CHAPTER. III

Mr. Torkingham trotted briskly onward to his house, a distance of about arnmile, each cottage, as it revealed its half-buried position by its singlernlight, appearing like a one-eyed night creature watching him from anrnambush. Leaving his horse at the parsonage he performed the remainder ofrnthe journey on foot, crossing the park towards Welland House by a stilernand path, till he struck into the drive near the north door of thernmansion.rnrnThis drive, it may be remarked, was also the common highway to the lowerrnvillage, and hence Lady Constantine's residence and park, as isrnoccasionally the case with old-fashioned manors, possessed none of thernexclusiveness found in some aristocratic settlements. The parishionersrnlooked upon the park avenue as their natural thoroughfare, particularlyrnfor christenings, weddings, and funerals, which passed the squire'srnmansion with due considerations as to the scenic effect of the same fromrnthe manor windows. Hence the house of Constantine, when going out fromrnits breakfast, had been continually crossed on the doorstep for the lastrntwo hundred years by the houses of Hodge and Giles in full cry to dinner.rnAt present these collisions were but too infrequent, for though thernvillagers passed the north front door as regularly as ever, they seldomrnmet a Constantine. Only one was there to be met, and she had no zest forrnoutings before noon.rnrnThe long, low front of the Great House, as it was called by the parish,rnstretching from end to end of the terrace, was in darkness as the vicarrnslackened his pace before it, and only the distant fall of waterrndisturbed the stillness of the manorial precincts.rnrnOn gaining admittance he found Lady Constantine waiting to receive him.rnShe wore a heavy dress of velvet and lace, and being the only person inrnthe spacious apartment she looked small and isolated. In her left handrnshe held a letter and a couple of at-home cards. The soft dark eyesrnwhich she raised to him as he entered--large, and melancholy byrncircumstance far more than by quality--were the natural indices of a warmrnand affectionate, perhaps slightly voluptuous temperament, languishingrnfor want of something to do, cherish, or suffer for.rnrnMr. Torkingham seated himself. His boots, which had seemed elegant inrnthe farm-house, appeared rather clumsy here, and his coat, that was arnmodel of tailoring when he stood amid the choir, now exhibited decidedlyrnstrained relations with his limbs. Three years had passed since hisrninduction to the living of Welland, but he had never as yet found meansrnto establish that reciprocity with Lady Constantine which usually growsrnup, in the course of time, between parsonage and manor-house,--unless,rnindeed, either side should surprise the other by showing respectively arnweakness for awkward modern ideas on landownership, or on churchrnformulas, which had not been the case here. The present meeting,rnhowever, seemed likely to initiate such a reciprocity.rnrnThere was an appearance of confidence on Lady Constantine's face; shernsaid she was so very glad that he had come, and looking down at thernletter in her hand was on the point of pulling it from its envelope; butrnshe did not. After a moment she went on more quickly: 'I wanted yourrnadvice, or rather your opinion, on a serious matter,--on a point ofrnconscience.' Saying which she laid down the letter and looked at therncards.rnrnIt might have been apparent to a more penetrating eye than the vicar'srnthat Lady Constantine, either from timidity, misgiving, or reconviction,rnhad swerved from her intended communication, or perhaps decided to beginrnat the other end.rnrnThe parson, who had been expecting a question on some local business orrnintelligence, at the tenor of her words altered his face to the higherrnbranch of his profession.rnrn'I hope I may find myself of service, on that or any other question,' hernsaid gently.rnrn'I hope so. You may possibly be aware, Mr. Torkingham, that my husband,rnSir Blount Constantine, was, not to mince matters, a mistaken--somewhatrnjealous man. Yet you may hardly have discerned it in the short time yournknew him.'rnrn'I had some little knowledge of Sir Blount's character in that respect.'rnrn'Well, on this account my married life with him was not of the mostrncomfortable kind.' (Lady Constantine's voice dropped to a more patheticrnnote.) 'I am sure I gave him no cause for suspicion; though had I knownrnhis disposition sooner I should hardly have dared to marry him. But hisrnjealousy and doubt of me were not so strong as to divert him from arnpurpose of his,--a mania for African lion-hunting, which he dignified byrncalling it a scheme of geographical discovery; for he was inordinatelyrnanxious to make a name for himself in that field. It was the one passionrnthat was stronger than his mistrust of me. Before going away he sat downrnwith me in this room, and read me a lecture, which resulted in a veryrnrash offer on my part. When I tell it to you, you will find that itrnprovides a key to all that is unusual in my life here. He bade mernconsider what my position would be when he was gone; hoped that I shouldrnremember what was due to him,--that I would not so behave towards otherrnmen as to bring the name of Constantine into suspicion; and charged me tornavoid levity of conduct in attending any ball, rout, or dinner to which Irnmight be invited. I, in some contempt for his low opinion of me,rnvolunteered, there and then, to live like a cloistered nun during hisrnabsence; to go into no society whatever,--scarce even to a neighbour'srndinner-party; and demanded bitterly if that would satisfy him. He saidrnyes, held me to my word, and gave me no loophole for retracting it. Therninevitable fruits of precipitancy have resulted to me: my life has becomerna burden. I get such invitations as these' (holding up the cards), 'butrnI so invariably refuse them that they are getting very rare. . . . I askrnyou, can I honestly break that promise to my husband?'rnrnMr. Torkingham seemed embarrassed. 'If you promised Sir BlountrnConstantine to live in solitude till he comes back, you are, it seems tornme, bound by that promise. I fear that the wish to be released from yourrnengagement is to some extent a reason why it should be kept. But yourrnown conscience would surely be the best guide, Lady Constantine?'rnrn'My conscience is quite bewildered with its responsibilities,' sherncontinued, with a sigh. 'Yet it certainly does sometimes say to mernthat--that I ought to keep my word. Very well; I must go on as I amrngoing, I suppose.'rnrn'If you respect a vow, I think you must respect your own,' said thernparson, acquiring some further firmness. 'Had it been wrung from you byrncompulsion, moral or physical, it would have been open to you to breakrnit. But as you proposed a vow when your husband only required a goodrnintention, I think you ought to adhere to it; or what is the pride worthrnthat led you to offer it?'rnrn'Very well,' she said, with resignation. 'But it was quite a work ofrnsupererogation on my part.'rnrn'That you proposed it in a supererogatory spirit does not lessen yourrnobligation, having once put yourself under that obligation. St. Paul, inrnhis Epistle to the Hebrews, says, "An oath for confirmation is an end ofrnall strife." And you will readily recall the words of Ecclesiastes, "Payrnthat which thou hast vowed. Better is it that thou shouldest not vowrnthan that thou shouldest vow and not pay." Why not write to Sir Blount,rntell him the inconvenience of such a bond, and ask him to release you?'rnrn'No; never will I. The expression of such a desire would, in his mind,rnbe a sufficient reason for disallowing it. I'll keep my word.'rnrnMr. Torkingham rose to leave. After she had held out her hand to him,rnwhen he had crossed the room, and was within two steps of the door, shernsaid, 'Mr. Torkingham.' He stopped. 'What I have told you is only thernleast part of what I sent for you to tell you.'rnrnMr. Torkingham walked back to her side. 'What is the rest of it, then?'rnhe asked, with grave surprise.rnrn'It is a true revelation, as far as it goes; but there is something more.rnI have received this letter, and I wanted to say--something.'rnrn'Then say it now, my dear lady.'rnrn'No,' she answered, with a look of utter inability. 'I cannot speak ofrnit now! Some other time. Don't stay. Please consider this conversationrnas private. Good-night.'