He softly opened the door, and Hetty passed out, then he locked it again.
He was alone with his conscience. He fell on his knees and covered his face.
"God, Thy judgments are terrible," he groaned.
CHAPTER XXII.
There was a short cut at the back of the office which would take Hetty on to the high road without passing round by the front of the house. It so happened that no one saw her when she arrived, and no one also saw her go. When she reached the road she stopped still to give vent to a deep sigh of satisfaction. Things were not right, but they were better than she had dared hope. Of course the Squire remembered—he could not have looked at her as he had done the night before, if memory had not fully come back to him. He remembered—he told her so, but she was also nearly certain that he would not confess to the world at large the crime of which he was guilty.
"I'll keep him to that," thought Hetty. "He may think nought o' himself—it's in his race not to think o' theirselves—but he'd think o' his wife and p'raps he'd think a bit o' me. There's Mrs. Everett and there's her son, and they both suffer and suffer bad, but then agen there's Mrs. Awdrey and there's me—there's two on us agen two," continued Hetty, rapidly thinking out the case, and ranging the pros and cons in due order in her mind, "yes, there's two agen two," she repeated.
"Mrs. Everett and her son are suffering now—then it 'ud be Mrs. Awdrey and me—and surely Mrs. Awdrey is nearer to Squire, and maybe I'm a bit nearer to Squire than the other two. Yes, it is but fair that he should keep the secret to himself."
The sun had long set and twilight had fallen over the land. Hetty had to walk uphill to reach the Gables, the name of her husband's farm. It would therefore take her longer to return home than it did to come to the Court. She was anxious to get back as quickly as possible. It would never do for Vincent to find out that she had deceived him. If he slept soundly, as she fully expected he would, there was not the least fear of her secret being discovered. Susan never entered the house after four in the afternoon. The men who worked in the fields would return to the yard to put away their tools, but they would have nothing to do in connection with the house itself—thus Vincent would be left undisturbed during the hours of refreshment and restoration which Hetty hoped he was enjoying.
"Yes, I did well," she murmured to herself, quickening her steps as the thought came to her. "I've seen Squire and there's nought to be dreaded for a bit, anyway. The more he thinks o' it the less he'll like to see himself in the prisoner's dock and me and Mrs. Awdrey and aunt as witnesses agen 'im—and knowing, too, that me, and, perhaps, aunt, too, will be put in the dock in our turn. He's bound to think o' us, for we thought o' him—he won't like to get us into a hole, and he's safe not to do it. Yes, things look straight enough for a bit, anyway. I'm glad I saw Squire—he looked splendid, too, stronger than I ever see 'im. He don't care one bit for me, and I—his eyes flashed so angry when I nearly let out—yes, I quite let out. He said, 'I can't affect to misunderstand you.' Ah, he knows at last, he knows the truth. I'm glad he knows the truth. There's a fire inside o' me, and it burns and burns—it's love for him—all my life it has consumed within me. There's nought I wouldn't do for 'im. Shame, I'd take it light for his sake—it rested me fine to see 'im, and to take a real good look at 'im. Queer, ain't it, that I should care so much for a man what never give me a thought, but what is, is, and can't be helped. Poor Vincent, he worships the ground I walk on, and yet he's nought to me; he never can be anything while Squire lives. I wonder if Squire thought me pretty to-night. I wonder if he noticed the wild flowers in the bosom of my jacket—I wonder. I'm glad I've a secret with 'im; he must see me sometimes, and he must talk on it; and then he'll notice that I'm pretty—prettier than most girls. Oh, my heart, how it beats!"