THUS while Mrs. Vincent sat in Susan's sick-room, with her mind full of
troubled thoughts, painfully following her son into an imaginary and
unequal conflict with the wife of the rebellious deacon; and while the
Salem congregation in general occupied itself with conjectures how this
internal division could be healed, and what the pastor would do, the
pastor himself was doing the very last thing he ought to have done in
the circumstances--lingering down Grange Lane in the broad daylight with
intent to pass Lady Western's door--that door from which he had himself
emerged a very few minutes before. Why did he turn back and loiter again
along that unprofitable way? He did not venture to ask himself the
question; he only did it in an utterly unreasonable access of jealousy
and rage. If he had been Lady Western's accepted lover instead of the
hopeless worshipper afar off of that bright unattainable creature, he
could still have had no possible right to forbid the entrance of Mr.
Fordham at that garden gate. He went back with a mad, unreasoning
impulse, only excusable in consideration of the excited state of mind
into which so many past events had concurred to throw him. But the door
opened again as he passed it. Instinctively Vincent stood still,
without knowing why. It was not Mr. Fordham who came out. It was a
stealthy figure, which made a tremulous pause at sight of him, and,
uttering a cry of dismay, fixed eyes which still gleamed, but had lost
all their steadiness, upon his face. Vincent felt that he would not have
recognised her anywhere but at this door. Her thin lips, which had once
closed so firmly, and expressed with such distinctness the flying shades
of amusement and ridicule, hung apart loosely, with a perpetual quiver
of hidden emotion. Her face, always dark and colourless, yet bearing
such an unmistakable tone of vigour and strength, was haggard and
ghastly; her once assured and steady step furtive and trembling. She
gave him an appalled look, and uttered a little cry. She shivered as she
looked at him, making desperate vain efforts to recover her composure
and conceal the agitation into which his sudden appearance had thrown
her. But nature at last had triumphed over this woman who had defied her
so long. She had not strength left to accomplish the cheat. "You!" she
cried, with a shrill tone of terror and confusion in her voice, "I did
not look for you!" It was all her quivering lips would say.
The sight of her had roused Vincent. "You were going to escape," he
said. "Do you forget your word? Must I tell her everything, or must I
place you in surer custody? You have broken your word."
"My word! I did not give you my word," she cried, eagerly. "No. I--I
never said--: and," after a pause, "if I had said it, how do you imagine
I was going to escape? Escape! from what? That is the worst--one cannot
escape," said the miserable woman, speaking as if by an uncontrollable
impulse, "never more; especially if one keeps quiet in one place and has
nothing to do," she continued after a pause, recovering herself by
strange gleams now and then for a moment; "that is why I came out, to
escape, as you say, for half an hour, Mr. Vincent. Besides, I don't have
news enough--not nearly enough. How do you think I can keep still when
nobody sends me any news? How long is it since I saw you last? And I
have heard nothing since then--not a syllable! and you expect me to sit
still, because I have given my word? Besides," after another breathless
pause, and another gleam of self-recovery, "the laws of honour don't
extend to women. We are weak, and we are allowed to lie."
"You are speaking wildly," said Vincent, with some compassion and some
horror, putting his hand on her arm to guide her back to the house. Mrs.
Hilyard gave a slight convulsive start, drew away from his touch, and
gazed upon him with an agony of fright and terror in her eyes.
"We agreed that I was to stay with Alice," she said. "You forget I am
staying with Alice: she--she keeps me safe, you know. Ah! people change
so; I am sometimes--half afraid--of Alice, Mr. Vincent. My child is like
her--my child--she did not know me!" cried the wretched woman, with a
sob that came out of the depths of her heart; "after all that happened,
she did not know me! To be sure, that was quite natural," she went on
again, once more recovering her balance for an instant, "she could not
know me! and I am not beautiful, like Lady Western, to please a child's
eye. Beauty is good--very good. I was once pretty myself; any man would
have forgiven me as you did when Alice came with her lovely face; but I
daresay your mother would not have minded had it been she. Ah, that
reminds me," said Mrs. Hilyard, gradually acquiring a little more
steadiness, "that was why I came out: to go to your mother--to ask if
perhaps she had heard anything--from my child."
"This is madness," said Vincent; "you know my mother could not possibly
hear about your child; you want to escape-- I can see it in your eyes."
"If you will tell me what kind of things people can escape from, I will
answer you," said his strange companion, still becoming more composed.
"Hush! I said what was true. The governess, you know, had your address.
Is it very long since yesterday when I got that news from Dover? Never
mind. I daresay I am asking wild questions that cannot have any answer.
Do you remember being here with me once before? Do you remember looking
through the grating and seeing----? Ah, there is Mr. Fordham now with
Alice! Poor young man!" said Mrs. Hilyard, turning once more to look at
him, still vigilant and anxious, but with a softened glance. "Poor
minister! I told you not to fall in love with her lovely face. I told
you she was kind, too kind--she does not mean any harm. I warned you.
Who could have thought then that we should have so much to do with each
other?" she resumed, shrinking from him, and trying to conceal how she
shrank with another convulsive shiver; "but you were going to visit
your people or something. I must not keep you, Mr. Vincent; you must go
away."
"Not till you have returned to the house; and given me your word of
honour," said Vincent, "not to escape, or to attempt to escape; or else
I must tell her everything, or give you up into stronger hands. I will
not leave you here."
"My word! but women are not bound by their honour; our honour means--not
our word," cried Mrs. Hilyard, wildly; "my parole, he means; soldiers,
and heroes, and men of honour give their parole; you don't exact it from
women. Words are not kept to us, Mr. Vincent; do you expect us to keep
them? Yes, yes; I know I am talking wildly. Is it strange, do you think?
But what if I give you my word, and nobody sends me any further
news--nothing about my child? Women are only wild animals when their
children are taken from them. I will forget it, and go away for
news--news! That is what I want. Escape!" she repeated, with a miserable
cry; "who can escape? I do not understand what it means."
"But you must not leave this house," said Vincent, firmly. "You
understand what I mean. You must not leave Lady Western. Go with her
where she pleases; but unless you promise on your honour to remain here,
and with her, I shall be obliged----"
"Hush!" she said, trembling--"hush! My honour!--and you still trust in
it? I will promise," she continued, turning and looking anxiously round
into the dull winter daylight, as if calculating what chance she had of
rushing away and eluding him. Then her eyes returned to the face of the
young man, who stood firm and watchful beside her--agitated, yet so
much stronger, calmer, even more resolute than she; then shrinking back,
and keeping her eyes, with a kind of fascinated gaze, upon his face, she
repeated the words slowly, "I promise--upon my honour. I will not go
away--escape, as you call it. If I should go mad, that will not matter.
Yes, ring the bell for me. You are the stronger now. I will obey you and
go back. You have taken a woman's parole, Mr. Vincent," she went on,
with a strange spasmodic shadow of that old movement of her mouth; "it
will be curious to note if she can keep it. Good-bye--good-bye." She
spoke with a trembling desperation of calmness, mastering herself with
all her power. She did not remove her eyes from his face till the door
had been opened. "I promise, on my honour," she repeated, with again a
gleam of terror, as Vincent stood watching. Then the door closed,
shutting in that tragic, wretched figure. She was gone back to her
prison, with her misery, from which she could not escape. In that same
garden, Vincent, with the sharp eyes of love and despair, even while
watching her, had caught afar off a vision of two figures together,
walking slowly, one leaning on the other, with the lingering steps of
happiness. The sight went to his heart with a dull pang of certainty,
which crushed down in a moment the useless effervescence of his former
mood. His prisoner and he parted, going in and out, one scarcely less
miserable at that moment than the other. In full sight of them both
lingered for the same moment these two in the tenderest blessedness of
life. Vincent turned sharp round, and went away the whole length of the
long road past St. Roque's, past the farthest village suburb of
Carlingford, stifling his heart that it should say nothing. He had
forgotten all about those duties which brought him there. Salem had
vanished from his horizon. He saw nothing in heaven or earth but that
miserable woman going back to her prison, interwoven with the vision of
these two in their garden of paradise. The sight possessed him heart and
spirit; he could not even feel that he felt it, his heart lying stifled
in his bosom. It was, and there was no more to say.