And in truth that catastrophe was nearly occurring now. He had been wandering vaguely along the highways, appealing to the calmness of the night, as it were, and the serenity of the starlit heavens, for some quieting of his terrible fears; and then in his restlessness he walked back toward the cottage, anxious for further news and yet scarcely daring to enter and ask. He saw the dull red light in the window, but could hear no sound. And would not his very footfall on the path disturb her? They all of them went about the house like ghosts. And were it not better that he should remain here, so that the stillness dwelling around the place should not be broken even by his breathing? So quiet the night was, and so soundless, he could have imagined that the wings of the angel of mercy were brooding over the little cottage, hushing it, as it were, and bringing rest and sleep to the sore-bewildered brain. He would not go near. These were the precious hours. And if peace had at last stolen into the sick-chamber, and closed the troubled eyelids, were it not better to remain away, lest even a whisper should break the charm?
Suddenly he saw the door of the cottage open, and in the dull light a dark figure appeared. He heard footsteps on the garden-path. At first his heart felt like a stone, and he could not move, for he thought it was some one coming to seek him with evil views; but presently, in the clear starlight, he knew who this was that was now approaching him. He lost his senses. All the black night went red.
"So, good parson," said he (but he clinched his fists together so that he should not give way), "art thou satisfied with thy handiwork?"
There was more of menace in the tone than in the taunt; at all events, with some such phrase as "Out of the way, tavern-brawler!" the parson raised his stick, as if to defend himself, And then the next instant, he was gripped firm, as in a vise; the stick was twisted from his grasp and whirled away far into the dark; and forthwith, for it all happened in a moment, five fingers had him by the back of the neck.
There was one second of indecision—what it meant to this young athlete, who had his eyes afire and his mind afire with thoughts of the ill that had been done to the one he loved the dearest, can well be imagined. But he flung his enemy from him, forward, into the night.
"Take thy dog's life and welcome—coward and woman-striker!"
He waited; there was no answer. And then, all shaking from the terrible pressure he had put on himself, and still hungering and athirst to go back and settle the matter then and there, he turned and walked along the road, avoiding the cottage, and still with his heart aflame, and wondering whether he had done well to let the hour of vengeance go.
But that did not last long. What cared he for this man that any thought of him should occupy him at such a moment? All his anxieties were elsewhere—in that hushed, small chamber, where the lamp of life was flickering low, and all awaiting, with fear and trembling, what the dawn might bring. And if she were to slip away so—escaping from them, as it were—without a word of recognition? It seemed so hard that the solitary figure going up those far, wide steps should have no thought for them she had left behind. As he saw her there, content was on her face, and a mild radiance and wonder; and her new companions were pleasant to her. She would go away with them—she was content to be with them—she would disappear among them, and leave no sign. And Sunday morning after Sunday morning he would look in vain for her coming through the church-yard, under the trees; and there would be a vacant place in the pew; no matter who might be there, one face would be wanting; and in the afternoon the wide meadows would be empty. Look where he might—from the foot-bridge over the river, from Bardon Hill, from the Wier Brake—there would be no more chance of his descrying Judith walking with Prudence—the two figures that he could make out at any distance almost. And what a radiance there used to be on her face—not that mild wonder that he saw as she passed away with her companions within the shining gates, but a happy, audacious radiance, so that he could see she was laughing long ere he came near her. That was Judith—that was the Judith he had known—laughing, radiant—in summer meadows, as it seemed to him—careless of the young men, though her eyes would regard them—and always with her chief secrets and mystifications for her friend Prudence. That was Judith—not this poor, worn sufferer, wandering through darkened ways, the frail lamp of her life going down and down, so that they dared not speak in the room. And that message that she had left for him with Prudence—was it a kind of farewell? They were about the last words she had spoken ere her speech lost all coherence and meaning—a farewell before she entered into that dark and unknown realm. And there was a touch of reproach in them too—"Tell him he did me wrong to think I had gone to meet the parson in the church-yard: 'twas but a chance." The Judith of those former days was far too proud to make any such explanation; but this poor stricken creature seemed anxious to appease every one and make friends. And was he to have no chance of begging her forgiveness for doing her that wrong, and of telling how little she need regard it, and how that she might dismiss the parson from her mind altogether, as he had done? The ride to London—she knew nothing of that; she knew nothing of her father having come all the way to see her. Why, as they came riding along by Uxbridge and Wycombe, and Woodstock and Enstone, many a time he looked forward to telling Judith of what he had done; and he hoped that she would go round to the stable and have a word for the Galloway nag and pet the good beast's neck. But all that was over now, and only this terrible darkness and the silence of the roads and the trees; and always the dull, steady, ominous light in the small window. And still more terrible, that vision overhead—the far and mystic city, and Judith entering with those new and strange companions, regarding this one and that, and ever with a smile on her face and a mild wonder in her eyes; they leading her away by the hand, and she timid, and looking from one to the other, but pleased to go with them into the strange country. And as for her old friends, no backward look or backward thought for them; for them only the sad and empty town, the voiceless meadows, the vacant space in the pew, to which many an eye would be turned as week by week came round. And there would be a grave somewhere that Prudence would not leave untended.
But with the first gray light of the dawn there came a sudden trembling joy, that was so easily and eagerly translated into a wild, audacious hope. Judith had fallen into a sound sleep—a sleep hushed and profound, and no longer tortured with moanings and dull low cries as if for pity; a slumber profound and beneficent, with calmer breathing and a calmer pulse. If only on the awakening she might show that the crisis was over, and she started on the road—however long and tedious that might be—toward the winning back of life and health!
It was Prudence who brought him the news. She looked like a ghost in the wan light, as she opened the door and came forth. She knew he would not be far away; indeed, his eyes were more accustomed to this strange light than hers, and ere she had time to look about and search for him he was there. And when she told him this news, he could not speak for a little while, for his mind rushed forward blindly and wildly to a happy consummation; he would have no misgivings; this welcome sleep was a sure sign Judith was won back to them; not yet was she to go away all alone up those wide, sad steps.