That same afternoon, when the rays of the sun were lower, Ferne went into his garden and lifted his bared brow, that perchance the air might cool it.  It was the quiet hour when the goal of the sun is in view, and the shadows of the fruit trees lay long upon the grass.  There were breaches in the garden walls where they had crumbled into ruin, and through these openings, beyond dark masses of all-covering ivy, sight might be had of old trees set in alleys, of primrose-yellowed downs, and of a distant cliff-head where sheep grazed, while far below gleamed a sapphire line of sea.  Tender quiet, fair stillness, marked the spot.  Day mused as she was going:  Evening, drawing near, held her finger to her lips.  A tall flower, keeping fairy guard beside three ruinous steps, moved not her slightest bell, but there came one note of a hidden thrush.

Full in the midst of a grass-plot was set a semi-circular bench of stone.  To this Ferne moved, threw himself down, and with a moaning sigh closed his eyes.  There had been long days and sleepless nights; there had been, once his brain had ceased to whirl, the growth of a purpose slowly formed, then held like iron; there had been the humble pleading for freedom, the long delay, the hope deferred; then, his petition granted, the going forth to mart and highway, the bargaining, amidst curious traffickers, for that rotting ship, for those lives, as worthless as his own, which yet must have their price.  This going forth was very bad; like hot lead within the gaping wound, like searing sunshine upon the naked eye.  And now, to-day, not an hour since, Arden! to mock, to goad, to torture—­

Slowly, slowly, the sun went down the west, and the peace of the garden deepened.  Very stealthily the quiet stole upon him; softly, silently, with spirit touch, it brought him healing simples.  Utterly weary as he was, the balm of the hour at last flowed over him, faintly soothing, faintly caressing.  He opened his eyes, and breathing deeply, looked about him with a saner vision than he had used of late.

The lily by the broken stair slept on, but the thrush sang once again.  The bell-like note died into the charmed stillness, and all things were as they had been.  Thirty paces away, stark against the evening sky, rose the western wall of Ferne House, and it was shaggy with ivy that was rooted like a tree, wide-branched, populous with birds’ nests, and high, high against the blue a thing of tenderest sprays and palest leaves.  The long ridge of them kept the late sunshine, and so far was it lifted above the earth, so still in that dreamy hour, so touched with pale gold, so distant and so delicate against high heaven, that it caught and held eye and soul of the man for whom Fate had borrowed Ixion’s wheel.  He gazed until the poet in him sighed with pure pleasure; then came forgetfulness; then, presently, he looked into his heart and began to make a little song, amorous, quaint, and honey-sweet, just such a song as in that full dawn of poesy Englishmen struck from the lyre and thought naught of it.  His lips did not move; had he spoken, at the sound of his own voice the charm had cracked, the little lyric had shrunk away before tragedy that was yet as fierce as it was profound, that had as yet few other notes than those of primal pain.