Next morning Mr. Vincent got up early, with an indescribable commotion
in all his thoughts. He was to institute inquiries which might be life
or death to his sister, but yet could not keep his mind to the
contemplation of that grave necessity. A flicker of private hope and
expectation kept gleaming with uncertain light over the dark weight of
anxiety in his heart. He could not help, in the very deepest of his
thoughts about Susan, breaking off now and then into a momentary
digression, which suddenly carried him into Lady Western's drawing-room,
and startled his heart with a thrill of conscious delight, secret and
exquisite, which he could neither banish nor deny. In and out, and round
about that grievous doubt which had suddenly disturbed the quiet history
of his family, this capricious fairy played, touching all his anxious
thoughts with thrills of sweetness. It seemed an action involuntary to
himself, and over which he had no power; but it gave the young man an
equally involuntary and causeless cheer and comfort. It did not seem
possible that any dreadful discovery could be made that day, in face of
the fact that he was to meet Her that night.
When he met his mother at breakfast, the recollection of Mrs. Hilyard
and the charge she had committed to him, came to his mind again. No
doubt Susan would take the wanderers in--no doubt they were as safe in
the cottage as it was possible to be in a humble inviolable English
home, surrounded by all the strength of neighbours and friends, and the
protection of a spotless life which everybody knew; but yet---- That was
not what his strange acquaintance had expected or bargained for. He felt
as if he had broken faith with her when he realised his mother's absence
from her own house. Yet somehow he felt a certain hesitation in
broaching the subject, and unconsciously prepared himself for doubts and
reluctance. The certainty of this gave a forced character to the assumed
easiness with which he spoke.
"You will go to see Mrs. Hilyard," he said; "I owe it to her to explain
that you were absent before her child went there. They will be safe
enough at home, no doubt, with Susan; but still, you know, it would have
been different had you been there."
"Yes, Arthur," said Mrs. Vincent, with an indescribable dryness in her
voice.
"You will find her a very interesting woman," said her son,
instinctively contending against that unexpressed doubt--"the strangest
contrast to her surroundings. The very sound of her voice carries one a
thousand miles from Salem. Had I seen her in a palace, I doubt whether I
should have been equally impressed by her. You will be interested in
spite of yourself."
"It is, as you say, very strange, Arthur," said Mrs. Vincent--the
dryness in her voice increasing to the extent of a short cough; "when
does your train start?"
"Not till eleven," said Vincent, looking at his watch; but you must
please me, and go to see her, mother."
"That reminds me, dear," said Mrs. Vincent, hurriedly, "that now I am
here, little as it suits my feelings, you must take me to see some of
your people, Arthur. Mrs. Tufton, and perhaps the Tozers, you know. They
might not like to hear that your mother had been in Carlingford, and had
not gone to see them. It will be hard work visiting strangers while I am
in this dreadful anxiety, but I must not be the means of bringing you
into any trouble with your flock."
"Oh, never mind my flock," said Vincent, with some impatience; "put on
your bonnet, and come and see her, mother."
"Arthur, you are going by the first train," said his mother.
"There is abundant time, and it is not too early for _her_," persisted
the minister.
But it was not so easy to conquer that meek little woman. "I feel very
much fatigued to-day," she said, turning her eyes, mild but invincible,
with the most distinct contradiction of her words to her son's face; "if
it had not been my anxiety to have all I could of you, Arthur, I should
not have got up to-day. A journey is a very serious matter, dear, for an
old woman. One does not feel it so much at first," continued this
plausible defendant, still with her mild eyes on her son's face, secure
in the perfect reasonableness of her plea, yet not unwilling that he
should perceive it was a pretence; "it is the next day one feels it. I
shall lie down on the sofa, and rest when you are gone."
And, looking into his mother's soft eyes, the young Nonconformist
retreated, and made no more attempts to shake her. Not the
invulnerability of the fortress alone discouraged him--though that was
mildly obdurate, and proof to argument--but a certain uneasiness in the
thought of that meeting, an inclination to postpone it, and stave off
the thought of all that might follow, surprised himself in his own mind.
Why he should be afraid of the encounter, or how any complication could
arise out of it, he could not by any means imagine, but such was the
instinctive sentiment in his heart.
Accordingly he went up to London by the train, leaving Mrs. Hilyard
unwarned, and his mother reposing on the sofa, from which, it is sad to
say, she rose a few minutes after he was gone, to refresh herself by
tidying his bookcase and looking over all his linen and stockings, in
which last she found a very wholesome subject of contemplation, which
relieved the pressure of her thoughts much more effectually than could
have been done by the rest which she originally proposed. Arthur, for
his part, went up to London with a certain nervous thrill of anxiety
rising in his breast as he approached the scene and the moment of his
inquiries; though it was still only by intervals that he realised the
momentous nature of those inquiries, on the result of which poor Susan's
harmless girlish life, all unconscious of the danger that threatened
it, hung in the balance. Poor Susan! just then going on with a bride's
preparations for the approaching climax of her youthful existence. Was
she, indeed, really a bride, with nothing but truth and sweet honour in
the contract that bound her, or was she the sport of a villanous pastime
that would break her heart, and might have shipwrecked her fair fame and
innocent existence? Her brother set his teeth hard as he asked himself
that question. Minister as he was, it might have been a dangerous chance
for Fordham, had he come at that moment without ample proofs of
guiltlessness in the Nonconformist's way.
When he got to town, he whirled, as fast as it was possible to go, to
the address where Susan's guileless letters were sent almost daily. It
was in a street off Piccadilly, full of lodging-houses, and all manner
of hangers-on and ministrants to the world of fashion. He found the
house directly, and was somewhat comforted to find it really an actual
house, and not a myth or Doubtful Castle, or a post-office window. He
knocked with the real knocker, and heard the bell peal through the
comparative silence in the street, and insensibly cheered up, and began
to look forward to the appearance of a real Mr. Fordham, with
unquestionable private history and troops of friends. A quiet house,
scrupulously clean, entirely respectable, yet distinct in all its
features of lodging-house; a groom in the area below, talking to an
invisible somebody, also a man, who seemed to be cleaning somebody
else's boots; up-stairs, at the first-floor balcony, a smart little
tiger making a fashion of watering plants, and actually doing his best
to sprinkle the conversational groom below; altogether a superabundance
of male attendants, quite incompatible with the integrity of the small
dwelling-place as a private house. Another man, who evidently belonged
to the place, opened the door, interrupting Vincent suddenly in his
observations--an elderly man, half servant, half master, in reality the
proprietor of the place, ready either to wait or be waited on as
occasion might require. Turning with a little start from his inspection
of the attendant circumstances, Vincent asked, did Mr. Fordham live
there?
The man made a momentary but visible pause; whatever it might betoken,
it was not ignorance. He did not answer with the alacrity of frank
knowledge or simple non-information. He paused, then said, "Mr. Fordham,
sir?" looking intently at Vincent, and taking in every particular of his
appearance, dress, and professional looks, with one rapid glance.
"Mr. Fordham," repeated Vincent, "does he live here?"
Once more the man perused him, swiftly and cautiously. "No, sir, he does
not live here," was the second response.
"I was told this was his address," said Vincent. "I perceive you are not
ignorant of him; where does he live? I know his letters come here."
"There are a many gentlemen in the house in the course of the season,"
answered the man, still on the alert to find out Vincent's meaning by
his looks--"sometimes letters keep on coming months after they are
gone. When we knows their home address, sir, we sends them; when we
don't, we keeps them by us till we see if any owner turns up. Gen'leman
of the name of Fordham?--do you happen to know, sir, what part o' the
country _he_ comes from? There's the Lincolnshire Fordhams, as you know,
sir, and the Northumberland Fordhams; but there's no gen'leman of that
name lives here."
"I am sure you know perfectly whom I mean," said Vincent, in his heat
and impatience. "I don't mean Mr. Fordham any harm--I only want to see
him, or to get some information about him, if he is not to be seen. Tell
me where he does live, or tell me which of his friends is in town, that
I may ask them. I tell you I don't mean Mr. Fordham any harm."
"No, sir?--nor I don't know as anybody means any harm," said the man,
once more examining Vincent's appearance. "What was it as you were
wishing to know? Though I ain't acquainted with the gen'leman myself,
the missis or some of the people may be. We have a many coming and
going, and I might confuse a name.--What was it as you were wishful to
know?"
"I wish to see Mr. Fordham," said Vincent, impatiently.
"I have told you, sir, he don't live here," said the guardian of the
house.
"Then, look here; you don't deceive me, remember. I can see you know all
about him," said Vincent; "and, as I tell you, I mean him no harm;
answer me one or two simple questions, and I will either thank or
reward you as you like best. In the first place, Is this Mr. Fordham a
married man? and, Has he ever gone by another name?"
As he asked these questions the man grinned in his face. "Lord bless
you, sir, we don't ask no such questions here. A gen'leman comes and has
his rooms, and pays, and goes away, and gives such name as he pleases. I
don't ask a certificate of baptism, not if all's right in the pay
department. We don't take ladies in, being troublesome; but if a man was
to have a dozen wives, what could we know about it? Sorry to disoblige a
clergyman, sir; but as I don't know nothing about Mr. Fordham, perhaps
you'll excuse me, as it's the busiest time of the day."
"Well, then, my good man," said Vincent, taking out his purse, "tell me
what friend he has that I can apply to; you will do me the greatest
service, and I----"
"Sorry to disoblige a clergyman, as I say," said the man, angrily; "but,
begging your pardon, I can't stand jabbering here. I never was a spy on
a gen'leman, and never will be. If you want to know, you'll have to find
out. Time's money to me."
With which the landlord of No. 10 Nameless Street, Piccadilly, shut the
door abruptly in Vincent's face. A postman was audibly approaching at
the moment. Could that have anything to do with the sudden breaking off
of the conference? The minister, exasperated, yet, becoming more
anxious, stood for a moment in doubt, facing the blank closed door.
Then, desperate, turned round suddenly, and faced the advancing
Mercury. He had no letters for No. 10; he was hastening past, altogether
regardless of Vincent's look of inquiry. When he was addressed, however,
the postman responded with immediate directness. "Fordham, sir--yes--a
gentleman of that name lives at No. 10--leastways he has his letters
there--No. 10--where you have just been, sir."
"But they say he doesn't live there," said Vincent.
"Can't tell, sir--has his letters there," said the public servant,
decidedly.
More than ever perplexed, Vincent followed the postman to pursue his
inquiries. "What sort of a house is it?" he asked.
"Highly respectable house, sir," answered the terse and decisive
functionary, performing an astounding rap next door.
In an agony of impatience and uncertainty, the young man lingered
opposite the house, conscious of a helplessness and impotence which made
him furious with himself. That he ought to be able to get to the bottom
of it was clear; but that he was as far as possible from knowing how to
do that same, or where to pursue his inquiries, was indisputable. One
thing was certain, that Mr. Fordham did not choose to be visible at this
address to which his letters were sent, and that it was hopeless to
attempt to extract any information on the subject by such frank
inquiries as the minister had already made. He took a half-hour's walk,
and thought it over with no great enlightenment on the subject. Then,
coming back, applied once more at the highly respectable
uncommunicative door. He had entertained hopes that another and more
manageable adherent of the house might possibly appear this time--a
maid, or impressionable servitor of some description, and had a little
piece of gold ready for the propitiatory tip in his hand. His hopes
were, however, put to flight by the appearance of the same face,
increased in respectability and composure by the fact that the owner had
thrown off the jacket in which he had formerly been invested, and now
appeared in a solemn black coat, the essence of respectable and
dignified servitude. He fixed his eyes severely upon Vincent as soon as
he opened the door. He was evidently disgusted by this return to the
charge.
"Look here," said Vincent, somewhat startled and annoyed to find himself
confronted by the same face which had formerly defied him; "could you
get a note conveyed from me to Mr. Fordham?--the postman says he has his
letters here."
"If he gets his letters here they come by the post," said the man,
insolently. "There's a post-office round the corner, but I don't keep
one here. If one reaches him, another will. It ain't nothing to me."
"But it is a great deal to me," said Vincent, with involuntary
earnestness. "You have preserved his secret faithfully, whatever it may
be; but it surely can't be any harm to convey a note to Mr. Fordham.
Most likely, when he hears my name," said the young man, with a little
consciousness that what he said was more than he believed, "he will see
me; and I have to leave town this evening. You will do me a great
service if you will save me the delay of the post, and get it delivered
at once. And you may do Mr. Fordham a service too."
The man looked with less certainty in Vincent's face.--"Seems to me some
people don't know what 'No' means, when it's said," he replied, with a
certain relenting in his voice. "There's things as a gen'leman ought to
know, sure enough--something happened in the family or so; but you see,
he don't live here; and since you stand it out so, I don't mind saying
that he's a gen'leman as can't be seen in town to-day, seeing he's in
the country, as I'm informed, on urgent private affairs. It's uncommon
kind of a clergyman, and a stranger, to take such an interest in my
house," continued the fellow, grinning spitefully; "but what I say first
I say last--he don't live here."
"And he is not in town?" asked Vincent eagerly, without noticing the
insolence of the speech. The man gradually closed the door upon himself
till he had shut it, and stood outside, facing his persistent visitor.
"In town or out of town," he said, folding his arms upon his chest, and
surveying Vincent with all the insolence of a lackey who knows he has to
deal with a man debarred by public opinion from the gratifying privilege
of knocking him down, "there ain't no more information to be got here."
Such was the conclusion of Vincent's attempted investigation. He went
away at once, scarcely pausing to hear this speech out, to take the only
means that presented themselves now; and going into the first
stationer's shop in his way, wrote a note entreating Mr. Fordham to meet
him, and giving a friend's address in London, as well as his own in
Carlingford, that he might be communicated with instantly. When he had
written and posted this note, Vincent proceeded to investigate the
Directory and all the red and blue books he could lay his hands upon,
for the name of Fordham. It was not a plentiful name, but still it
occurred sufficiently often to perplex and confuse him utterly. When he
had looked over the list of Fordhams in London, sufficiently long to
give himself an intense headache, and to feel his under-taking entirely
hopeless, he came to a standstill. What was to be done? He had no clue,
nor the hope of any, to guide him through this labyrinth; but he had no
longer any trust in the honour of the man whom his mother had so rashly
received, and to whom Susan had given her heart. By way of the only
precaution which occurred to him, he wrote a short note to Susan,
begging her not to send any more letters to Mr. Fordham until her
mother's return; and desiring her not to be alarmed by this prohibition,
but to be very careful of herself, and wait for an explanation when Mrs.
Vincent should return. He thought he himself would accompany his mother
home. The note was written, as Vincent thought, in the most guarded
terms; but in reality was such an abrupt, alarming performance, as was
sure to drive a sensitive girl into the wildest fright and uncertainty.
Having eased his conscience by this, he went back to the railway, and
returned to Carlingford. Night had fallen before he reached home. Under
any other circumstances, he would have encountered his mother after such
an ineffectual enterprise, conscious as he was of carrying back nothing
but heightened suspicion, with very uncomfortable feelings, and would
have been in his own person too profoundly concerned about this dreadful
danger which menaced his only sister, to be able to rest or occupy
himself about other things. But the fact was, that whenever he relapsed
into the solitary carriage in which he travelled to Carlingford, and
when utterly quiet and alone, wrapped in the haze of din and smoke and
speed which abstracts railway travellers from all the world,--gave
himself up to thought, the rosy hue of his own hopes came stealing over
him unawares. Now and then he woke up, as men wake up from a doze, and
made a passing snatch at his fears. But again and again they eluded his
grasp, and the indefinite brightness which had no foundation in reason,
swallowed up everything which interfered with its power. The effect of
this was to make the young man preternaturally solemn when he entered
the room where his mother awaited him. He felt the reality of the fear
so much less than he ought to do, that it was necessary to put on twice
the appearance. Had he really been as deeply anxious and alarmed as he
should have been, he would naturally have tried to ease and lighten the
burden of the discovery to his mother; feeling it so hazily as he did,
no such precautions occurred to him. She rose up when he came in, with a
face which gradually paled out of all its colour as he approached. When
he was near enough to hold out his hand to her, Mrs. Vincent was nearly
fainting. "Arthur," she cried, in a scarcely audible voice, "God have
pity upon us; it is true: I can see it in your face."
"Mother, compose yourself. I have no evidence that it is true. I have
discovered nothing," cried Vincent, in alarm.
The widow dropped heavily into her chair, and sobbed aloud. "I can read
it in your face," she said. "Oh! my dear boy, have you seen that--that
villain? Does he confess it? Oh, my Susan, my Susan! I will never
forgive myself; I have killed my child."
From this passion it was difficult to recover her, and Vincent had to
represent so strongly the fact that he had ascertained nothing certain,
and that, for anything he could tell, Fordham might still prove himself
innocent, that he almost persuaded his own mind in persuading hers.
"His letters might be taken in at a place where he did not live, for
convenience sake," said Vincent. "The man might think me a dun, or
something disagreeable. Fordham himself, for anything we can tell, may
be very angry about it. Cheer up, mother; things are no worse than they
were last night. I give you my word I have made no discovery, and
perhaps to-morrow may bring us a letter clearing it all up."
"Ah! Arthur, you are so young and hopeful. It is different with me, who
have seen so many terrors come true," said the mother, who
notwithstanding was comforted. As for Vincent, he felt neither the
danger nor the suspense. His whole soul was engrossed with the fact that
it was time to dress; and it was with a little conscious sophistry that
he himself made the best of it, and excused himself for his
indifference.
"I can't bear to leave you, mother, in such suspense and distress," he
said, looking at his watch; "but--I have to be at Lady Western's at
half-past six."
Mrs. Vincent looked up with an expression of stupified surprise and pain
for a moment, then brightened all at once. "My dear, I have laid out all
your things," she said, with animation. "Do you think I would let you
miss it, Arthur? Never mind talking to me. I shall hear all about it
when you come home to-night. Now go, dear, or you will be late. I will
come and talk to you when you are dressing, if you don't mind your
mother? Well, perhaps not. I will stay here, and you can call me when
you are ready, and I will bring you a cup of tea. I am sure you are
tired, what with the fatigue and what with the anxiety. But you must try
to put it off your mind, and enjoy yourself to-night."
"Yes, mother," said Vincent, hastening away; the tears were in her
gentle eyes when she gave him that unnecessary advice. She pressed his
hands fast in hers when he left her at last, repeating it, afraid in her
own heart that this trouble had spoilt all the brightness of the opening
hopes which she perceived with so much pride and joy. When he was gone,
she sat down by the solitary fire, and cried over her Susan in an utter
forlornness and helplessness, which only a woman, so gentle, timid, and
unable to struggle for herself, could feel. Her son, in the mean time,
walked down Grange Lane, first with a momentary shame at his own want of
feeling, but soon, with an entire forgetfulness both of the shame and
the subject of it, absorbed in thoughts of his reception there. With a
palpitating heart he entered the dark garden, now noiseless and chill in
winterly decay, and gazed at the lighted windows which had looked like
distant planets to him the last time he saw them. He lingered looking at
them, now that the moment approached so near. A remembrance of his
former disappointment went to his heart with a momentary pang as he
hesitated on the edge of his present happiness. Another moment and he
had thrown himself again, with a degree of suppressed excitement
wonderful to think of, upon the chances of his fate.
Not alarming chances, so far as could be predicated from the scene. A
small room, the smaller half of that room which he had seen full of the
pretty crowd of the summer-party, the folding-doors closed, and a
curtain drawn across them; a fire burning brightly; groups of candles
softly lighting the room in clusters upon the wall, and throwing a
colourless soft illumination upon the pictures of which Lady Western was
so proud. She herself, dropped amid billows of dark blue silk and clouds
of black lace in a low easy-chair by the side of the fire, smiled at
Vincent, and held out her hand to him without rising, with a sweet
cordiality and friendliness which rapt the young man into paradise.
Though Lucy Wodehouse was scarcely less pretty than the young Dowager,
Mr. Vincent saw her as if he saw her not, and still less did he realise
the presence of Miss Wodehouse, who was the shadow to all this
brightness. He took the chair which Lady Western pointed to him by her
side. He did not want anybody to speak; or anything to happen. The
welcome was not given as to a stranger, but made him at once an intimate
and familiar friend of the house. At once all his dreams were realised.
The sweet atmosphere was tinged with the perfumy breath which always
surrounded Her; the room, which was so fanciful and yet so home-like,
seemed a reflection of her to his bewildered eyes; and the murmur of
soft sound, as these two lovely creatures spoke to each other, made the
most delicious climax to the scene; although the moment before he had
been afraid lest the sound of a voice should break the spell. But the
spell was not to be broken that night. Mr. Wentworth came in a few
minutes after him, and was received with equal sweetness; but still the
young Nonconformist was not jealous. It was he whose arm Lady Western
appropriated, almost without looking at him as she did so, when they
went to dinner. She had put aside the forms which were intended to keep
the outer world at arm's length. It was as her own closest personal
friends that the little party gathered around the little table, just
large enough for them, which was placed before the fire in the great
dining-room. Lady Western was not a brilliant talker, but Mr. Vincent
thought her smallest observation more precious than any utterance of
genius. He listened to her with a fervour which few people showed when
listening to _him_, notwithstanding his natural eloquence; but as to
what he himself said in reply, he was entirely oblivious, and spoke like
a man in a dream. When she clapped her pretty hands, and adjured the
Churchman and the Nonconformist to fight out their quarrel, it was well
for Vincent that Mr. Wentworth declined the controversy. The lecturer on
Church and State was _hors de combat_; he was in charity with all men.
The curate of St. Roque's, who--blind and infatuated man!--thought Lucy
Wodehouse the flower of Grange Lane, did not come in his way. He might
pity him, but it was a sympathetic pity. Mr. Vincent took no notice when
Miss Wodehouse launched tiny arrows of argument at him. She was the only
member of the party who seemed to recollect his heresies in respect to
Church and State--which, indeed, he had forgotten himself, and the state
of mind which led to them. No such world existed now as that cold and
lofty world which the young man of genius had seen glooming down upon
his life, and shutting jealous barriers against his progress. The
barriers were opened, the coldness gone--and he himself raised high on
the sunshiny heights, where love and beauty had their perennial abode.
He had gained nothing--changed in nothing--from his former condition:
not even the golden gates of society had opened to the dissenting
minister; but glorious enfranchisement had come to the young man's
heart. It was not Lady Western who had asked him to dinner--a
distinction of which his mother was proud. It was the woman of all women
who had brought him to her side, whose sweet eyes were sunning him
over, whose voice thrilled to his heart. By her side he forgot all
social distinctions, and all the stings contained in them. No prince
could have reached more completely the ideal elevation and summit of
youthful existence. Ambition and its successes were vulgar in
comparison. It was a poetic triumph amid the prose tumults and downfalls
of life.
When the two young men were left over their wine, a somewhat grim shadow
fell upon the evening. The curate of St. Roque's and the minister of
Salem found it wonderfully hard to get up a conversation. They discussed
the advantages of retiring with the ladies as they sat glum and reserved
opposite each other--not by any means unlike, and, by consequence,
natural enemies. Mr. Wentworth thought it an admirable plan, much more
sensible than the absurd custom which kept men listening to a parcel of
old fogies, who retained the habits of the last generation; and he
proposed that they should join the ladies--a proposal to which Vincent
gladly acceded. When they returned to the drawing-room, Lucy Wodehouse
was at the piano; her sister sat at table with a pattern-book before
her, doing some impossible pattern in knitting; and Lady Western again
sat languid and lovely by the fire, with her beautiful hands in her lap,
relieved from the dark background of the billowy blue dress by the
delicate cambric and lace of her handkerchief. She was not doing
anything, or looking as if she could do anything. She was leaning back
in the low chair, with the rich folds of her dress sweeping the carpet,
and her beautiful ungloved hands lying lightly across each other. She
did not move when the gentlemen entered. She turned her eyes to them,
and smiled those sweet welcoming smiles, which Vincent knew well enough
were for both alike, yet which made his heart thrill and beat. Wentworth
(insensible prig!) went to Lucy's side, and began to talk to her over
her music, now and then appealing to Miss Wodehouse. Vincent, whom no
man hindered, and for whose happiness all the fates had conspired,
invited by those smiling eyes, approached Lady Western with the
surprised delight of a man miraculously blessed. He could not understand
why he was permitted to be so happy. He drew a chair between her and the
table, and, shutting out the other group by turning his back upon them,
had her all to himself. She never changed her position, nor disturbed
her sweet indolence, by the least movement. The fire blazed no longer.
The candles, softly burning against the wall, threw no very brilliant
light upon this scene. To Vincent's consciousness, bewildered as he was
by the supreme delight of his position, they were but two in a new
world, and neither thing nor person disturbed the unimaginable bliss.
But Miss Wodehouse, when she raised her eyes from her knitting, only saw
the young Dowager leaning back in her chair, smiling the natural smiles
of her sweet temper and kind heart upon the young stranger whom she had
chosen to make a _protégé_ of. Miss Wodehouse silently concluded that
perhaps it might be dangerous for the young man, who knew no better, and
that Lady Western always looked well in a blue dress. Such was the
outside world's interpretation of that triumphant hour of Vincent's
life.
How it went on he never could tell. Soft questions, spoken in that voice
which made everything eloquent, gently drew from him the particulars of
his life; and sweet laughter, more musical than that song of Lucy's to
which the curate (dull clod!) gave all his attention, rang silvery peals
over the name of Tozer and the economics of Salem. Perhaps Lady Western
enjoyed the conversation almost half as much as her worshipper did. She
was amused, most delicate and difficult of all successes. She was
pleased with the reverential devotion which had a freshness and tender
humility conjoined with sensitive pride which was novel to her, and more
flattering than ordinary adoration. When he saw it amused her, the young
man exerted himself to set forth his miseries with their ludicrous
element fully developed. They were no longer miseries, they were
happinesses which brought him those smiles. He said twice enough to turn
him out of Salem, and make him shunned by all the connection. He forgot
everything in life but the lovely creature beside him, and the means by
which he could arouse her interest, and keep her ear a little longer.
Such was the position of affairs, when Miss Wodehouse came to the plain
part of her pattern, where she could go on without counting; and seeing
Lady Western so much amused, became interested and set herself to listen
too. By this time Vincent had come to more private concerns.
"I have been inquiring to-day after some one whom my mother knows, and
whom I am anxious to hear about," said Vincent. "I cannot discover
anything about him. It is a wild question to ask if you know him, but it
is just possible; there are such curious encounters in life."
"What is his name?" said Lady Western, with a smile as radiant as a
sunbeam.
"His name is Fordham--Herbert Fordham: I do not know where he comes
from, nor whether he is of any profession; nor, indeed, anything but his
name. I have been in town to-day----"
Here Vincent came to a sudden stop. He had withdrawn his eyes from that
smile of hers for the moment. When he raised them again, the beautiful
picture was changed as if by magic. Her eyes were fixed upon him dilated
and almost wild. Her face was deadly pale. Her hands, which had been
lying lightly crossed, grasped each other in a grasp of sudden anguish
and self-control. He stopped short with a pang too bitter and strange
for utterance. At that touch all his fancies dispersed into the air. He
came to himself strangely, with a sense of chill and desolation. In one
instant, from the height of momentary bliss down to the miserable flat
of conscious unimportance. Such a downfall was too much for man to
endure without showing it. He stopped short at the aspect of her face.
"You have been in town to-day?" she repeated, pointedly, with white and
trembling lips.
"And could hear nothing of him," said Vincent, with a little bitterness.
"He was not to be heard of at his address."
"Where was that?" asked Lady Western again, with the same intent and
anxious gaze.
Vincent, who was sinking down, down in hopeless circles of jealousy,
miserable fierce rage and disappointment, answered, "10 Nameless Street,
Piccadilly," without an unnecessary word.
Lady Western uttered a little cry of excitement and wonder. She knew
nothing of the black abyss into which her companion had fallen any more
than she knew the splendid heights to which her favour had raised him;
but the sound of her own voice recalled her to herself. She turned away
from Vincent and pulled the bell which was within her reach--pulled it
once and again with a nervous twitch, and entangled her bracelet in the
bell-pull, so that she had to bend over to unfasten it. Vincent sat
gloomily by and looked on, without offering any assistance. He knew it
was to hide her troubled face and gain a moment to compose herself; but
he was scarcely prepared for her total avoidance of the subject when she
next spoke.
"They are always so late of giving us tea," she said, rising from her
chair, and going up to Miss Wodehouse: "I can see you have finished your
pattern; let me see how it looks. That is pretty; but I think it is too
elaborate. How many things has Mary done for this bazaar, Mr.
Wentworth?--and do tell us when is it to be?"
What did Vincent care for the answer? He sat disenchanted in that same
place which had been his bower of bliss all the evening, watching her as
she moved about the room; her beautiful figure went and came with a
certain restlessness, surely not usual to her, from one corner to
another. She brought Miss Wodehouse something to look at from the
work-table, and fetched some music for Lucy from a window. She had the
tea placed in a remote corner, and made it there; and insisted on
bringing it to the Miss Wodehouses with her own hands. She was
disturbed; her sweet composure was gone. Vincent sat and watched her
under the shade of his hands, with feelings as miserable as ever moved
man. It was not sorrow for having disturbed her;--feelings much more
personal, mortification and disappointment, and, above all, jealousy,
raged in his heart. Warmer and stronger than ever was his interest in
Mr. Fordham now.
After a miserable interval, he rose to take his leave. When he came up
to her, Lady Western's kind heart once more awoke in his behalf. She
drew him aside after a momentary struggle with herself.
"I know that gentleman," she said, quickly, with a momentary flush of
colour, and shortening of breath; "at least I knew him once; and the
address you mention is my brother's address. If you will tell me what
you want to know, I will ask for you. My brother and he used not to be
friends, but I suppose----. What did you want to know?"
"Only," said Vincent, with involuntary bitterness, "if he was a man of
honour, and could be trusted; nothing else."
The young Dowager paused and sighed; her beautiful eyes softened with
tears. "Oh, yes--yes; with life--to death!" she said, with a low
accompaniment of sighing, and a wistful melancholy smile upon her lovely
face.
Vincent hastened out of the house. He ventured to say nothing to himself
as he went up Grange Lane in the starless night, with all the silence
and swiftness of passion. He dared not trust himself to think. His very
heart, the physical organ itself, seemed throbbing and bursting with
conscious pain. Had she loved this mysterious stranger whose
undecipherable shadow hung over the minister's path? To Vincent's fancy,
nothing else could account for her agitation; and was he so true, and to
be trusted? Poor gentle Susan, whom such a fate and doom was approaching
as might have softened her brother's heart, had but little place in his
thoughts. He was not glad of that favourable verdict. He was overpowered
with jealous rage and passion. Alas for his dreams! Once more, what
downfall and over-throw had come of it! once more he had come down to
his own position, and the second awakening was harder than the first.
When he got home, and found his mother, affectionately proud, waiting to
hear all about the great lady he had been visiting, it is impossible to
express in words the intolerable impatience and disgust with himself and
his fate which overpowered the young man. He had a bad headache, Mrs.
Vincent said, she was sure, and he did not contradict her. It was an
unspeakable relief to him when she went to her own room, and delivered
him from the tender scrutiny of her eyes--those eyes full of nothing but
love, which, in the irritation of his spirit, drove him desperate. He
did not tell her about the unexpected discovery he had made. The very
name of Fordham would have choked him that night.