VINCENT put out his hand to seize upon the strange woman who confronted
him with a calmness much more confounding than any agitation. But her
quick eye divined his purpose. She made the slightest movement aside,
extended her own, and had shaken hands with him in his utter surprise
before he knew what he was doing. The touch bewildered his faculties,
but did not move him from the impulse, which was too real to yield to
anything. He took the door from her hand, closed it, placed himself
against it. "You are my prisoner," said Vincent. He could not say any
more, but gazed at her with blank eyes of determination. He was no
longer accessible to reason, pity, any sentiment but one. He had secured
her. He forgot even to be amazed at her composure. She was his
prisoner--that one fact was all he cared to know.
"I have been your prisoner the entire morning," said Mrs. Hilyard, with
an attempt at her old manner, which scarcely could have deceived the
minister had he preserved his wits sufficiently to notice it, but at the
same time betraying a little surprise, recognising instinctively that
here she had come face to face with those blind forces of nature upon
which no arguments can tell. "You were in much less doubt about your
power of saving souls the last time I heard you, Mr. Vincent. Sit down,
please. It is not long since we met, but many things have happened. It
is kind of you to give me so early an opportunity of talking them over.
I am sorry to see you look excited--but after such exertions, it is
natural, I suppose----"
"You are my prisoner," repeated Vincent, without taking any notice of
what she said. He was no match for her in any passage of arms. Her words
fell upon his ears without any meaning. Only a dull determination
possessed him. He locked the door, while she, somewhat startled in her
turn, stood looking on; then he went to the window, threw it open, and
called to some one below--any one--he did not care who. "Fetch a
policeman--quick--lose no time!" cried Vincent. Then he closed the
window, turned round, and confronted her again. At last a little
agitation was visible in this invulnerable woman. For an instant her
head moved with a spasmodic thrill, and her countenance changed. She
gave a rapid glance round as if to see whether any outlet was left.
Vincent's eye followed hers.
"You cannot escape--you shall not escape," he said, slowly; "don't think
it--nothing you can do or say will help you now."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Hilyard, with a startled, panting breath. "You have come
to the inexorable," she said, after a moment; "most men do, one time or
another. You decline meeting us on our ground, and take to your own.
Very well," she continued, seating herself by the table where she had
already laid down one of the Salem hymn-books; "till this arrival
happens, we may have a little conversation, Mr. Vincent. I was about to
tell you something which ought to be good news. Though you don't
appreciate my regard for you, I will tell it you all the same. What
noise is that? Oh, the boys, I suppose, rushing off for your policeman.
I hope you know what you are going to say to that functionary when he
comes. In the mean time, wait a little--you must hear my news."
The only answer Vincent made was to look out again from the window,
under which a little group of gazers had already collected. His
companion heard the sounds below with a thrill of alarm more real than
she had ever felt before. She sat rigidly, with her hand upon the
hymn-book, preserving her composure by a wonderful effort, intensely
alive and awake to everything, and calculating her chances with a
certain desperation. This one thing alone of all that had happened, the
Back Grove Street needlewoman, confident in her own powers and
influence, had not foreseen.
"Listen!" she cried, with an excitement and haste which she could not
quite conceal. "That man is not dead, you know. Come here--shut the
window! Young man, do you hear what I say to you? Am I likely to indulge
in vain talk now? Come here--here! and understand what I have to say."
"It does not matter," said Vincent, closing the window. "What you say
can make no difference. There is but one thing possible now."
"Yes, you are a man!" cried the desperate woman, clasping her hands
tight, and struggling with herself to keep down all appearance of her
anxiety. "You are deaf, blind! You have turned your back upon reason.
That is what it always comes to. Hush! come here--closer; they make so
much noise in the street. I believe," she said, with a dreadful smile,
"you are afraid of me. You think I will stab you, or something. Don't
entertain such vulgar imaginations, Mr. Vincent. I have told you before,
you have fine manners, though you are only a Dissenting minister. I have
something to tell you--something you will be glad to know----"
Here she made another pause for breath--merely for breath--not for any
answer, for there was no answer in her companion's face. He was
listening for the footsteps in the street--the steps of his returning
messengers. And so was she, as she drew in that long breath, expanding
her forlorn bosom with air, which the quick throbs of her heart so soon
exhausted. She looked in his eyes with an eager fire in her own,
steadily, without once shifting her gaze. The two had changed places. It
was he, in his inexorableness, close shut up against any appeal or
argument, that was the superior now.
"When you hear what I have to say, you will not be so calm," she went
on, with another involuntary heave of her breast. "Listen! your sister
is safe. Yes, you may start, but what I say is true. Don't go to the
window yet. Stop, hear me! I tell you your sister is safe. Yes, it may
be the people you have sent for. Never mind, this is more important. You
have locked the door, and nobody can come in. I tell you again and
again, your sister is safe. That man is not dead--you know he is not
dead. And yesterday--hush! never mind!--yesterday," she said, rising up
as Vincent moved, and detaining him with her hand upon his arm, which
she clutched with desperate fingers, "he made a declaration that it was
not she; a declaration before the magistrates," continued Mrs. Hilyard,
gasping as her strength failed her, and following him, holding his arm
as he moved to the window, "that it was not she--not she! do you
understand me--not she! He swore to it. He said it was another, and not
that girl. Do you hear me?" she cried, raising her voice, and shaking
his arm wildly in the despair of the moment, but repeating her words
with the clearness of desperation--"He said on his oath it was not she."
She had followed him to the window, not pleading for herself by a single
word, but with her desperate hand upon his arm, her face pinched and
pale to the lips, and a horrible anxiety gleaming in the eyes which she
never removed from his face. The two stood together there for a moment
in that silent encounter; he looking down at the group of people below,
she watching his face with her eyes, clutching his arm with her hand,
appealing to him with a speechless suspense and terror, which no words
can describe. Her fate hung upon the merest thread, and she knew it. She
had no more power to move him in her own person than any one of the
ragged children who stood gazing up at the window. There he stood,
silent, blank, immovable; and she, suffering no expression of her
dreadful suspense to escape her, stood clutching his arm, seeing, as
she had never seen before, a pale vision of prisons, scaffolds,
judgments, obscuring earth and heaven. She was brave, and had dared them
all wittingly in the crisis of her fate, but the reality caught the
labouring breath from her lips, and turned her heart sick. This morning
she had woke with a great burden taken off her mind, and, daring as she
was, had faced the only man who had any clue to her secret, confident in
his generous nature and her own power over him. But this confidence had
failed her utterly, and in the very ease and relief of her mind--a
relief more blessed and grateful than she could have acknowledged to any
mortal--lo! here arose before her close and real the spectre which she
had defied. It approached step by step, while she gazed with wild eyes
and panting breath upon the inexorable man who had it in his power to
deliver her over to law and justice. She dared not say a word of
entreaty to him; she could only watch his eyes, those eyes which never
lighted upon her, with speechless dread and anxiety. Many evils she had
borne in her life--many she had confronted and overcome--obstinate will
and unscrupulous resolution had carried her one way or other through all
former dangers. Here for the first time she stood helpless, watching
with an indescribable agony the face of the young man at whom she had so
often smiled. Some sudden unforeseen touch might still set her free. Her
breath came quick in short gasps--her breast heaved--her fate was
absolutely beyond her own control, in Vincent's hands.
Just then there came into the narrow street a sound of carriage-wheels.
Instinctively Vincent started. The blank of his determination was broken
by this distant noise. Somehow it came naturally into the silence of
this room and woke up the echoes of the past in his mind; the past--that
past in which Lady Western's carriage was the celestial chariot, and she
the divinest lady of life. Like a gleam of light there suddenly dawned
around him a remembrance of the times he had seen her here--the times he
had seen her anywhere; the last time--the sweet hand she had laid upon
his arm. Vincent's heart awoke under that touch. With a start he looked
down upon the hand which was at this moment on his arm,--not the hand of
love,--fingers with the blood pressed down to the very tips, holding
with desperation that arm which had the power of life and death. A
hurried exclamation came from his lips; he looked at the woman by him,
and read vaguely in her face all the passion and agony there. Vaguely it
occurred to him that to save or to sacrifice her was in his hands, and
that he had but a moment now to decide. The carriage-wheels came nearer,
nearer, ringing delicious promises in his ears--nearer too came the
servants of that justice he had invoked; and what plea was it, what
strange propitiation, which his companion had put forth to him to stay
his avenging hand? Only a moment now; he shook her hand off his arm, and
in his turn took hold of hers; he held her fast while she faced him in
an agony of restrained suspense and terror. How her worn bosom panted
with that quick coming breath! Her life was in his hands.
"What was that you said?" asked Vincent, with the haste and brevity of
passion, suddenly perceiving how much had to be done in this moment of
fate.
The long-restrained words burst from his companion's lips almost before
he had done speaking. "I said your sister was safe!" she cried; "I said
he had declared her innocent on his oath. It was not she--he has sworn
it, all a man could do. To sacrifice another," she went on breathlessly
with a strong momentary shudder, pausing to listen, "will do nothing for
her--nothing! You hear what I say. It was not she; he has sworn upon his
solemn oath. Do as you will. She is safe--safe!--as safe as--as-- God
help me--as safe as my child,--and it was for her sake----"
She stopped--words would serve her no further--and just then there came
a summons to the locked door. Vincent dropped her arm, and she recoiled
from him with an involuntary movement; unawares she clasped her thin
hands and gave one wild look into his face. Not even now could she tell
what he was going to do, this dreadful arbiter of fate. The key, as he
turned it in the door, rang in her ears like thunder; and his hand
trembled as he set open the entrance of the needlewoman's mean
apartment. On the threshold stood no vulgar messenger of fate, but a
bright vision, sad, yet sweeter than anything else in earth or almost in
heaven to Vincent. He fell back without saying anything before the
startled look of that beautiful face. He let in, not law and justice,
but love and pity, to this miserable room.
"Oh, Rachel! where have you been? have you seen him? have you heard of
him? where have you been?" cried the visitor, going up to the pallid
woman, whose eyes were still fixed on Vincent. Mrs. Hilyard could not
speak. She dropped upon her knees by the table, shivering and crouching
like a stricken creature. She leaned her head upon the hymn-book which
lay there so strangely at variance with everything else around it. Pale
with fright and horror, Lady Western appealed to Vincent. "She is ill,
she is fainting--oh, Mr. Vincent, what have you been saying to her? She
was not to blame," cried the new-comer, in her ignorance. Vincent
attempted no reply, offered no help. In his heart he could have snatched
away those beautiful hands which embraced and comforted his "prisoner,"
thus rescued out of his grasp. It was hard to see her touch that guilty
conscious woman whom his own heart refused to pity. He stood by looking
on, watching her still; the instinct of vengeance had been awakened
within him. He was reluctant to let her go.
"You have been saying something to her," said Lady Western, with tears
in her eyes; "and how could she be to blame? Rachel! Oh, I wonder, I
wonder if she loved him after all?" cried the beautiful creature, in the
bewilderment of her innocence and ignorance. She stood bending over the
kneeling figure, troubled, perplexed almost more than her strange
sister-in-law had ever yet perplexed her. She could not account for this
extraordinary access of agitation. It was nohow explainable, except
upon that supposition which opened at once the warmest sympathies of the
gentle young woman's heart.
"Rachel, dear!" she cried, kissing softly the thin hands worn with toil
that covered Mrs. Hilyard's face--"he is still living, there is hope;
perhaps he will get better; and he is showing a better mind too," she
added, after a little tremulous pause. "I came to see if you had come
home to tell you; he has sworn that it was not--oh, Mr. Vincent, I sent
you word immediately when I got the message--he says it was not your
sister; she had nothing to do with it, he says. Now I can look you in
the face again. The first thing he was able to do when he came to
himself was to clear her; and now she will get better--and your dear
mother?"--said Lady Western, looking wistfully into the young man's
face. In that moment, while her attention was directed otherwise, Mrs.
Hilyard rose up and took her seat again; took her seat because she was
not able to stand, and scarcely able, by all the power of her will, to
compose the nerves which, for the first time in her life, had utterly
got the better of her. She wiped off the heavy moisture from her face
with a furtive hand before the young Dowager turned her eyes again that
way. She grasped fast hold of the only thing on the table, the Salem
hymn-book, and with a vast effort regained some degree of self-command.
For that precious moment she was free from observation, for nothing in
the world could have prevented Vincent from returning with his own
fascinated eyes the look which Lady Western turned upon him. While the
two looked at each other, she was safe; she collected her scattered
forces in that invaluable instant. She was herself again when Lady
Western looked round, somewhat nervous and embarrassed, from the gaze of
passion with which her look of deprecation and sympathy had been met. If
a slight shiver now and then thrilled over Mrs. Hilyard's figure, it was
as like to be cold as emotion. Otherwise, she sat with her arm resting
on the table and her hand clenched upon the hymn-book, her thin lips
clinging spasmodically to each other, and her face pallid, but to an
uncritical observer scarcely changed from the grey and vigilant
composure of her usual appearance. So many storms had passed over that
countenance, that the momentary agony of horror and fright from which
she had scarcely yet emerged did not tell as it would have done on a
face less worn. Her voice was sharp and strained when she spoke, and she
watched Vincent's eye with a keenness of which he was vividly conscious;
but Lady Western, who did not go deep into looks and meanings, found
nothing very unusual in what she said.
"I think Mr. Vincent was doubtful of my information," she said. "I heard
it last night from Langridge, the groom, who once belonged to my family,
you know, Alice; and--and lets me know if anything more than usual
happens," she said, abruptly stopping to draw breath. "I travelled all
night to get here to-day. Mr. Vincent was doubtful of me. Now this
matter is cleared up, I daresay he will understand me when I say that I
never could have allowed things to go further. I am only a
needle-woman, and live in Back Grove Street," continued Mrs. Hilyard,
recovering gradually as she spoke; "but I have certain things still in
my power. Mr. Vincent will understand what I mean," she went on, fixing
her eyes upon him, and unable to repress an occasional gasp which
interrupted her words, "when I say that I should not have suffered it to
go further. I should not have shrunk from any sacrifice. My dear, I have
been a little shaken and agitated, as you perceive. Mr. Vincent wants to
keep his eye upon me. Take me with you, Alice," said the bold woman,
once more looking Vincent full in the face; "take charge of me, keep me
prisoner until all this is cleared up. I am about tired of living a
disguised princess. Send up your people for my possessions here, and
take me with you. You will find me safe, Mr. Vincent, when you happen to
want me, with Lady Western in Grange Lane."
"Oh, Rachel, I am so glad!" cried Lady Western; "I cannot for my life
imagine what you mean by keeping you my prisoner, and all that; but Mr.
Vincent may be very sure you will be safe with me;--since he has so much
interest in your movements," continued the young Dowager, turning her
perplexed eyes from one to the other. She had not the remotest idea what
it all meant. She was perhaps a little surprised to perceive that, after
all, Vincent's interest was less with herself than with this strange
woman, whose calmness and agitation were equally confusing and
unintelligible. "We shall, of course, always be happy to see Mr. Vincent
in Grange Lane," she concluded, with a somewhat stately courtesy. He
did not look at her; he was looking at the other, whose eyes were fixed
upon his face. Between these eyes Lady Western, much amazed, could
perceive a secret communication passing. What could it mean? The
consciousness of this mystery between them which she did not know,
annoyed her, notwithstanding her sweet temper. She withdrew her hand
instinctively from Mrs. Hilyard's, which she had taken in momentary
enthusiasm, and watched their looks of intelligence with half-offended
eyes.
"Yes," said the needlewoman, speaking with her eyes fixed upon Vincent,
though she did not address him, and making a desperate effort after her
usual manner; "I do not think Back Grove Street will do any longer. One
may as well take advantage of the accident which has brought our family
affairs before the world to come alive again. It is a thing one must do
sooner or later. So, if your carriage is close, Alice, I will go home
with you. I shall miss Salem," said the audacious woman, "though you are
so much less sure about doing good than you used to be, Mr. Vincent. If
my soul happens to be saved, however," she continued, with a strange
softening of her fixed and gleaming eyes--"if that is of much
importance, or has any merit in it--you will have had some share in the
achievement. You will?" She said the words with a keen sharpness of
interrogation, much unlike their more obvious meaning. "You will," she
repeated again, more softly--"you will!" Her thin hands came together
for a moment in a clasp of mute supplication; her eyes, always hitherto
looking down upon him from heights of dark knowledge and experience,
looked up in his face with an anguish of entreaty which startled
Vincent. Just at that moment the sounds in the street grew louder, and a
voice of authority was audible ordering some one to clear the way. Mrs.
Hilyard did not speak, but she put out her hand and touched Lady
Western's shawl, lifting its long fringes, and twisting them round those
fingers on which the marks of her long labour were still visible. She
withdrew as she did this her eyes from his face. Her fate was absolutely
in his hands.
"Ladies," said Vincent, hoarsely, after vainly trying to clear his
agitated voice, "it is better you should leave this place at once. I
will see you to your carriage. If I do wrong, the consequences will fall
hardest on me. Don't say anything; either way, talking will do little
good. You are her shield and defence," he said, looking at Lady Western,
with an excitement which he could not quite keep under. "When she
touches you, she becomes sacred. You will keep her safe--safe? you will
not let her go?"
"Yes; I will keep her safe," said the beauty, opening her lovely
astonished eyes. "Is she in danger? Oh, Mr. Vincent, your trouble has
been too much for you! remember your sister is safe now."
"Is she?" said the minister; he was bitter in his heart, even though
that hand was once more laid on his arm, "Safe!--with a broken heart and
a ruined life; but what does that matter? It is all we are good for;
though we may go mad and die."
"Oh, not you! not you!" said Lady Western, gazing at him with the
tenderest pity in her sweet eyes. "You must not say so; I should be so
unhappy." Her beautiful hand pressed his arm with the lightest momentary
pressure. She could not help herself; to see suffering and not to do
what was in her to soothe it was not possible to her soft heart.
Whatever harm that temporary opiate might do, nothing in the world could
have prevented her gentle kindness from administering it. She went down
the humble stairs leaning on his arm, with Mrs. Hilyard following close.
The young man put aside the little crowd he himself had collected, and
put them in the carriage. He saw them drive away with a kind of
despairing exaltation and excitement, and turned to the difficulties
which remained to him--to explain himself and send the tardy ministers
of justice away. He explained, as he best could, that he had been
mistaken, and once more emptied his scanty purse, where there was now
little enough left. When he had got rid of the disappointed group about
the door, he went home slowly in the reaction of his violence and haste.
Susan was safe; was she safe? delivered from this dreadful
accusation--allowed to drop back at least with her broken heart into the
deep silences of privacy and uninvadable domestic life. Well, it was a
mercy, a great mercy, though he could not realise it. He went home
slowly, tingling with the strain of these strange hours; was it Sunday
still? was it only an hour ago that Salem had thrilled to the discourse
in which his passion and despair had found vent? Vincent neither
comprehended himself nor the hours, full of strange fate, which were
gliding over him. He went home exhausted, as if with a great conflict;
conscious of some relief in his heart, but half unwilling to confess to
it, or to realise the means by which it had dawned upon him.