The days which intervened between this meeting and Lady Western's party
were spent in a way which the managers of Salem would have been far from
approving of. Mr. Vincent, indeed, was rapt out of himself, out of his
work, out of all the ordinary regions of life and thought. When he sat
down to his sermons, his pen hung idly in his hand, and his mind,
wilfully cheating itself by that semblance of study, went off into long
delicious reveries, indescribable, intangible--a secret sweet
intoxication which forbade labour, yet nourished thought. Though he
sometimes did not write a word in an hour, so deep was the aspect of
studiousness displayed by the young pastor at his writing-desk, and so
entire the silence he maintained in his room, shut up in that world of
dreams which nobody knew anything of, that his landlady, who was one of
his hearers, communicated the fact to Tozer, and expatiated everywhere
upon the extreme devotion to study displayed by the new minister. Old
Mr. Tufton, who had been in the habit of putting together the disjointed
palaver which he called a sermon on the Saturday morning, shook his head
over the information, and doubted that his young brother was resorting
more to carnal than to spiritual means of filling his chapel; but the
members of Salem generally heard the rumour with pride, and felt a
certain distinction accrue to themselves from the possibility that their
pastor might ruin his health by over-study. It was a new sensation in
Salem; and the news, as it was whispered about, certainly came to the
ears of a few of those young men and thinkers, principally poor lawyers'
clerks and drapers' assistants, whom Tozer was so anxious to reach, and
drew two or three doubtful, genteel hearers to the chapel, where Mr.
Vincent's sermon, though no better than usual, and in reality dashed off
at the last moment in sheer desperation, when necessity momentarily
thrust the dreams away, was listened to with a certain awe and devout
attention, solely due to the toil it was reported to have cost. The
young minister himself came out of the pulpit remorseful and ashamed,
feeling that he had neglected his duty, and thoroughly disgusted with
the superficial production, just lighted up with a few fiery sentences
of that eloquence which belongs to excitement and passion, which he had
just delivered. But Tozer and all the deacons buzzed approbation. They
were penetrated with the conviction that he had worked hard at his
sermon, and given them his best, and were not to be undeceived by the
quality of the work itself, which was a secondary matter. More deeply
disgusted and contemptuous than ever was the young pastor at the end of
that Sunday--disgusted with himself to have done his work so
poorly--contemptuous of those who were pleased with it--his heart
swelling with mortified pride to think that what he thought so unworthy
of him was more appreciated than his best efforts. For he did not know
the report that had gone abroad; he did not know that, while brooding
over his own rising passion, and absorbed in dreams with which Salem had
nothing to do, the little world around him was complacently giving him
credit for a purpose of wearing himself out in its behalf. The sermons
so hastily written, thrust into a corner by the overpowering enchantment
of those reveries, were not the only sin he had to charge against
himself. He could not bring himself to bear the irksome society that
surrounded him, in the state of elevation and excitement he was in.
Tozer was unendurable, and Phoebe to be avoided at all costs. He did
not even pay his promised visit to Mrs. Hilyard, nor go to Siloam
Cottage as usual. In short, he spent the days in a kind of dream,
avoiding all his duties, paying no visits, doing no pastoral work,
neglecting the very sermon over which his landlady saw him hanging so
many silent hours, without knowing that all the vacant atmosphere
between him and that blank sheet of paper, in which she saw nothing, was
peopled with fairy visitants and unreal scenes to the dreamy eyes of her
lodger. Such were the first effects of Circe's cup upon the young
minister. He indulged himself consciously, with apologetic
self-remonstrances, as Thursday approached. After that day, life was to
go on as usual. No--not as usual--with a loftier aim and a higher
inspiration; but the season of dreams was to be over when he had real
admittance into that Eden garden, where the woman of all women wandered
among her flowers. He thought what he was to say to her on that
eventful day--how he should charm her into interest in his difficulties,
and beautify his office, and the barren spot in which he exercised it,
with her sympathy. He imagined himself possessed of her ear, certain of
a place by her side, a special guest of her own election. He was not
vain, nor deeply persuaded of his own importance; yet all this seemed
only natural to his excited imagination. He saw himself by her side in
that garden of beatitudes, disclosing to her all that was in his heart;
instinctively he recalled all that the poets have said of woman the
consoler--woman the inspirer. When he had gained that priceless
sympathy, what glorious amends he should make for the few days'
indolence to which he now gave way! Thus in his inexperience he went on,
preparing for himself, as any one a little wiser could have seen at a
glance, one of the bitterest disappointments of early life.
Thursday came, a day of days--such a day as people reckon by, months
after; a soft and bright autumnal morning, breathing like spring. As
Vincent issued from his own door and took his way along George Street to
Grange Lane, he saw the curate of St. Roque's walking before him in the
same direction; but Mr. Wentworth himself was not more orthodoxly
clerical in every detail of his costume than was the young
Nonconformist, who was going, not to Lady Western's breakfast-party, but
into the Bower of Bliss, the fool's paradise of his youth. Mr.
Wentworth, it is true, was to see Lucy Wodehouse there, and was a true
lover; but he walked without excitement to the green gate which
concealed from him no enchanted world of delights, but only a familiar
garden, with every turn of which he was perfectly acquainted, and which,
even when Lucy was by his side, contained nothing ineffable or ecstatic.
It was, to tell the truth, an autumnal garden, bright enough still with
scarlet gleams of geranium and verbena, with a lawn of velvet
smoothness, and no great diminution as yet in the shade of the acacias
and lime-trees, and everything in the most perfect order in the trim
shrubberies, through the skilful mazes of which some bright groups were
already wandering, when Vincent passed through to the sunny open door.
At the open windows within he could see other figures in a pleasant
flutter of gay colour and light drapery, as he advanced breathless to
take his own place in that unknown world. He heard his own name
announced, and went in, with a chill of momentary doubt upon his high
expectations, into the airy sunshiny room, with its gay, brilliant,
rustling crowd, the ladies all bright and fresh in their pretty
morning-dresses, and the din of talk and laughter confusing his
unaccustomed ears. For a moment the stranger stood embarrassed, looking
round him, eagerly investigating the crowd for that one face, which was
not only the sole face of woman in the world so far as he was concerned,
but in reality the only face he knew in the gay party, where everybody
except himself knew everybody else. Then he saw her, and his doubts were
over. When she perceived him, she made a few steps forward to meet him
and held out her hand.
"I am so glad to see you--how kind of you to come!" said Lady Western;
"and such a beautiful day--just what I wanted for my last fête. Have you
seen my friend again since I saw you, Mr. Vincent--quite well, I hope?
Now, do have some coffee.--How do you do, Mr. Wentworth? You have been
here full five minutes, and you have never paid your respects to me.
Even under the circumstances, you know, one cannot overlook such
neglect."
"I am too deeply flattered that your ladyship should have observed my
entrance to be able to make any defence," said the curate of St.
Roque's, who could speak to her as to any ordinary woman; "but as for
circumstances----"
"Oh dear, yes, we all know," cried Lady Western, with her sweet laugh.
"Was it you, Mr. Vincent, who were saying that circumstances were
everything in life?--oh, no, I beg your pardon, quite the reverse. I
remember it struck me as odd and clever. Now, I daresay, you two could
quite settle that question. I am such an ignoramus. So kind of you to
come!"
Vincent was about to protest his delight in coming, and to deprecate the
imputation of kindness, but ere he had spoken three words, he suddenly
came to a stop, perceiving that not only Lady Western's attention but
her ear was lost, and that already another candidate for her favour had
possession of the field. He stepped back into the gay assembly,
disturbing one group, the members of which all turned to look at him
with well-bred curiosity. He stood quite alone and silent for some time,
waiting if, perhaps, he could catch the eye of Lady Western. But she
was surrounded, swept away, carried off even from his neighbourhood,
while he stood gazing. And here was he left, out of the sunshine of her
presence in the midst of Carlingford society, knowing nobody, while
every face smiled and every tongue was busy but his own: talk _au
discretion!_ such there certainly was--but Vincent had never in his life
felt so preposterously alone, so dismally silent, so shut up in himself.
If he had come to woo society, doubtless he could have plucked up a
spirit, and made a little effort for his object. But he had come to see
Her, flattering himself with vain dreams of securing her to himself--of
wandering by her side through those garden-paths, of keeping near her
whenever she moved--and the dream had intoxicated him more deeply than
even he himself was aware of. Now he woke to his sober wits with a chill
of mortification and disappointment not to be expressed. He stood
silent, following her with his eyes as she glided about from one corner
to the other of the crowded room. He had neither eyes nor ears for
anything else. Beautiful as she had always been, she was lovelier than
ever to-day, with her fair head uncovered and unadorned, her beautiful
hair glancing in the gleams of sunshine, her tiny hands ungloved. Poor
Vincent drew near a window, when it dawned upon his troubled perception
that he was standing amidst all those chattering, laughing people, a
silent statue of disappointment and dismay, and from that little refuge
watched her as she made her progress. And, alas! Lady Western assured
everybody that they were "_so_ kind" to come--she distributed her
smiles, her kind words, everywhere. She beamed upon the old men and the
young, the handsome and the stupid, with equal sweetness. After a while,
as he stood watching, Vincent began to melt in his heart. She was
hostess--she had the party's pleasure to think of, not her own. If he
could but help her, bring himself to her notice again in some other way!
Vincent made another step out of his window, and looked out eagerly with
shy scrutiny. Nobody wanted his help. They stared at him, and whispered
questions who he was. When he at length nerved himself to speak to his
next neighbour, he met with a courteous response and no more. Society
was not cruel, or repulsive, or severely exclusive, but simply did not
know him, could not make out who he was, and was busy talking that
conversation of a limited sphere full of personal allusions into which
no stranger could enter. Instead of the ineffable hour he expected, an
embarrassing, unbearable tedium was the lot of the poor Dissenting
minister by himself among the beauty, wit, and fashion of Carlingford.
He would have stolen away but for the forlorn hope that things might
mend--that Lady Western might return, and that the sunshine he had
dreamed of would yet fall upon him. But no such happiness came to the
unfortunate young minister. After a while, a perfectly undistinguished
middle-aged individual charitably engaged Mr. Vincent in conversation;
and as they talked, and while the young man's eager wistful eyes
followed into every new combination of the little crowd that one fair
figure which had bewitched him, it became apparent that the company was
flowing forth into the garden. At last Vincent stopped short in the
languid answer he was making to his respectable interlocutor with a
sudden start and access of impatience. The brilliant room had suddenly
clouded over. She had joined her guests outside. With bitterness, and a
sharp pang at his heart, Vincent looked round and wondered to find
himself in the house, in the company, from which she had gone. What
business had he there? No link of connection existed between him and
this little world of unknown people except herself. She had brought him
here; she alone knew even so much of him as his name. He had not an inch
of ground to stand on in the little alien assembly when she was not
there. He broke off his conversation with his unknown sympathiser
abruptly, and rushed out, meaning to leave the place. But somehow,
fascinated still, in a hundred different moods a minute, when he got
outside, he too lingered about the paths, where he continually met with
groups and stray couples who stared at him, and wondered again,
sometimes not inaudibly, who he was. He met her at last under the shadow
of the lime-trees with a train of girls about her, and a following of
eager male attendants. When he came forward lonely to make his farewell,
with a look in which he meant to unite a certain indignation and
reproach with still chivalrous devotion, the unconscious beauty met him
with unabated sweetness, held out her hand as before, and smiled the
most radiant of smiles.
"Are you going to leave us already?" she said, in a tone which half
persuaded the unlucky youth to stay till the last moment, and swallow
all his mortifications. "So sorry you must go away so soon! and I wanted
to show you my pictures too. Another time, I hope, we may have better
fortune. When you come to me again, you must really be at leisure, and
have no other engagements. Good-bye! It was _so_ kind of you to come,
and I am so sorry you can't stay!"
In another minute the green door had opened and closed, the fairy vision
was gone, and poor Vincent stood in Grange Lane between the two blank
lines of garden-wall, come back to the common daylight after a week's
vain wandering in the enchanted grounds, half stupefied, half maddened
by the disappointment and downfall. He made a momentary pause at the
door, gulped down the big indignant sigh that rose in his throat, and,
with a quickened step and a heightened colour, retraced his steps along
a road which no longer gleamed with any rosy reflections, but was
harder, more real, more matter-of-fact than ever it had looked before.
What a fool he had been, to be led into such a false position!--to be
cheated of his peace, and seduced from his duty, and intoxicated into
such absurdities of hope, all by the gleam of a bright eye, and the
sound of a sweet voice! He who had never known the weakness before, to
cover himself with ridicule, and compromise his dignity so entirely for
the sake of the first beautiful woman who smiled upon him! Poor Vincent!
He hurried to his rooms thrilling with projects, schemes, and sudden
vindictive ambition. That fair creature should learn that the young
Nonconformist was worthy of her notice. Those self-engrossed simperers
should yet be startled out of their follies by the new fame rising up
amongst them. Who was he, did they ask? One day they should know.
That the young man should despise himself for this outbreak of injured
feeling, as soon as he had cooled down, was inevitable; but it took some
considerable time to cool down; and in the mean time his resolution rose
and swelled into that heroic region which youth always attains so
easily. He thought himself disenchanted for ever. That night, in bitter
earnest, he burned the midnight oil--that night his pen flew over the
paper with outbreaks, sometimes indignant, sometimes pathetic, on
subjects as remote as possible from Lady Western's breakfast-party; and
with a sudden revulsion he bethought himself of Salem and its oligarchy,
which just now prophesied so much good of their new minister. He
accepted Salem with all the heat of passion at that moment. His be the
task to raise it and its pastor into a common fame!