Salem Chapel · Chapter 21 (3/3)

Mrs. Vincent turned away more smartly under the effect of that stimulant. She crossed George Street, towards her son’s rooms, a solitary little figure, in the flood of winter sunshine⁠—not dismal to look at, save for its black dress, trim, alert, upright still. And the heart within, which ached with positive throbs of pain, had roused up under that last provocation, and was stinging with indignation and anger, pure womanly, and not to be deadened by any anguish. Phoebe’s impertinence, as she called it to herself, took her out of her own far heavier trouble. To think of that pink creature having designs upon her boy, and taking upon herself little airs of conquest! To encounter Phoebe’s wiles overwhelmed Arthur with shame and annoyance; but they exasperated his mother. She went home with a steadier ring in her little light footstep. But the fumes of that temporary excitement had faded when the door opened upon her⁠—the blank door, with the little maid open-mouthed behind, who did not look her in the face, and who had nothing to communicate: the sitting-room upstairs lay blank in utter solitude⁠—all the books put away according to Sunday custom, and the cover of Arthur’s letter lying on the table startling his mother into wild hopes that some other communication had come for her. She sank down upon a chair, and covered her pale face with her hands⁠—torture intolerable, unendurable; but oh, how certainly to be endured and put up with! This poor mother, who had met with many a heavy sorrow in her day, though never any so hideous as this, was no excitable, passionate creature, but a wholesome, daylight woman, in whom no strain of superlative emotions had choked up the natural channels of relief. She wept a few bitter, heavy tears under cover of her clasped hands⁠—tears which took away the dreadful pressure upon her brain, and made it easier to bear for the moment. Then she went away in her patience, and took off her bonnet, and prepared herself for the calm of the dreadful day of which so small a portion had yet passed. She pretended to dine, that no outlet might be left to gossip on that score. She took a good book and lay down upon the sofa in the awful silence⁠—the moments creeping, stealing over her in a tedious procession which she could almost see⁠—the silence throbbing all around as if with the beats of her own heart; how was it that the walls of the house stood steady with those throbs palpitating within their dull enclosure? But there was this comfort at least, that nobody fathomed Mrs. Vincent in that speechless martyrdom of hers⁠—nobody guessed the horror in her heart⁠—nobody imagined that there was anything of tragic meaning under that composed aspect. She went to church again in the evening to escape Phoebe’s “nursing,” and sat there choking with the anticipation that meantime her son was bringing Susan home. She walked home with Beecher, devoured by feverish hopes and fears, found still no one there, with an unutterable pang, yet relief, and sat with the young man from ’Omerton for a horrible hour or two, till the strain had all but killed her. But nobody came; nobody came all through the hideous night. Holding with half-frantic hands to the thread of life, which could ill bear this total want of all its usual sustenance, but which must not be sacrificed for her children’s sake⁠—keeping alive, she could not tell how, without food, without rest, without even prayer⁠—nothing but a fever of dumb entreaty coming to her mind when she sought some forlorn comfort from the mere fact of going on her knees⁠—Mrs. Vincent lived through the night and the morning. Another horrible, sunshiny, cheerful day; but no sound in earth or heaven to say they were coming⁠—no arrival, no letter⁠—nothing but hopeless, sickening, intolerable suspense⁠—suspense all the more intolerable because it had to be borne.