Salem Chapel · Chapter 21 (2/3)

But Mrs. Vincent, who had a sensation that the pew, and indeed the whole chapel, trembled with the trembling that was in her own frame, but who felt at the same time that everybody was looking at her, and that Arthur’s credit was involved, stood up steadfastly, holding her book firm in both her hands, and with an effort almost too much for her, the heroism of a martyr, added her soft voice, touched with age, yet still melodious and true, to the song of praise. The words choked her as she uttered them, yet with a kind of desperate courage she kept on. Praise!⁠—it happened to be a very effusive hymn that day, an utterance of unmitigated thanksgiving; fortunately she had not sufficient command of her mind or wits to see clearly what she was singing, or to enter into the wonderful bitter difference between the thanks she was uttering and the position in which she stood. Could she give God thanks for Susan’s ruin, or rejoice in the light He had given, when it revealed only misery? She was not called upon to answer that hard question. She stood up mechanically with her white face set in pale steadfastness, and was only aware that she was singing, keeping the tune, and making herself noways remarked among the crowd of strange people, many of whom turned curious eyes towards her. She stood with both her feet set firm on the floor, both her hands holding fast to the book, and over the ache of frightful suspense in her heart came the soft voice of her singing, which for once in her life meant nothing except a forlorn determination to keep up and hold herself erect and vigilant, sentinel over Arthur’s fortunes and his people’s thoughts.

Mr. Beecher’s sermon was undeniably clever; the Salem folks pricked up their ears at the sound of it, recalling as it did that period of delightful excitation when they were hearing candidates, and felt themselves the dispensers of patronage. That was over now, and they were wedded to one; but the bond of union between themselves and their pastor was far from being indissoluble, and they contemplated this new aspirant to their favour with feelings stimulated and piquant, as a not inconsolable husband, likely to become a widower, might contemplate the general female public, out of which candidates for the problematically vacant place might arise. Mrs. Pigeon, who was the leader of the opposition, and whose daughter Mr. Vincent had not distinguished, whose house he had not specially frequented, and whom, most of all, he had passed in the street without recognition, made a note of this man from ’Omerton. If the painful necessity of dismissing the present pastor should occur⁠—as such things did occur, deplorable though they were⁠—it might be worth while sending for Mr. Beecher. She made a note of him privately in her mind, as she sat listening with ostentatious attention, nodding her head now and then by way of assent to his statements. Mrs. Vincent remarked her as she watched the congregation from the minister’s pew, with her jealous mother’s eyes. The Tozers were not so devoted in their listening. Mrs. Tozer’s brilliant cherry-coloured bonnet visibly drooped once or twice with a blessed irregularity of motion; all these signs Mrs. Vincent perceived as she sat in preternatural acute consciousness of everything round her, by Mrs. Tufton’s side. She was even aware that the sermon was clever; she remembered expressions in it long after, which somehow got burned in, without any will of hers, upon her breaking heart. The subdued anguish that was in her collected fuel for its own silent consuming fire, even in the congregation of Salem, where, very upright, very watchful, afraid to relax her strained nerves even by leaning back or forward, she lived through the long service as if through a year of suffering.

The congregation dispersed in a buzz of talk and curiosity. Everybody wanted to know where the minister had gone, and what had taken him away. “I can’t say as I think he’s using of us well,” said somebody, whom Mrs. Vincent could hear as she made her way to the door. “Business of his own! a minister ain’t got no right to have business of his own, leastways on Sundays. Preaching’s his business. I don’t hold with that notion. He’s in our employ, and we pays him well⁠—”

Here a whisper from some charitable bystander directed the speaker’s eyes to Mrs. Vincent, who was close behind.

“Well! it ain’t nothing to me who hears me,” said this rebellious member, not without a certain vulgar pleasure in his power of insult. “We pays him well, as I say; I have to stick to my business well or ill, and I don’t see no reason why the minister should be different. If he don’t mind us as pays him, why, another will.”

“Oh, I’ve been waiting to catch your eye,” said Mrs. Pigeon, darting forward at this crisis to Mrs. Tufton; “wasn’t that a sweet sermon? that’s refreshing, that is! I haven’t listened to anything as has roused me up like that⁠—no, not since dear Mr. Tufton came first to Carlingford; as for what we’ve been hearing of late, I don’t say it’s not clever, but, oh, it’s cold! and for them as like good gospel preaching and rousing up, I must confess as Mr. Vincent⁠—”

“Hush! Mrs. Pigeon⁠—Mrs. Vincent,” said Mrs. Tufton, hurriedly; “you two ladies should have been introduced at the first. Mr. Pigeon is one of our deacons and leading men, Mrs. Vincent, and I don’t doubt you’ve often and often heard your son talking of him. We are always discussing Mr. Vincent, because he is our own pastor now, you know; and a precious young man he is⁠—and all that he wants is a little experience, as Mr. Tufton always says.”

“Oh, I am sorry!⁠—I beg your pardon, I’m sure,” cried Mrs. Pigeon; “but I am one as always speaks my mind, and don’t go back of my word. Folks as sees a deal of the minister,” continued the poulterer’s wife, not without a glance at that cherry-coloured bonnet which had nodded during the sermon, and to which poor Mrs. Vincent felt a certain gratitude, “may know different; but me as don’t have much chance, except in chapel, I will say as I think he wants speaking to: most folks do⁠—specially young folks, when they’re making a start in the world. He’s too high, he is, for us plain Salem folks; what we want is a man as preaches gospel sermons⁠—real rousing-up discourses⁠—and sits down pleasant to his tea, and makes hisself friendly. I never was one as thought a minister couldn’t do wrong. I always said as they were just like other men, liking grand dinners and grand folks, and the vanities of this world; not meaning no offence, Mrs. Vincent, neither to you nor the minister⁠—but I must say as I think, he’s a deal too high.”

“My son has had very good training,” said the widow, not without dignity. “His dear father had many good friends who have taken an interest in him. He has always been accustomed to good society, and I must say, at the same time,” added Mrs. Vincent, “that I never knew Arthur to fail in courtesy to the poorer brethren. If he has done so, I am sure it has been unintentionally. It is quite against my principles and his dear father’s to show any respect to persons. If he has shown any neglect of Mrs. Pigeon’s family,” continued the mild diplomatist, “it must have been because he thought them less, and not more in need of him than the rest of the flock.”

Mrs. Pigeon listened with open mouth, but total discomfiture: whether this was a compliment or a reprimand was totally beyond her power to make out. She cried, “Oh, I’m sure!” in a tone which was half defensive and half deprecating. Mrs. Pigeon, however, intended nothing less than to terminate the conversation at this interesting point, and it was with utter dismay that she perceived Mrs. Vincent sweep past before she had recovered herself⁠—sweep past⁠—though that black silk gown was of very moderate dimensions, and the trim little figure was noways majestic. The minister’s mother made a curtsy to the astonished wife of the poulterer; she said “good morning” with a gracious bow, and went upon her way before Mrs. Pigeon had recovered her breath. Perfect victory attended the gentle widow in this little passage of arms. Her assailant fell back, repeating in a subdued tone, “Well, I’m sure!” Mrs. Pigeon, like Tozer, granted that the minister’s mother was “quite the lady,” henceforward, in her heart.

And Mrs. Vincent passed on victorious; yes, victorious, and conscious of her victory, though giddy with secret anguish, and feeling as if every obstacle that hindered her return was a conscious cruelty. They could not have arrived this morning⁠—it was impossible; yet she burned to get back to see whether impossibility might not be accomplished for once, and Susan be there awaiting her. The first to detain her was Mrs. Tufton, who hurried, with added respect, after her, triumphing secretly in Mrs. Pigeon’s defeat.

“I am so glad you gave her her answer,” said Mrs. Tufton; “bless me! how pleased Adelaide will be when I tell her! I always said it would be well for a minister’s wife to have a spirit. Won’t you come and take a bit of dinner with us, as Mr. Vincent is not at home? Oh, I daresay somebody will ask Mr. Beecher. It does not do to pay too much attention to the young men that come to preach⁠—though I think he was clever. You won’t come?⁠—a headache?⁠—poor dear! You’re worrying about your daughter, I am sure; but I wouldn’t, if I were you. Young girls in health don’t take infection. She’ll come back all right, you’ll see. Well⁠—goodbye. Don’t come in the evening if you have a headache. I shouldn’t, if I were you. Goodbye⁠—and tomorrow, if all is well, we’ll look for you. Siloam Cottage⁠—just a little way past Salem⁠—you can’t miss the way.”

“Yes, thank you⁠—tomorrow,” said Mrs. Vincent. If only anybody could have known what dreadful work it was keeping up that smile, holding upright as she did! Then she went on a little way in peace, half-crazed with the misery that consumed her, yet unnaturally vigilant and on the alert, always holding up Arthur’s standard at that critical hour when he had no representative but herself in his field of battle. But the poor mother was not long allowed this interval of peace. After a few minutes, the Tozers, who were going the same way, came up to her, and surrounded her like a bodyguard.

“I liked that sermon, ma’am,” said Tozer; “there was a deal that was practical in that sermon. If ever we should be in the way of hearing candidates again⁠—and shortsighted creatures like us never knows what’s a-going to happen⁠—I’d put down that young man’s name for an ’earing. There ain’t a word to be said again’ the minister’s sermons in the matter of talent. They’re full of mind, ma’am⁠—they’re philosophical, that’s what they are; and the pews we’ve let in Salem since he come, proves it, let folks say what they will. But if there is a want, it’s in the application. He don’t press it home upon their consciences, not as some on us expected; and Mr. Tufton being all in that line, as you may say, makes it show the more. If I was going to make a change again⁠—not as I mean nothing of the kind, nor as the Salem folks has ever took it into their heads⁠—I’d like to have a little o’ both ways, that’s what I’d like.”

“When you get a minister of independent-mind, Mr. Tozer, if he gives you the best he has, he ought to be allowed to choose his own way,” said Mrs. Vincent. “My dear husband always said so, and he had great experience. Mr. Vincent’s son, I know, will never want friends.”

“I am sure as long as the minister keeps to his duty, he’ll always find friends in Tozer and me,” said the deacon’s wife, striking in; “and though there may be folks in a finer way, there ain’t no such good friends a pastor can have as in his own flock. As for hearing candidates and that, Tozer ought to know as none on us would hear of such a thing. I don’t see no reason why Mr. Vincent shouldn’t settle down in Carlingford and make himself comfortable. We’re all his friends as long as he’s at his post.”

“Oh, ma, I am sure he is at his post,” cried Phoebe; “he has gone away because he could not help it. I am quite sure,” continued the modest maiden, casting down her eyes, “that he would never have left but for a good reason! Oh, I am confident he is fond of Carlingford now. He would not go away if he had not some duty⁠—I am certain he would not!”

“If Phoebe is better informed than the rest of us, it ain’t nobody’s business as I can see,” said the father, with a short laugh. “I always like the young folks to manage them matters among themselves; but I take my own view, miss, for all that.”

“Oh, Pa, how can you talk so,” cried Phoebe, in virgin confusion, “to make Mrs. Vincent think⁠—”

“Indeed, nothing will make me think otherwise than I know,” said Mrs. Vincent, with a voice which extinguished Phoebe. “I understand my son. He does not bestow his confidence very easily; and I am sure he is quite able to manage all the matters he may have in hand,” added the widow, not without significance. Not all her anxiety for Arthur, not all her personal wretchedness, could unwoman the minister’s mother so much as to make her forgive or overlook Phoebe’s presumption. She could not have let this pretendant to her son’s affections off without transfixing her with a passing arrow. Human endurance has its limits. Mrs. Vincent could bear anything for Arthur except this pretence of a special interest in him.

“Oh, I am sure I never meant⁠—!” faltered Phoebe; but she could get no further, and even her mother did not come to the rescue.

“Them things had much best not be talked of,” said Mrs. Tozer, sharply. “Mr. Beecher is coming in to have a bit of dinner. You mightn’t have things comfortable where you are, the minister being away, and you used to your own house. Won’t you come in with us and eat a bit of dinner? I never can swallow a morsel when I’m by myself. It’s lonesome for you in them rooms, and us so near. There ain’t no ceremony nor nonsense, but we’ll be pleased if you’ll come.”

“Thank you very much,” said Mrs. Vincent, who could not forget that the cherry-coloured bonnet had nodded during Mr. Beecher’s sermon, “but I slept badly last night. At my time of life a new bed often makes one sleepless, and I have a bad headache. I think I will go and lie down. Many thanks. It is very kind of you to ask me. I hope I shall see you,” said the widow, with a slight shiver, repeating her formula, “tomorrow.”

“You can’t take us amiss,” said Mrs. Tozer; “there’s always enough for an extra one, if it isn’t grand or any ceremony; or if you’ll come to tea and go to church with us at night? Phoebe can run over and see how you find yourself. Good mornin’. I’m sorry you’ll not come in.”

“Oh, I wish you would let me go with you and nurse you,” said Phoebe, not without a glance in the other direction at the approaching form of the young man from ’Omerton, “I am so frightened you don’t like me!⁠—but I’ll come over before tea, and sit with you if your headache is not better. If I could only make you fancy I was Miss Vincent!” said Phoebe, with pink pleading looks.