"I HOPE, sir, as I haven't said anything to give offence?--it was far
from my meaning," said Tozer; "not as the--person--is a church-member,
being only a seat-holder for one sittin', as is down in the books. I
wouldn't have come over, not so early, Mr. Vincent, if it wasn't as I
was wishful to try if you'd listen to reason about the meetin' as is
appointed to be to-night. It ain't no interest of mine, not so far as
money goes, nor nothing of that kind. It's you as I'm a-thinking of. I
don't mind standing the expense out of my own pocket, if so be as you'd
give in to make it a tea-meetin'. I don't know as you'd need to do
nothing but take the chair and make yourself agreeable. Me and Brown and
the women would manage the rest. It would be a pleasant surprise, that's
what it would be," said the good butterman; "and Phoebe and some more
would go down directly to make ready: and I don't doubt as there's cakes
and buns enough in Carlingford, Mr. Vincent, sir, if you'd but bend your
mind to it and consent."
"I am going out," said Vincent; "I have--something to do; don't detain
me, Tozer. I must have this morning to myself."
"I'll walk with you, sir, if I ain't in the way," said the deacon,
accompanying the young man's restless steps down-stairs. "They tell me
Miss is a deal better, and all things is going on well. I wouldn't be
meddlesome, Mr. Vincent, not of my own will; but when matters is
settling, sir, if you'd but hear reason! There can't nothing but harm
come of more explanations. I never had no confidence in explanations,
for my part; but pleasant looks and the urns a-smoking, and a bit of
green on the wall, as Phoebe and the rest could put up in no time! and
just a speech as was agreeable to wind up with--a bit of an anecdote, or
poetry about friends as is better friends after they've spoke their
minds and had it out--that's the thing as would settle Salem, Mr.
Vincent. I don't speak, not to bother you, sir, but for your good. There
ain't no difficulty in it; it's easier a deal than being serious and
opening up all things over again; and as for them as would like to
dictate----"
"I am not thinking of Salem," said the minister; "I have many other
things to distract me; for heaven's sake, if you have any pity, leave me
alone to-day."
"But you'll give in to make it a tea-meetin'?" said the anxious
butterman, pausing at his own door.
Tozer did not make out the minister's reply. It is difficult to
distinguish between a nod and a shake of the head, under some
circumstances--and Vincent did not pause to give an articulate answer,
but left his champion to his own devices. It seemed to Vincent to be a
long time since Fordham left his house--and he was possessed with a
fever of impatience to see for himself what was being transacted down
yonder in the sunshine, where the spire of St. Roque's appeared in the
distance through the ruddy morning haze. The bells had ceased, and all
was quiet enough in Grange Lane. Quite quiet--a few ordinary passengers
in the tranquil road, nursemaids and children--and the calm green doors
closing in the concealed houses, as if no passion or agitation could
penetrate them. The door of Lady Western's garden was ajar. The minister
crossed over and looked in with a wistful, despairing hope of seeing
something that would contradict his conclusion. The house was basking in
the spring sunshine--the door open, some of the windows open, eager
servants hovering about, an air of expectation over all. With eyes full
of memories, the minister looked in at the half-open door, which one
time and another had been to him the gate of paradise. Within, where the
red geraniums and verbenas had once brightened all the borders, were
pale crocuses and flowers of early spring--the limes were beginning to
bud, the daisies to grow among the grass. The winter was over in that
sheltered and sunny place; Nature herself stood sweet within the
protecting walls, and gathered all the tenderest sweets of spring to
greet the bride in the new beginning of her life. It was but a glance,
but the spectator, in the bitterness of his heart, did not lose a single
tint or line; and just then the joy-bells burst out once more from St.
Roque's. Poor Vincent drew back from the door as the sudden sound stung
him to the heart. Nothing had any pity for him--all the world, and
every voice and breath therein, sided with the others in their joy. He
went on blindly, without thinking where he was going, with a kind of
dull, stubborn determination in his heart, not to turn back in his
wretchedness even from the sight of the happy procession which he knew
must be advancing to meet him. A pang more or less, what did it matter?
And for the last time he would look on Her who was nothing in the world
to him now--who never could have been anything--yet who had somehow shed
such streams of light upon the poor minister's humble path, as no
reality in all his life had ever shed before. He paused on the edge of
the road as he saw the carriage coming. It was one of those moments when
a man's entire life becomes apparent to him in long perspective of past
and future, he himself and all the world standing still between. The
bells rang on his heart, with echoes from the wheels and the horses'
feet coming up in superb pride and triumph. Heaven and earth were glad
for her in her joy. He, in his great trouble, stood dark in the sunshine
and looked on.
It was only a moment, and no more. He would have seen nothing but the
white mist of the veil which surrounded her, had not she in her
loveliness and kindness perceived him, and bent forward in the carriage
with a little motion of her hand calling the attention of her unseen
bridegroom to that figure on the way. At sight of that movement, the
unhappy young man started with an intolerable pang, and went on heedless
where he was going. He could not control the momentary passion. She had
never harmed him--never meant to dazzle him with her beauty, or trifle
with his love, or break his heart. It was kind as the sunshine, this
sweet bridal face leaning out with that momentary glance of recognition.
She would have given him her kind hand, her sweet smile as of old, had
they met more closely--no remorseful consciousness was in her eyes; but
neither the bells, nor the flowers, nor the sunshine, went with such a
pang to poor Vincent's heart as did that look of kindness. It was all
unreal then--no foundation at all in it? not enough to call a passing
colour to her cheek, or to dim her sweet eyes on her bridal day? He went
down the long road in the insensibility of passion--seeing nothing,
caring for nothing--stung to the heart. No look of triumph, no female
dart of conscious cruelty, could have given the poor minister so bitter
a wound. All her treasured looks and smiles--the touch of her hand--her
words, of which he had scarcely forgotten one--did they mean nothing
after all? nothing but kindness? He had laid his heart at her feet; if
she had trodden on it he could have forgiven her; but she only went on
smiling, and never saw the treasure in her way. And this was the end.
The unfortunate young man could not give way to any outbreak of the
passion that consumed him; he could but go on hotly--on past St.
Roque's, where flowers still lay in the porch, and the open doors
invited strangers, to the silent country, where the fields lay callow
under the touch of spring. Spring! everlasting mockery of human trouble!
Here were the hedgerows stirring, the secret grain beginning to throb
conscious in the old furrows; but life itself standing still--coming to
a sudden end in this heart which filled the young man's entire frame
with pulsations of anguish. All his existence had flowed towards this
day, and took its termination here. His love--heaven help him! he had
but one heart, and had thrown it away; his work--that too was to come to
nothing, and be ended; all his traditions, all his hopes, were they to
be buried in one grave? and what was to become after of the posthumous
and nameless life?