Salem Chapel · Chapter 22 (2/2)

“I expect my son home today,” said the brave mother, gulping down all the pangs of her expectation. “I think, now that I see for myself how much he is thought of in Carlingford, I ought to make an apology to the Salem people. It was I that induced him to go away, not thinking that one Sunday would be such a great matter; but indeed it was very gratifying to me to see how disappointed everybody was. I hope Mr. Beecher will pardon me, for I am sure he preached us a very nice sermon, and we were all grateful for it; but, naturally on my dear boy’s account, to see how disappointed everybody was, was a great gratification to me.”

“Oh! I did not mind,” said Mr. Beecher, with a little laugh of embarrassment; but the young man was much taken aback, and stared with astonished looks before he answered, at this totally unexpected address. Having thus floored one of her adversaries, and seeing the female foe more voluble and ready, quite prepared to answer her, Mrs. Vincent blandly proceeded.

“And this, you know, Mrs. Tozer, was all the more gratifying to me, because I was not quite sure that Arthur had done wisely in choosing Carlingford. His dear father had so many friends in our denomination, and people are so kind as to speak of my boy as such a rising young man. Before I knew Carlingford,” said the widow, looking round her with an air of gentle superiority, “I used to regret my son had not accepted the invitation from Liverpool. Many people said to me that his talents would have had so much more room there; but I am reconciled now,” she added, turning her mild eyes upon Mrs. Pigeon, who showed symptoms of resistance. “I may say I am quite satisfied now. He would have been better off, and had more opportunity of making himself a position in Liverpool, but what is that in comparison with the attachment of a flock?”

“Well, indeed, that’s just the thing, ma’am,” said Mrs. Brown, who imagined herself addressed; “we are fond of him. I always said he was an uncommon nice young man; and if he was but to settle down⁠—”

“That will come in time,” said the minister’s mother, graciously; “and I am glad, for my part, that he has been away, for it shows me how his dear people feel towards him; and though he would have been, of course, better off in Liverpool, I would never consider that in comparison. They still want to have him, you know, and keep writing me letters, and him too, I don’t doubt; but after what I have seen, I could never advise him to break the link that has been formed here. The connection between pastor and people is a sacred tie; it should never be broken,” said Mrs. Vincent, with mild grandeur, “for anything so poor as a money object; but my dear boy is far above any such consideration as that.”

“Ah!” said Mrs. Pigeon, drawing a long breath of involuntary awe and admiration; “and I don’t doubt as the pastor would have been a deal better off in Liverpool,” she added, after a pause, quite overpowered by that masterstroke.

“It’s a deal bigger a place,” suggested Mrs. Tozer; “and grander folks, I don’t have a doubt,” she too added, after an interval. This new idea took away their breath.

“But, ah! what is that to affection,” said Arthur’s artful mother, “when a minister has the love of his flock! My dear Mrs. Pigeon, though a mother is naturally anxious for her son, nothing on earth would induce me to advise him to break such a tie as that!”

“And indeed, ma’am, it’s as a Christian mother should act,” gasped the poulterer’s subdued wife. Mrs. Brown made a little movement of admiring assent, much impressed with the fine sentiments of the minister’s mother. Phoebe put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Mr. Beecher found it was time for his train. “Tell Vincent I am very glad to have been of use to him. We were all delighted in ’Omerton to hear of him making such an ’it,” said Mr. Beecher, friendly but discomfited. He made his leave-taking all round, before Mrs. Vincent, at the height of victory, rose and went her way. Then she, too, shook hands, and blandly parted with the astonished women. They remained behind, and laid their heads together, much subdued, over this totally new light. She departed, gently victorious. This little demonstration had done her good. When she got out into the street, however, she fell down again into those depths of despair out of which she had risen so bravely for Arthur’s sake. She began to plan how she and Susan could go away⁠—not to Lonsdale⁠—never again to Lonsdale⁠—but to some unknown place, and hide their shame-stricken heads. She was so weary and sick in her heart, it was almost a comfort to think of creeping into some corner, taking her poor darling into her arms, healing those dreadful wounds of hers, hiding her from the sight of men. This was what they must do as soon as her dearest child came back⁠—go to Scotland, perhaps, or into the primitive south country, where nobody knew them, or⁠—but softly, who was this?

A new claim upon the overworked anxious soul. At the door of her son’s house stood a carriage⁠—an open carriage⁠—luxurious and handsome, with two fine horses impatiently pawing the air, and a very fine footman at the door, talking to the little maid. Within the carriage, the same beautiful young woman whom Mrs. Vincent remembered to have seen waving a lovely hand to Arthur. No doubt it was Lady Western. The beauty did not bewilder Mrs. Vincent as she had bewildered Mrs. Vincent’s son; but, with a thrill of mingled pride, admiration, and disapproval, she hastened forward at sight of her. Could she be asking for Arthur?⁠—and could Arthur have ventured to love that lovely creature in her radiance of wealth and rank? With a mother’s involuntary self-delusion Mrs. Vincent looked at the beautiful vision as at Arthur’s possible bride, and was proud and displeased at the same moment; proud, that anything so lovely and splendid was to fall to her son’s lot⁠—disapproving, that Arthur’s chosen should offer a mark of favour even to Arthur, so much more decided than accorded with the widow’s old-fashioned notion of what became a woman. Mrs. Vincent did not think of the other figure by Lady Western’s side⁠—a man of great height, very slight, and rapid in his movements, with a long brown beard, and thoughtful eyes⁠—eyes which lightened up and became as keen as they were dreamy, whenever occasion arose. Why should the widow look at him? She had nothing to do with him. This once in their life they were to come into momentary contact⁠—never more.

“Mr. Vincent ain’t at home⁠—but oh, look year!⁠—here’s his mother as can tell you better nor me,” cried the half-frightened maid at the door.

“His mother?” said the beautiful creature in the carriage; she had alighted in a moment, and was by Mrs. Vincent’s side⁠—“Oh, I am so glad to see Mr. Vincent’s mother! I am Lady Western⁠—he has told you of me?” she said, taking the widow’s hand; “take us in, please, and let us talk to you⁠—we will not tease you⁠—we have something important to say.”

“Important to us⁠—not to Mrs. Vincent,” said the gentleman who followed her, a remarkable figure, in his loose light-coloured morning dress; and his eyes fell with a remorseful pity upon the widow, standing, drawn-back, and self-restrained, upon the ground of her conscious misery, not knowing whether to hope that they brought her news, or to steel herself into a commonplace aspect of civility. This man had a heart; he looked from the brilliant creature before him, all flushed and radiant with her own happiness, to the little woman by her side, in her pitiful widow’s dress, in her visible paleness and desperation of self-control. It was he who had brought Lady Western here to put his own innocence beyond doubt, but the cruelty of that selfish impulse struck him now as he saw them stand together. “Important to us⁠—not to Mrs. Vincent,” he said again, taking off his hat to her with devout respect.

“Ah, yes! to us,” said Lady Western, looking up to him with a momentary gleam of love and happiness. Then the pretty tenderhearted creature changed her look, and composed her countenance into sympathy. “I am so sorry for you, dear Mrs. Vincent!” she said, with the saddest voice. At this the widow on her part started, and was recalled to herself.

“I am a stranger in Carlingford,” said the mild little woman, drawing up her tiny figure. “I do not know what has procured me this pleasure⁠—but all my son’s friends are welcome to me. I will show you the way upstairs,” she continued, going up before them with the air of dignity which, after the hard battles and encounters and bitter wounds of this day, became the heroic little figure. She sent Mary, who started up in dismay at her entrance, into another room, and gave Lady Western a chair, but herself continued standing, always the conservator of Arthur’s honour. If Arthur loved her, who was this man? why did such glances pass between them? Mrs. Vincent stood erect before Lady Western, and did not yield even to the winning looks for which poor Arthur would have given his life.

“Oh, dear Mrs. Vincent, I am so sorry for you!” said Lady Western again; “I know it all, and it makes my heart bleed to think of it. I will be your friend and your daughter’s friend as long as I live, if you will let me. Oh, don’t shut your heart against me! Mr. Vincent trusts me, and so must you; and I am heartbroken to think all that you must have gone through⁠—”

“Stop!” said Mrs. Vincent, with a gasp. “I⁠—I cannot tell⁠—what you mean,” she articulated, with difficulty, holding by the table to support herself, but looking with unflinching eyes in her new persecutor’s face.

“Oh, don’t shut your heart against me!” cried the young dowager, with genuine tears in her lovely eyes. “This gentleman was with Mr. Vincent yesterday⁠—he came up here this morning. He is⁠—Mr. Fordham.” She broke off abruptly with a terrified cry. But Mrs. Vincent had not died or fainted standing rigid there before her, as the soft creature thought. Her eyes had only taken that blank lustreless gaze, because the force of emotion beneath was too much for them, and inexpressible. Even in that extremity, it was in the widow’s heart, wrung to desperation, to keep her standing-ground of assumed ignorance, and not to know what this sudden offer of sympathy could mean.

“I do not know⁠—the gentleman,” she said, slowly, trying to make the shadow of a curtsy to him. “I am sorry to seem uncivil; but I am tired and anxious. What⁠—what did you want of me?” she asked, in a little outburst of uncontrollable petulance, which comforted Lady Western. It was a very natural question. Surely, in this forlorn room, where she had passed so many wretched hours, her privacy might have been sacred; and she was jealous and angry at the sight of Fordham for Arthur’s sake. It was another touch in the universal misery. She looked at Lady Western’s beauty with an angry heart. For these two, who ventured to come to her in their happiness, affronting her anguish, was Arthur’s heart to be broken too?

“We wanted⁠—our own ends,” said Fordham, coming forward. “I was so cruel as to think of myself, and that you would prove it was another who had assumed my name. Forgive me⁠—it was I who brought Lady Western here; and if either of us can serve you, or your daughter⁠—or your son⁠—” added Fordham, turning red, and looking round at his beautiful companion⁠—

Mrs. Vincent could bear it no longer. She made a hasty gesture of impatience, and pointed to the door. “I am not well enough, nor happy enough, to be civil,” cried Arthur’s mother; “we want nothing⁠—nothing.” Her voice failed her in this unlooked-for exasperation. A few bitter tears came welling up hot to her eyes. It was very different from the stupor of agony⁠—it was a blaze of shortlived passion, which almost relieved, by its sense of resentment and indignation, a heart worn out with other emotions. Fordham himself, filled with compunction, led Lady Western to the door; but it was not in the kind, foolish heart of the young beauty to leave this poor woman in peace. She came back and seized Mrs. Vincent’s trembling hands in her own; she begged to be allowed to stay to comfort her; she would have kissed the widow, who drew back, and, half fainting with fatigue and excitement, still kept her erect position by the table. Finally, she went away in tears, no other means of showing her sympathy being practicable. Mrs. Vincent dropped down on her knees beside the table as soon as she was alone, and leaned her aching, throbbing head upon it. Oh, dreadful lingering day, which was not yet half gone! Unconsciously groans of suffering, low but repeated, came out of her heart. The sound brought Mary, with whom no concealment was possible, and who gave what attendance and what sympathy she might to her mistress’s grievous trouble. Perhaps the work of this dreadful day was less hard than the vigil to which the mother had now to nerve her heart.