THE next day dawned amid the agitations natural to such a crisis of
affairs. Almost before it was daylight, before Susan had woke, or the
young stranger stirred upon her sofa, Miss Smith, troubled and
exemplary, had returned to see after her charge. Miss Smith was in a
state of much anxiety and discomfort till she had explained to Mrs.
Vincent all the strange circumstances in which she found herself; and
the widow, who had ventured to rise from Susan's side, and had been
noiselessly busy putting the room in order, that her child might see
nothing that was not cheerful and orderly when she woke, was not without
curiosity to hear, and gladly took this opportunity, before even Arthur
was stirring, to understand, if she could, the story which was so
connected with that of her children. She ventured to go into the next
room with Miss Smith, where she could hear every movement in the
sick-chamber. The widow found it hard to understand all the tale. That
Mrs. Hilyard was Mildmay's wife, and that it was their child who had
sought protection of all the world from Susan Vincent, whom the crimes
of her father and mother had driven to the very verge of the grave, was
so hard and difficult to comprehend, that all the governess's anxious
details of how little Alice first came into her hands, of her mother's
motives for concealing her from Colonel Mildmay, even of the ill-fated
flight to Lonsdale, which, instead of keeping her safe, had carried the
child into her father's very presence--and all the subsequent events
which Miss Smith had already confided to the minister, fell but dully
upon the ears of Susan's mother. "Her daughter--and his daughter--and
she comes to take refuge with my child," said the widow, with a swelling
heart. Mrs. Vincent did not know what secret it was that lay heavy on
the soul of the desperate woman who had followed her last night from
Grove Street, but somehow, with a female instinct, felt, though she did
not understand, that Mrs. Hilyard or Mrs. Mildmay, whatever her name
might be, was as guilty in respect to Susan as was her guilty
husband--the man who had stolen like a serpent into the Lonsdale cottage
and won the poor girl's simple heart. Full of curiosity as she was, the
widow's thoughts wandered off from Miss Smith's narrative; her heart
swelled within her with an innocent triumph; the good had overcome the
evil. This child, over whom its father and mother had fought with so
deadly a struggle, had flown for protection to Susan, whom that father
and mother had done their utmost to ruin and destroy. They had not
succeeded, thank God! Through the desert and the lions the widow's Una
had come victorious, stretching her tender virgin shield over this poor
child of passion and sorrow. While Miss Smith maundered through the
entire history, starting from the time when Miss Russell married Colonel
Mildmay, the widow's mind was entirely occupied with this wonderful
victory of innocence over wickedness. She forgot the passionate despair
of the mother whose child did not recognise her. She began immediately
to contrive, with unguarded generosity, how Susan and she, when they
left Carlingford, should carry the stranger along with them, and nurse
her clouded mind into full development. Mrs. Vincent's trials had not
yet taught her any practical lessons of worldly wisdom. Her heart was
still as open as when, unthinking of evil, she admitted the false Mr.
Fordham into her cottage, and made a beginning of all the misery which
seemed now, to her sanguine heart, to be passing away. She went back to
Susan's room full of this plan--full of tender thoughts towards the girl
who had chosen Susan for her protector, and of pride and joy still more
tender in her own child, who had overcome evil. It was, perhaps, the
sweetest solace which could have been offered, after all her troubles,
to the minister's mother. It was at once a vindication of the hard
"dealings" of Providence, and of that strength of innocence and purity,
in which the little woman believed with all her heart.
The minister himself was much less agreeably moved when he found the
governess in possession of his sitting-room. Anything more utterly
vexatious could hardly have occurred to Vincent than to find this
troubled good woman, herself much embarrassed and disturbed by her own
position, seated at his breakfast-table on this eventful morning. Miss
Smith was as primly uncomfortable as it was natural for an elderly
single woman, still conscious of the fact that she was unmarried, to be,
in an absolute tête-à-tête with a young man. She, poor lady, was as near
blushing as her grey and composed non-complexion would permit. She moved
uneasily in her seat, and made tremulous explanations, as Vincent, who
was too young and inexperienced to be absolutely uncourteous, took his
place opposite to her. "I am sure I feel quite an intruder," said poor
Miss Smith; "but your mother, Mr. Vincent, and little Alice--and indeed
I did not know I was to be left here alone. It must seem so odd to you
to find a lady--dear, dear me! I feel I am quite in the way," said the
embarrassed governess; "but Mrs. Mildmay will be here presently. I know
she will be here directly. I am sure she would have come with me had she
known. But she sat up half the night hearing what I had to tell her, and
dropped asleep just in the morning. She is wonderfully changed, Mr.
Vincent--very, very much changed. She is so nervous--a thing I never
could have looked for. I suppose, after all, married ladies, however
much they may object to their husbands, can't help feeling a little when
anything happens," continued Miss Smith, primly; "and there is something
so dreadful in such an accident. How do you think it can have happened?
Could it be his groom, or who could it be? but I understand he is
getting better now?"
"Yes, I believe so," said Vincent.
"I am so glad," said Miss Smith, "not that if it had been the will of
Providence.--I would make the tea for you, Mr. Vincent, if you would not
think it odd, and I am sure Mrs. Mildmay will be here directly. They
were in a great commotion at Grange Lane. Just now, you know, there is
an excitement. Though she is not a young girl, to be sure it is always
natural. But for that I am sure they would all have come this morning;
but perhaps Mr. Fordham----"
"Not any tea, thank you. If you have breakfasted, I will have the things
removed. I have only one sitting-room, you perceive," said the minister,
rather bitterly. He could not be positively uncivil--his heart was too
young and fresh to be rude to any woman; but he rang the bell with a
little unnecessary sharpness when Miss Smith protested that she had
breakfasted long before. Her words excited him with a touch beyond
telling. He could not, would not ask what was the cause of the commotion
in Grange Lane; but he walked to the window to collect himself while the
little maid cleared the table, and, throwing it open, looked out with
the heart beating loud in his breast. Were these the bells of St.
Roque's chiming into the ruddy sunny air with a confused jangle of joy?
It was a saint's day, no doubt--a festival which the perpetual curate
took delight in proclaiming his observance of; or--if it might happen to
be anything else, what was that to the minister of Salem, who had so
many other things on his mind? As he looked out a cab drove rapidly up
to the door--a cab from which he saw emerge Mrs. Hilyard and another
figure, which he recognised with a start of resentment. What possible
right had this man to intrude upon him in this moment of fate? The
minister left the window hastily, and stationed himself with a gloomy
countenance on the hearthrug. He might be impatient of the women; but
Fordham, inexcusable as his intrusion was, had to be met face to face.
With a flash of sudden recollection, he recalled all his previous
intercourse with the stranger whose name was so bitterly inter-woven
with the history of the last six months. What had he ever done to wake
so sharp a pang of dislike and injury in Vincent's mind? It was not for
Susan's sake that her brother's heart closed and his countenance clouded
against the man whose name had wrought her so much sorrow. Vincent had
arrived at such a climax of personal existence that Susan had but a dim
and secondary place in his thoughts. He was absorbed in his own troubles
and plans and miseries. On the eve of striking out for himself into that
bitter and unknown life in which his inexperienced imagination rejected
the thought of any solace yet remaining, what malicious influence
brought this man here?
They came in together into the room, "Mrs. Mildmay and Mr. Fordham"--not
Mrs. Hilyard: that was over; and, preoccupied as the minister was, he
could not but perceive the sudden change which had come over the Back
Grove Street needlewoman. Perhaps her despair had lasted as long as was
possible for such an impatient spirit. She came in with the firm, steady
step which he had observed long ago, before she had begun to tremble at
his eye. Another new stage had commenced in her strange life. She went
up to him without any hesitation, clear and decisive as of old.
"I am going away," she said, holding out her hand to him, "and so I
presume are you, Mr. Vincent. I have come to explain everything and see
your mother. Let me see your mother. Mr. Fordham has come with me to
explain to you. They think in Grange Lane that it is only a man who can
speak to a man," she went on, with the old movement of her thin lips;
"and that now I have come to life again, I must not manage my own
affairs. I am going back to society and the world, Mr. Vincent. I do not
know where you are going, but here is somebody come to answer for me. Do
they accept bail in a court of honour? or will you still hold a woman to
her parole? for it must be settled now."
"Why must it be settled now?" said Vincent. He had dropped her hand and
turned away from her with a certain repugnance. She had lost her power
over him. At that moment the idea of being cruel, tyrannical to
somebody--using his power harshly, balancing the pain in his own heart
by inflicting pain on another--was not unagreeable to the minister's
excited mind. He could have steeled himself just then to bring down upon
her all the horrible penalties of the law. "Why must it be settled?" he
repeated; "why must you leave Carlingford? I will not permit it." He
spoke to her, but he looked at Fordham. The stranger was wrapped in a
large overcoat which concealed all his dress. What was his dress, or
his aspect, or the restrained brightness in his eyes to the minister of
Salem? But Vincent watched him narrowly with a jealous inspection. In
Fordham's whole appearance there was the air of a man to whom something
was about to happen, which aggravated to the fever-point the dislike and
opposition in Vincent's heart.
"I will be answerable for Mrs. Mildmay," said Fordham, with an evident
response on his side to that opposition and dislike. Then he paused,
evidently perceiving the necessity of conciliation. "Mr. Vincent," he
continued, with some earnestness, "we all understand and regret deeply
the inconvenience-- I mean the suffering--that is to say, the injury and
misery which these late occurrences must have caused you. I know how
well--that is, how generously, how nobly--you have behaved----"
Here Mr. Fordham came to a pause in some confusion. To express calm
acknowledgments to a man for his conduct in a matter which has been to
him one of unmitigated disaster and calamity, requires an amount of
composure which few people possess when at the height of personal
happiness. The minister drew back, and, with a slight bow, and a
restraint which was very natural and not unbecoming in his
circumstances, looked on at the confusion of the speaker without any
attempt to relieve it. He had offered seats to his visitors, but he
himself stood on the hearthrug, dark and silent, giving no assistance in
the explanation. He had not invited the explanation--it must be managed
now as the others might, without any help from him.
"I have seen Colonel Mildmay," continued Mr. Fordham, after a confused
pause. "If it can be any atonement to you to know how much he regrets
all that has happened, so far as your family is concerned--how fully he
exonerates Miss Vincent, who was all along deceived, and who would not
have remained a moment with him had she not been forcibly detained.
Mildmay declares she met with nothing but respect at his hands,"
continued the embarrassed advocate, lowering his voice; "he says----"
"Enough has been said on the subject," said Vincent, restraining himself
with a violent effort.
"Yes--I beg your pardon, it is quite true--enough has been said," cried
Fordham, with an appearance of relief. Here, at least, was one part of
his difficult mediation over. "Mildmay will not," he resumed, after a
pause, "tell me or any one else who it was that gave him his wound--that
is a secret, he says, between him and his God--and another. Whoever that
other may be," continued Fordham, with a quick look towards Mrs.
Mildmay, "he is conscious of having wronged--him--and will take no steps
against--him. This culprit, it appears, must be permitted to escape--you
think so?--worse evils might be involved if we were to
demand--his--punishment. Mr. Vincent, I beg you to take this into
consideration. It could be no advantage to you; the innocent shall not
suffer--but--the criminal--must be permitted to escape."
"I do not see the necessity," said Vincent between his teeth.
"No, no," said Mrs. Mildmay, suddenly. "Escape! who believes in escape?
Mr. Vincent knows better. Hush, you are a happy man just now--you are
not qualified to judge; but we know better. Escape!--he means from
prisons, and such like," she continued, turning to Vincent with a
half-disdainful wave of her hand towards her companion. "But you know,
and so do I, that there is no escape--not in this world. I know nothing
about the next," said the strange woman, curbing once more the flush of
excitement which had overpowered her as she spoke--"nothing; neither do
you, though you are a priest. But there is enough of retribution here.
The criminal--Mr. Vincent--you know--will not escape."
She spoke these last words panting, with pauses between, for breath. She
was afraid of him again; his blankness, his passive opposition, drove
her out of her composure. She put her hands together under her shawl
with a certain dumb entreaty, and fixed upon him her eager eyes. They
were a strange group altogether. Miss Smith, who had still lingered at
the door, notwithstanding Mrs. Mildmay's imperative gesture of
dismissal--out of hearing, but not out of sight--suffered some little
sound to escape her at this critical moment; and when her patroness
turned round upon her with those dreadful eyes, fled with precipitation,
taking refuge in Mrs. Vincent's room. The table, still covered with its
white cloth, stood between that dismayed spectator before she
disappeared finally, and the little company who were engaged in this
silent conflict. Beside it sat Mrs. Mildmay, with a renewed panic of
fear rising in her face. Fordham, considerably disturbed, and not
knowing what to say, stood near her buttoning and unbuttoning his
overcoat with impatient fingers, anxious to help her, but still more
anxious to be gone. The minister stood facing them all, with compressed
lips, and eyes which looked at nobody. He was wrapt in a silent dumb
resistance to all entreaties and arguments, watching Fordham's gestures,
Fordham's looks, with a jealous but secret suspicion. His heart was
cruel in its bitterness. He for whom Providence had no joys in store, to
whom the light was fading which made life sweet, was for this moment
superior to the happy man who stood embarrassed and impatient before
him; and generous as his real nature was, it was not in him, in this
moment of darkness, to let the opportunity go.
"The innocent have suffered already," said Vincent, "all but madness,
all but death. Why should the criminal escape?--go back into society,
the society of good people, perhaps strike some one else more
effectually? Why should I betray justice, and let the criminal escape?
My sister's honour and safety are mine, and shall be guarded, whoever
suffers. I will not permit her to go."
"But I offer to be answerable for her appearance," said Fordham,
hastily. "I undertake to produce her if need be. You know me. I am a--a
relation of the family. I am a man sufficiently known to satisfy any
magistrate. You have no legal right to detain her. What would you have
more? Is not my guarantee enough for you?"
"No," said Vincent, slowly. The two men stood defiant opposite to each
other, contending for this woman, whom neither of them looked at, for
whom neither of them cared. She, in the mean time, sat still in an agony
of suspense and concealed anguish, with her eyes fixed on Vincent's
face. She knew very well it was not of her that either of the two was
thinking; yet it was her fate, perhaps her very life, which hung
trembling in the balance. A smothered sighing sob came from her breast.
She was silenced for the first time in her life. She had escaped her
crime; but all its material consequences, shame and punishment, still
hung over her head. After God himself had freed her from the guilt of
blood--after the injured man himself had forgiven her--when all was
clear for her escape into another life--was this an indignant angel,
with flaming sword and averted face, that barred the way of the
fugitive? Beyond him, virtue and goodness, and all the fruits of
repentance, shone before the eyes which had up to this time seen but
little attraction in them--all so sweet, so easy, so certain, if but she
were free. Her worn heart sighed to get forth into that way of peace.
She could have fallen on her knees before the stern judge who kept her
back, and held over her head the cloud of her own ill-doings, but dared
not, in her paroxysm of fear and half-despair. A groaning, sighing sob,
interrupted and broken, came from her exhausted breast. Just as she had
recovered herself--as she had escaped--as remorse and misery had driven
her to yearn after a better life, to be cast down again into this abyss
of guilt and punishment! She trembled violently as she clasped her poor
hands under her shawl. Composure and self-restraint were impossible in
this terrible suspense.
Her cry went to Fordham's heart; and, besides, he was in desperate
haste, and could afford to sink his pride, and make an appeal for once.
He made a step forward, and put out his hand with an entreating gesture.
"Do you hear her?" he cried, suddenly. "You have had much to bear
yourself; have pity on her. Let her off--leave her to God. She has been
ill, and will die if you have no mercy. You who are a minister----"
In his energy his overcoat fell back for a moment; underneath he was in
full dress, which showed strangely in that grey spring morning. Vincent
turned round upon him with a smile. The young man's face was utterly
pale, white to the lips. The bells were jangling joy in his ears. He was
not master of himself. "We detain you, Mr. Fordham; you have other
affairs in hand," he said. "I am a minister only--a Dissenting
minister--unworthy to have such an intercessor pleading with me; but
you, at least," cried poor Vincent, with an attempt at sarcasm, "do not
want my pity; there is nothing between us that requires explanation. I
will arrange with Mrs. Mildmay alone." He turned away and went to the
window when he had spoken. There he stood, with his back to them,
listening to the bells of St. Roque's, as they came and went in
irregular breaks upon the wind. His heart was bursting with wild throbs
of bitterness and despair; it was all he could do to keep the tumult
down, and contain himself in that flush of passion. He turned away from
them, and stood gazing out at that tedious window into the blank world.
What did it matter? Let her escape if she would--let things go as they
might; nothing was of any further importance--certainly on
earth--perhaps even in heaven.
"I will go away--I can do you no good--I should only lose my temper; and
time presses," said Mr. Fordham, with a flush of resentment on his face,
as he turned to the anxious woman behind him. What could he do? He could
not quarrel with this angry man in his own house on such a day. He could
not keep happier matters waiting. He would not risk the losing of his
temper and his time at this moment of all others. He went away with a
sensation of defeat, which for half an hour materially mitigated his
happiness. But he was happy, and the happy are indulgent judges both of
their own conduct and of others. As for the minister, he was roused
again when he saw his rival jump into the cab at the door, and drive off
alone down the street, which was lively with the early stir of day. The
sun had just broken through the morning clouds, and it was into a ruddy
perspective of light that the stranger disappeared as he went off
towards Grange Lane. Strange contrast of fate! While Fordham hastened
down into the sunshine to all the joy that awaited him there, Tozer, a
homely, matter-of-fact figure in the ruddy light, was crossing the
street towards the minister's door. Vincent went away from the window
again, with pangs of an impatience and intolerance of his own lot which
no strength of mind could subdue. All the gleams of impossible joy which
had lighted his path in Carlingford had now gone out, and left him in
darkness; and here came back, in undisturbed possession, all the meaner
circumstances of his individual destiny. Salem alone remained to him out
of the wreck of his dreams; except when he turned back and discovered
her--the one tragic thread in the petty history--this woman whose future
life for good or for evil he held in his avenging hands.
Mrs. Mildmay was still seated by the table. She had regained command of
herself. She looked up to him with gleaming eyes when he approached her.
"Mr. Vincent, I keep my parole-- I am waiting your pleasure," she said,
never removing her eyes from his face. It was at this moment that Mrs.
Vincent, who had from the window of Susan's chamber seen the cab arrive
and go away with some curiosity, came into the room. The widow wanted to
know who her son's visitors were, and what had brought them. She came in
with a little eagerness, but was brought to a sudden standstill by the
appearance of Mrs. Mildmay. Why was this woman here? what had she to do
with the minister? Mrs. Vincent put on her little air of simple dignity.
She said, "I beg your pardon; I did not know my son was engaged," with a
curtsy of disapproving politeness to the unwelcome visitor. With a
troubled look at Arthur, who looked excited and gloomy enough to
justify any uncomfortable imaginations about him, his mother turned
away somewhat reluctantly. She did not feel that it was quite right to
leave him exposed to the wiles of this "designing woman;" but the
widow's own dignity was partly at stake. All along she had disapproved
of this strange friendship, and she could not countenance it now.
"Your mother is going away," said Mrs. Mildmay, with a restrained outcry
of despair: "is no one to be permitted to mediate between us? You are a
man and cruel; you are in trouble, and you think you will avenge
yourself. No, no--I don't mean what I say. Your son is a--a true knight,
Mrs. Vincent; I told you so before. He will never be hard upon a woman:
if I had not known that, why should I have trusted him? I came back, as
he knows, of my own will. Don't go away; I am willing you should
know--the whole," said the excited woman, with a sudden pause, turning
upon Vincent, her face blanching into deadly whiteness--"the whole--I
consent; let her be the judge. Women are more cruel than men; but I
saved her daughter--I am willing that she should hear it all."
She sat down again on the seat from which she had risen. A certain
comfort and relief stole over her face. She was appealing to the general
heart of humanity against this one man who knew her secret. It might be
hard to hear the story of her own sin--but it was harder to be under the
stifling sway of one who knew it, and who had it in his power to
denounce her. She ceased to tremble as she looked at the widow's
troubled face. It was a new tribunal before which she stood; perhaps
here her provocations might be acknowledged--her soul acquitted of the
burden from which it could never escape. As the slow moments passed on,
and the minister did not speak, she grew impatient of the silence. "Tell
her," she said, faintly--it was a new hope which thus awoke in her
heart.
But while Mrs. Mildmay sat waiting, and while the widow drew near, not
without some judicial state in the poise of her little figure, to hear
the explanation which she felt she was entitled to, Tozer's honest
troubled face looked in at the door. It put a climax upon the confusion
of the morning. The good butterman looked on in some surprise at this
strange assemblage, recognising dimly the haze of an excitement of which
he knew nothing. He was acquainted, to some extent, with the needlewoman
of Back Grove Street. He had gone to call on her once at the
solicitation of the anxious Brown, who had charge of her district but
did not feel himself competent to deal with the spiritual necessities of
such a penitent; and Tozer remembered well that her state of mind had
not been satisfactory--"not what was to be looked for in a person as had
the means of grace close at hand, and attended regular at Salem." He
thought she must have come at this unlucky moment to get assistance of
some kind from the minister--"as if he had not troubles enough of his
own," Tozer said to himself; but the deacon was not disposed to let his
pastor be victimised in any such fashion. This, at least, was a matter
in which he felt fully entitled to interfere.
"Good mornin', ma'am," said the worthy butterman; "good mornin', Mr.
Vincent--it's cold, but it's seasonable for the time of year. What I
wanted was a word or two with the pastor, ma'am, if he's disengaged. It
ain't what I approve," continued Tozer, fixing his eyes with some
sternness upon the visitor, "to take up a minister's time in the morning
when he has the work of a flock on his hands. My business, being such as
can't wait, is different; but them as are in want of assistance, one way
or another, which is a thing as belongs to the deacons, have no excuse,
not as I can see, for disturbing the pastor. It ain't a thing as I would
put up with," continued Tozer, with increasing severity; the charities
of the flock ain't in Mr. Vincent's hands; it's a swindling of his time
to come in upon him of a morning if there ain't a good reason; and, as
far as I am concerned, it would be enough to shut my heart up again'
giving help--that's how it would work on me."
Mrs. Mildmay was entirely inattentive to the first few words of this
address, but the pointed application given by the speaker's eyes called
her attention presently. She gazed at him, as he proceeded, with a
gradual lightening of her worn and anxious face. While Mrs. Vincent did
all she could, with anxious looks and little deprecatory gestures, to
stop the butterman, the countenance of her visitor cleared by one of
those strange sudden changes which the minister had noted so often. Her
lips relaxed, her eyes gleamed with a sudden flash of amusement. Then
she glanced around, seeing with quick observation not only the absurdity
of Tozer's mistake, but the infallible effect it had in changing the
aspect of affairs. The minister had turned away, not without a grim,
impatient smile at the corner of his mouth. The minister's mother,
shocked in all her gentle politeness, was eagerly watching her
opportunity to break in and set the perplexed deacon right. The culprit,
who had been on her trial a moment before, drew a long breath of utter
relief. Now she had escaped--the crisis was over. Her quick spirit rose
with a sense of triumph--a sensation of amusement. She entered eagerly
into it, leaning forward with eyes that shone and gleamed upon her
accuser, and a mock solemnity of attention which only her desperate
strain of mind and faculties could have enabled her to assume so
quickly. When the butterman came to a pause, Mrs. Vincent rushed in
breathlessly to the rescue.
"Mr. Tozer--Mr. Tozer! this lady is--a--a friend of ours," cried the
minister's mother, with looks that were much more eloquent of her
distress and horror than any words. She had no time to say more, when
the aggrieved individual herself broke in--
"Mr. Tozer knows I have been one of the flock since ever Mr. Vincent
came," said the strange woman. "I have gone to all the meetings, and
listened faithfully to the pastor every time he has preached; and would
you judge me unworthy of relief because I once came to see him in a
morning? That is hard laws; but the minister will speak for me. The
minister knows me," she went on, turning to Vincent, "and he and his
mother have been very charitable to a poor woman, Mr. Tozer. You will
not exclude me from the Salem charities for this one offence? Remember
that I am a member of the flock."
"Not a church-member as I know," said the sturdy deacon--"not meaning no
offence, if I've made a mistake--one sitting, as far as I remember; but
a--lady--as is a friend of Mrs. Vincent's----"
Here Tozer paused, abashed but suspicious, not disposed to make any
further apology. That moment was enough to drive this lighter interlude
from the vigilant soul which, in all its moods, watched what was going
on with a quick apprehension of the opportunities of the moment. All her
perceptions, quickened as they were by anxiety and fear, were bent on
discovering an outlet for her escape, and she saw her chance now. She
got up wearily, leaning on the table, as indeed she needed to lean, and
looked into Mrs. Vincent's face: "May I see my child?" she said, in a
voice that went to the heart of the widow. The minister's mother could
not resist this appeal. She saw the trembling in her limbs, the anxiety
in her eye. "Arthur, I will see to Mrs. Mildmay. Mr. Tozer has something
to say to you, and we must not occupy your time," said the tender little
woman, in whose gentle presence there was protection and shelter even
for the passionate spirit beside her. Thus the two went away together.
If there had ever been any revengeful intention in Vincent's mind, it
had disappeared by this time. He too breathed deep with relief. The
criminal had escaped, at least out of his hands. He was no longer
compelled to take upon himself the office of an avenger.