The patch, however, adroitly copied, is seen to be an innovation.
The old house, which had known so much, had sheltered so much, had kept counsel so long, seemed to resent the artificial peace that its present owner had somewhat laboriously constructed round himself, within its mellow, ivied walls.
There is a fictitious tranquillity which is always on the verge of being broken, which depends largely on uninterrupted hours, on confidential, velvet-shod servants, on a brooding dove in a cedar, on the absence of the inharmonious or jarring elements which pervade daily life.
Such an imitation peace, coy as a fickle mistress, Wentworth cherished.
Was it worth all the trouble he took to preserve it, when the real thing lay at his very door?
On this February morning, as he sat looking out across the down, white in the pale sunshine, the current of his life ran low.

He had returned the night before from one of his periodical journeys to Italy to visit Michael in his cell.

He was tired with the clang and hurry of the long journey, depressed almost to despair by the renewed realisation of his brother's fate.

Two years--close on two years, had Michael been in prison.
In Wentworth's faithful heart that wound never healed.

To-day it bled afresh.