of Hell] |
| XIII.— | [Escape] |
| PART III | |
| I.— | [The Victim] |
| II.— | [The Bargain] |
| III.— | [The Turn of the Tide] |
| IV.— | [Ruth] |
| V.— | [The Exile] |
| VI.— | [The Chain] |
| VII.— | [The Message] |
| VIII.— | [The Miracle] |
| IX.— | [The Invalid] |
| X.— | [The Woman’s Right] |
| XI.— | [The Perfect Gift] |
| XII.— | [The Parting] |
| PART IV | |
| I.— | [The Land of Exile] |
| II.— | [The Nightmare] |
| III.— | [The Awakening] |
| IV.— | [The Victory] |
| V.— | [The Vision] |
| VI.— | [The Inquisitor] |
| VII.— | [Fair Play] |
| VIII.— | [The Place of Sacrifice] |
| IX.— | [Where the Giant Hare-bells Grow] |
Tetherstones
PART I
CHAPTER I
THE MACHINE
Twelve deep notes sounded from the clock-tower of the Cathedral, and the Bishop’s secretary dropped her hands from her typewriter and turned her face to the open window with a quick sigh. The Bishop’s garden lay sleeping in the sunshine—the pure white of lilies and royal blue of delphiniums mingling together as the wrought silks on the fringe of an altar-cloth. The age-worn stone of the Cathedral rose beyond it, and the arch of the cloisters gave a glimpse of the quiet burial-ground within. A great cluster of purple stone-crop rioted over one corner of the arch, and the secretary’s tired eyes rested upon it with a touch of wistfulness as though the splendour of it were somewhat overwhelming. She herself was so slight, so insignificant, so altogether negligible a quality, a being wholly out of place in the midst of such glorious surroundings. But yet she loved them, and her happiest hours were those she spent with her little sketching-block in various corners of that wonderful garden. It was only that the purple flower seemed somehow to be the symbol to her of all that was out of reach. Her youth was slipping from her, and she had never lived.
The tired lines about the brown eyes were growing daily more marked. The little tender curve about the lips was becoming a droop. The brown hair that grew so softly about her forehead gleamed unexpectedly white here and there.
“Yes, I’m getting old,” said Frances Thorold. “Old and tired and dull.” She stretched up her arms with a sudden movement, and for a second her hands were clenched. Then they fell to her sides.
“I suppose we are all slaves,” she said, “of one kind or another. But only the rebels know it.”