Salem Chapel · Chapter 22 (1/2)

XXII

Tomorrow! tomorrow was Monday morning, a new day, a new workweek⁠—cheerful, healthful, and exhilarating⁠—bright with that frosty sunshine, which carried comparative comfort to many a poor house in Carlingford. The widow’s face was sharper, paler, of a wonderful ashy colour. Nature could not go on under such a struggle without showing signs of it. Beecher, who was not to go until a late train, took leave of her as soon as he could, not without a little fright, and betook himself to Tozer’s, where he said she overawed him with her grand manners, and where he was led to admit that Vincent had always been a little “high.” If she could have abandoned herself to her dreadful vigil, perhaps Mrs. Vincent might have found it easier, perhaps harder⁠—she herself thought the former; but she dared not give up to it. She had to set her face like a flint⁠—she was Arthur’s representative, and had still to show a steadfast front of battle for him, and if not discomfit, still confront his enemies. She had to call at Siloam Cottage, at Mrs. Tozer’s, to do what else might be necessary for the propitiation of the flock. She never dreamed of saying to herself that she could not do it; there was no question of that; the flag had to be kept flying for Arthur. No friend of his must be jeopardised, no whisper allowed to rise which his mother could prevent: she had been a minister’s wife for thirty years; well had she learned in that time, like Mrs. Tufton, that a deal of attention was needed to keep all things straight.

Accordingly, in the height of her excitement and anxiety, believing that any moment the poor fugitive might be brought home, the widow, in her unflinching martyrdom, once more put on her bonnet, and drew out her black ribbon into bows of matchless neatness. Though she wrung her poor hands in speechless anguish as she went out of the room, it was with composed, though colourless lips, that she spoke to the little maid in the hall. “Mr. Vincent may come home any time today,” said the widow; “you must have some lunch ready, and tea; perhaps his sister may be with him⁠—or⁠—or she may come alone. Anyone who comes is to be taken upstairs. I will not be long gone; and I am going to Mrs. Tufton’s, if anybody should want me⁠—”

At this moment a knock came to the door⁠—a hurried single knock, always alarming, and sounding like an evil omen. Mrs. Vincent’s voice failed her at that sound⁠—most likely her face went into convulsive twitches, for the maid stood staring at her, too much startled to open the door, until a wild gesture from the speechless woman, who was herself unable to move, her breath almost forsaking her, and coming in sobs, recalled the girl to her senses. The door was opened, and Mrs. Vincent stood with burning eyes gazing out. Ah, not Susan! never Susan!⁠—a little, stout, rustic figure, all weary and dishevelled, looking ashamed, frightened, almost disreputable in utter forlornness and unhappiness. Mrs. Vincent gave a great sob to get breath, and dropped upon the chair, and held out her hand to Mary. She had forgotten Mary⁠—forgotten her momentary comfort in the fact that Susan’s flight was not alone. Now was it life or death the girl was bringing? She drew the frightened creature near, close, and shrieked, as she thought, her question in her ear. “What? what?” said Mrs. Vincent in her own mind; but no sound came to Mary’s ears.

“O missis dear, missis dear!” sobbed the girl. “I’ve been and told Mr. Arthur exact where she is⁠—he’s gone to fetch her home. O missis, don’t take on! they’ll soon be here. Miss Susan’s living, she ain’t dead. O missis, missis, she ain’t dead⁠—it might be worse nor it is.”

At these words Mrs. Vincent roused herself up once more. “My daughter has been ill,” she said in gasps, turning a dreadful look upon the servant of the house. Then she rose, took hold of Mary’s arm, and went upstairs with her, holding her fast. She shut the door with her own hands when they got back to the lonely parlour full of daylight and silence. “Miss Susan has been ill?” she said once more with parched lips, looking again, with that full blank gaze which seemed to deny and defy any other answer, in Mary’s frightened face.

“O missis, don’t take on!” sobbed the terrified girl.

“No, oh no, no, that is impossible. I can’t take on, Mary, if I would⁠—oh no, not now,” said the poor widow, with what seemed a momentary wandering of her strained senses. “Tell me all⁠—I am ready to hear it all.”

And then Mary began the pitiful story, the same they had heard in Lonsdale⁠—the sudden arrival of the girl and her governess, and innocent Susan’s puzzled interest in them; Mr. Fordham’s appearance afterwards, his sudden snatch at the stranger, his ready use of Arthur’s letter, which Susan was disturbed about, to persuade her that she must instantly go to her mother and set all right; the journey bringing them late at night to an unknown place, which, with the boom of the unexpected sea in their ears, the defenceless deceived creatures found out not to be Carlingford. Mary knew nothing of the scene which had been enacted upstairs, when the villainous scheme was made known to the unhappy victim. She could tell nothing but by guesses of what had passed and followed, and Mary, of course, by a natural certainty, guessed the worst. But next day Susan had written to her mother, either because she was still deceived or still innocent; and the next day again Mary was sent away under a pretence of being sent to church, and the false Fordham himself had conducted her to town and left her there. Such was Mary’s tale. Last night she had met Mr. Arthur and given him the address. Now, no doubt, they were on their way⁠—if only missis would not take on! “No,” said the widow once more, with speechless lips. Take on! oh no, never more. Surely all these light afflictions that could bring tears were over now⁠—nothing but horror and agony remained. The poor mother sat for a little in a dreadful silence, aching all over her anguished frame. Nothing was to be said or done; the pause of utter misery, in which thought itself had no place, but one horrible sensation of suffering was all that remained of life, passed over her; then a faint agonised smile fluttered upon her white lips. She drew on her glove again slowly and with pain. “I must go out, Mary,” said Arthur’s mother. “I must do my duty if the world were all breaking up, as I⁠—I think it is; and you must stay here and tell my poor darling her mother will come back to her directly. And don’t talk to the other servant, Mary. You shall be like my own child if you will stand by us now.”

“O missis dear, not a word⁠—not if it was to save my life!” said poor Mary, through her tears.

And in her bravery and desperation the widow went out to her other forlorn hope. She went away out of the doors which enclosed at least the knowledge of this event, through the everyday streets, where, if there were other tragedies, nobody knew of them any more than of hers. She had her veil over her face, on which that shadow had settled, and no one could have suspected her of carrying a broken heart through those sunshiny ways. She could not think or anticipate or even fear anything further. Susan might die under that load of shame and anguish, but her mother apprehended, was sensible of, nothing more. The worst had come, except for Arthur, who might be helped out of his troubles. So, stunned and hopeless, she set out to visit Arthur’s people, with a courage more desperate than that of battle. That was the duty which must be done if the world went to pieces⁠—to talk to Adelaide Tufton and hear her sharp criticism and bitter gossip⁠—to listen to the old minister dawdling forth his slow sentiments⁠—to visit the Tozers and soothe their feelings, and hear what they had to say. An auto-da-fé in the old Spanish fashion would have been easier, to be sure; but this was how the minister’s mother, in the depths of unknown anguish and calamity, was expected to exert herself, the only way she could serve her son.

The parlour in Siloam Cottage was as green and obscure, as warm and close, as of old. The big geranium had grown, and covered the little window still more completely, and the fire burned with virulence, conscious of the frost. The minister’s invalid daughter, with the colourless face and sharp eyes, was still knitting, leaning back upon her pillows. Poor Mrs. Vincent, when she sat down, as near the door as possible, feeling as if she could not get breath, became immediately aware that to confront those eyes was a more dangerous process than any which she had yet been subjected to in Carlingford. They penetrated through her, keen with the restless life and curiosity, which made up to that disabled woman for the privations of her existence. In the dim green parlour the minister’s mother saw nothing but Adelaide Tufton’s eyes. If they had been beautiful eyes the effect would have been less surprising; but they were not beautiful; they were pale blue, and had something of the shrill shining of a rainy sky in the glistening white, which counted for far more than the faint watery colour. Mrs. Vincent gave way before them as she had never yet done. She cast down her own eyes, and drew back her chair, and even faltered in her speech, when she was obliged to face their observation. The danger was all the greater for being unexpected. As for Mrs. Tufton, that good woman was in a flutter of interest and sympathy. She wanted to know whether Susan had gone through all the orthodox number of fevers and youthful ailments, and was in her element talking of the merits of camphor as a preventive, and of all the means that might be used to avoid infection.

“When my children were young, and their papa always being noted for so active a man among his people, I don’t know what I should have done if I had been easily frightened,” said Mrs. Tufton. “Don’t worry⁠—keep her quiet, and give her⁠—”

“Mrs. Vincent never said she was afraid of infection,” said Adelaide. “Is it typhus fever? My mother jumps at everything, and never stops to inquire. I daresay it’s something quite different. Love affairs? Oh no; of course we don’t want you to tell us. I don’t think Phoebe Tozer will die of her failure. This young man from Homerton will console her. Has your son recovered his little affair with the young Dowager, Mrs. Vincent? He dined there, you know. I daresay his head was turned; but there is one safeguard with those fine ladies. If a man has his wits about him, he can always know that they mean nothing all the time.”

“Indeed, I don’t know what you mean. My son knows Lady Western, I believe; I remember one time he dined there. My Arthur,” said the mother, with a faint smile, “is not one to have his head turned. He has been used to be thought a great deal of at home.”

“Ah, he’s a precious young man!” said Mr. Tufton, seesawing the air with his large grey hand. “I am much interested in my dear young brother. He thinks too much, perhaps⁠—too much⁠—of pleasing the carnal mind; and my people, that have been used to practical preaching so long, find the difference. But when he has deeper experiences⁠—”

“Stuff!” said the invalid, turning her head half aside; “you know the chapel has filled since he came. Even when they are asses like your Salem people, you know they like a man with brains. I don’t see that it matters much what Mr. Vincent goes wrong in; he was sure to go wrong somehow. I gave him six months, but he has got through the six months, and they have not killed him off yet. What does he mean, thrusting himself into other people’s messes? As far as I can make out, it’s quite a little tragedy. There was that Mrs. Hilyard, you know⁠—the woman in Back Grove Street. Ah, you know her!” said Adelaide, keenly, seeing the little shiver with which the visitor received the name.

“I have heard my son speak of her,” said the widow, faintly.

“She was some connection of the Bedford family,” said Adelaide, going on, with her curious eyes fixed on Mrs. Vincent’s face, who quailed before her, “and she married a half brother of Lady Western’s⁠—a desperate rascal he was. They had one baby, and then she left him⁠—one baby, a girl, that has grown up an idiot; and here this lady lives⁠—a poor needlewoman⁠—to keep the girl safe, somehow, out of her father’s hand. Why he should want to have her I can’t exactly tell. I suspect, because she’s pretty, to make a decoy of her, and sell her somehow, either to be married, or worse⁠—”

“Adelaide!” cried Mrs. Tufton; “oh, my dear, do mind what you’re saying; Mrs. Vincent does not know you. What can she think if you talk like that?”

“Mrs. Vincent sees well enough I am not a girl to be frightened for words,” said the sick woman. “Now, what I want to know is, what has your son to do with it? He’s gone off after them, now, for some reason or other; of course I don’t expect you to tell me. Perhaps Lady Western has sent him?⁠—never mind, I will find out; but I know it has something to do with Mrs. Hilyard, for they both went off from Carlingford the same day. I have no share in life for myself,” said Adelaide, with another keen look at the stranger; “and so, instead of comforting myself that it’s all for the best, as papa says, I interfere with my fellow-creatures. Oh, pray, don’t be sorry for me! I get on as well as most people. Nobody in this place ever succeeds in concealing anything from me.”

“Indeed it is a pity when people have anything to conceal,” said poor Mrs. Vincent, thinking, with a sensation of deadly sickness at her heart, of the awful secret which was in Mary’s keeping, and faltering, in spite of all her self-command. She rose up hurriedly, when she met once more the glance of those sharp eyes: she could not bear that investigation; all her dreadful suspense and excitement seemed to ooze out unawares, and betray themselves; her only safety seemed in flight.

“This is a very short visit,” said Mr. Tufton. “My dear anxious sister, we can only pray you may be comforted. All things work together for good; you don’t need to be told that. It’s sure to be for the best, whatever happens: take that consolation to your heart⁠—it’s sure to be for the best.”

“If her daughter dies and her son is dismissed, I wonder will that be for the best?” said Adelaide Tufton, as soon as the widow had left the room. Mrs. Vincent’s ears, made acute by suffering, caught enough of this valedictory address to realise, if that were possible, an additional pang. Kind Mrs. Tufton did not hear it, not being in any such state of feverish susceptibility. She, on the contrary, kissed the mother, whom she pitied with all her heart, and entreated her not to worry. “A young healthy girl does not fall ill for nothing. You’ll see things will turn out all right,” said the kind soul; and Mrs. Vincent went upon her forlorn way.

At Mrs. Tozer’s the minister’s mother found a little committee assembled. Mrs. Brown was there from the Devonshire Dairy, and Mrs. Pigeon, whose gratification in being able to hail Mrs. Vincent as an acquaintance, to the confusion of the dairywoman and amazement of Mrs. Tozer, almost restored the minister to that lady’s favour. They were in the drawing-room, where, in honour of the expected visitors, a fire had been lighted; and as Mrs. Vincent ascended the dark staircase, she obtained a passing glimpse of Mr. Beecher seated at the table in the parlour studying “The Railway Guide,” which Phoebe expounded to him, until they were both sent for upstairs. Altogether the conjunction did not look promising for Arthur’s interests. She went in thrilling with a touch of exasperation and defiance. Now was the time to make a final stand for Arthur. This covert rebellion could be deprecated no longer.