Salem Chapel · Chapter 38 (1/2)

XXXVIII

The after-events of the evening naturally lessened, in the minister’s family at least, the all-absorbing interest of the meeting at Salem. Even Mr. Vincent’s landlady, in her wondering narrative of the scene in the sickroom⁠—which, all Mrs. Vincent’s usual decorums being thrust aside by that unexpected occurrence, she had witnessed⁠—forgot the other public event which was of equally great importance. The house was in a state of agitation as great as on Susan’s return; and when the exulting doctor, whose experiment had been so rarely successful, turned all supernumerary persons out of the sickroom, it fell to Vincent’s part to take charge of the perplexed governess, Miss Smith, who stood outside, anxious to offer explanations, a fatigued and harassed, but perfectly virtuous and exemplary woman. Vincent, who had not realised his sister’s extreme peril, and who was rather disconcerted by this fresh invasion of his house, opened the door of his sitting-room for her with more annoyance than hospitality. His own affairs were urgent in his mind. He could not keep his thoughts from dwelling upon Salem and what had occurred there, though no one else thought of it. Had he known the danger in which his sister lay, his heart might have rejected every secondary matter. But the minister did not know that Susan had been sinking into the last apathy when this sudden arrival saved her. He gave Miss Smith the easy-chair by the fire, and listened with an appearance of attention, but with little real understanding, to her lengthy and perplexed story. She was all in a flutter, the good governess said: everything was so mysterious and out of the way, she did not know what to think. Little Alice’s mamma, Miss Russell that was, Mrs. Mildmay she meant, had brought the child back to her after that dreadful business at Dover. What was the rights of that business, could Mr. Vincent tell her? Colonel Mildmay was getting better, she knew, and it was not a murder; and she was heartbroken when she heard the trouble poor dear Miss Vincent had got into about it. Well, Alice’s mamma brought back the child, and they started with her at once to France. They went up beyond Lyons to the hills, an out-of-the-way little place, but Mrs. Mildmay was always so nervous. “And then she left us, Mr. Vincent,” said the afflicted governess, as the minister, in grievous impatience, kept pacing up and down the room thus occupied and taken possession of⁠—“left us without a soul to speak to or a church within reach; and if there is one thing I have more horror of than another for its effect upon the youthful mind, it is Popery, which is so seductive to the imagination. Alice did not take to her mamma, Mr. Vincent. It was natural enough, but it was hard upon Mrs. Mildmay: she never had a good way with children; and from the moment we started till now, it has been impossible to get your sister out of the child’s mind. She took a fancy to her the moment she saw her. Girls of that age, if you will not think it strange of me to say so, very often fall in love with a girl older than themselves⁠—quite fall in love, though it is a strange thing to say. Alice would not rest⁠—she gave me no peace. I wrote to say so, but I think Mrs. Mildmay could not have got my letter. The child would have run away by herself if I had not brought her. Besides,” said Miss Smith, apologetically, “the doctors have assured me that, if she ever became much interested in anyone, or attached to anybody in particular, she was not to be crossed. It was the best chance for her mind, the doctors said. What could I do? What do you think I could do, Mr. Vincent? I brought her home, for I could not help myself⁠—otherwise she would have run away. She has a very strong will, though she looks so gentle. I hope you will help me to explain the circumstances to Mrs. Mildmay, and how it was I came back without her authority. Don’t you think they ought to call in the friends on both sides and come to some arrangement, Mr. Vincent?” said the excellent woman, anxiously. “I know she trusts you very much, and it was she herself who gave me your address.”

To this speech Vincent listened with an impatience and restlessness which he found it impossible to conceal. He paced about the darker end of his room, on the other side of that table, where the lamp shone vacantly upon his open desk and scattered papers, answering now and then with a monosyllable of reluctant courtesy, irritated and disturbed beyond expression by the perfectly serious and proper figure seated by the fire. Somebody might come from that assembly which had met to discuss him, and he could not be alone to receive them. In the annoyance of the moment the minister almost chafed at his sister and her concerns. His life was invaded by these women, with their mysteries and agonies. He listened to the steps outside, thinking every moment to hear the steady tramp of the deputation from Salem, or at least Tozer, whom it would have been balm to his mind, in the height of the good man’s triumph, to cut short and annihilate. But how do that, or anything else, with this woman seated by his fire explaining her unintelligible affairs? Such was Vincent’s state of mind while his mother, in an agony of joy, was hearing from Susan’s lips, for the first time, broken explanations of those few days of her life which outbalanced in terrible importance all its preceding years. The minister did not know that his sister’s very existence, as well as her reason, hung upon that unhoped-for opening of her mouth and her heart.

Matters were not much mended when Dr. Rider came in, beaming and radiant, full of congratulations. Susan was saved. It was the most curious psychological puzzle, the doctor said; all her life had got concentrated into the few days between her departure from Lonsdale and her arrival at Carlingford. Neither her old existence, nor the objects that surrounded her at the moment, had any significance for Susan; only something that belonged to that wonderful interval in which she had been driven desperate, could win back consciousness to her mind. It was the most singular case he had ever met with; but he knew this was the only way of treating it, and so it had proved. He recognised the girl with the blue veil the moment he saw her⁠—he knew it could be no other. Who was she? where had she sprung from at that critical moment? where had she been? what was to be done with her? Dr. Rider poured forth his questions like a stream. He was full of professional triumph, not to say natural satisfaction. He could not understand how his patient’s brother, at that wonderful crisis, could have a mind preoccupied or engaged with other things. The doctor turned with lively sympathy and curiosity from the anxious Nonconformist to Miss Smith, who was but too willing to begin all her explanations over again. Dr. Rider, accustomed to hear many personal narratives, collected this story a great deal more clearly than Vincent, who was so much more interested in it, had, with all his opportunities, been able to do. How long the poor minister might have suffered under this conversation, it is impossible to tell. But Mrs. Vincent, in all the agitation of her daughter’s deliverance, could not forget the griefs of others. She sent a little message to her son, begging that he would send word of this arrival to “the poor lady.” “To let her know⁠—but she must not come here tonight,” was the widow’s message, who was just then having the room darkened, and everything arranged for the night, if perhaps her child might sleep. This message delivered the minister; it recalled Miss Smith to her duty. She it was who must go and explain everything to her patroness. Dr. Rider, whose much-excited wonder was still further stimulated by hearing that the child’s mother was at Lady Western’s, that she was Mrs. Mildmay, and that the Nonconformist was in her confidence, cheerfully undertook to carry the governess in his drag to Grange Lane, not without hopes of further information; and it was now getting late. Miss Smith made Vincent a tremulous curtsy, and held out her hand to him to say good night. “The doctor will perhaps explain to Mrs. Mildmay why I have left little Alice,” said the troubled woman. “I never left her before since she was entrusted to me⁠—never but when her papa stole her away; and you are a minister, Mr. Vincent, and oh, I hope I am doing quite right, and as Alice’s mamma will approve! But if she disapproves I must come back and⁠—”

“They must not be disturbed tonight,” said Dr. Rider, promptly; “I will see Mrs. Mildmay.” He was not reluctant to see Mrs. Mildmay. The doctor, though he was not a gossip, was not inaccessible to the pleasure of knowing more than anybody else of the complications of this strange business, which still afforded matter of talk to Carlingford. He hurried her away while still the good governess was all in a flutter, and for the first time the minister was left alone. It was with a troubled mind that the young man resumed his seat at his desk. He began to get utterly weary of this business, and all about it. If he could only have swept away in a whirlwind, with his mother and sister, where the name of Mildmay had never been heard of, and where he could forever get rid of that haunting woman with her gleaming eyes, who had pursued even his gentle mother to the door! but this new complication seemed to involve him deeper than ever in those strange bonds. It was with a certain disgust that the minister thought it all over as he sat leaning his head on his hands. His way was dark before him, yet it must speedily be decided. Everything was at a crisis in his excited mind and troubled life⁠—even that strange lovely child’s face, which had roused Susan from her apathy, had its share in the excitement of her brother’s thoughts; for it was but another version, with differences, of the face of that other Alice, who all unwittingly had procured for Vincent the sweetest and the hardest hours he had spent in Carlingford. Were they all to pass like a dream⁠—her smiles, her sweet looks, her kind words, even that magical touch upon his arm, which had once charmed him out of all his troubles? A groan came out of the young man’s heart, not loud, but deep, as that thought moved him. The very despair of this love-dream had been more exquisite than any pleasure of his life. Was it all to pass away and be no longer? Life and thought, the actual and the visionary, had both come to a climax, and seemed to stand still, waiting the decision which must be come to that night.

From these musings the entrance of Tozer roused the minister. The excellent butterman came in all flushed and glowing from his success. To him, the meeting, which already the Nonconformist had half lost sight of under the superstructure of subsequent events, had newly concluded, and was the one occurrence of the time. The cheers which had hailed him master of the field were still ringing in Tozer’s ears. “I don’t deny as I am intoxicated-like,” said the excellent deacon; “them cheers was enough to carry any man off his legs, sir, if you’ll believe me. We’ve scattered the enemy, that’s what we’ve been and done, Mr. Vincent. There ain’t one of them as will dare show face in Salem. We was unanimous, sir⁠—unanimous, that’s what we was! I never see such a triumph in our connection. Hurrah! If it warn’t Miss as is ill, I could give it you all over again, cheers and all.”

“I am glad you were pleased,” said Vincent, with an effort; “but I will not ask you for such a report of the proceedings.”

“Pleased! I’ll tell you one thing as I was sorry for, sir,” said Tozer, somewhat subdued in his exultation by the pastor’s calmness⁠—“I did it for the best; but seeing as things have turned out so well, I am as sorry as I can be⁠—and that is, that you wasn’t there. It was from expecting some unpleasantness as I asked you not to come; but things turning out as they did, it would have done your heart good to see ’em, Mr. Vincent. Salem folks has a deal of sense when you put things before them effective. And then you’d only have had to say three words to them on the spur of the moment, and all was settled and done with, and everything put straight; which would have let them settle down steady, sir, at once, and not kept no excitement, as it were, hanging about.”

“Yes,” said the minister, who was moving about his papers, and did not look up. The butterman began to be alarmed; he grew more and more enthusiastic the less response he met with.

“It’s a meeting as will tell in the connection,” said Tozer, with unconscious foresight; “a candid mind in a congregation ain’t so general as you and me would like to see, Mr. Vincent, and it takes a bit of a trial like this, sir, and opposition, to bring out the real attachment as is between a pastor and a flock.”

“Yes,” said Vincent again. The deacon did not know what to make of the minister. Had he been piqued and angry, Tozer thought he might have known how to manage him, but this coldness was an alarming and mysterious symptom which he was unequal to. In his embarrassment and anxiety the good butterman stumbled upon the very subject from which, had he known the true state of affairs, he would have kept aloof.

“And the meeting as was to be tomorrow night?” said Tozer; “there ain’t no need for explanation now⁠—a word or two out of the pulpit is all as is wanted, just to say as it’s all over, and you’re grateful for their attachment, and so forth; you know a deal better, sir, how to do it nor me. And about the meeting as was called for tomorrow night?⁠—me and the misses were thinking, though it’s sudden, as it might be turned into a tea-meeting, if you was agreeable, just to make things pleasant; or if that ain’t according to your fancy, as I’m aware you’re not one as likes tea-meetings, we might send round, Mr. Vincent to all the seat-holders to say as it’s given up; I’d do one or the other, if you’d be advised by me.”

“Thank you⁠—but I can’t do either one or the other,” said the Nonconformist. “I would not have asked the people to meet me if I had not had something to say to them⁠—and this night’s business, you understand,” said Vincent, with a little pride, “has made no difference in me.”

“No, sir, no⁠—to be sure not,” said the perplexed butterman, much bewildered; “but two meetings on two nights consecutive is running the flock hard, it is. I’d give up tomorrow, Mr. Vincent, if I was you.”

To this insinuating address the minister made no answer⁠—he only shook his head. Poor Tozer, out of his exultation, fell again into the depths. The blow was so unlooked-for that it overwhelmed him.

“You’ll not go and make no reflections, sir?” said the troubled deacon; “bygones is bygones. You’ll not bring it up against them, as they didn’t show that sympathy they might have done? You’ll not make no reference to nobody in particular, Mr. Vincent? When a flock is conscious as they’ve done their duty and stood by their pastor, it ain’t a safe thing, sir, not to turn upon them, and rake up things as is past. If you’ll take my advice, sir, as wishes you well, and hasn’t no motive but your good, I’d not hold that meeting, Mr. Vincent; or, if you’re bent upon it, say the word, and we’ll set to work and give ’em a tea-meeting, and make all things comfortable. But if you was prudent, sir, and would go by my advice, one or the other of them two is what I would do.”

“Thank you, Tozer, all the same,” said Vincent, who, notwithstanding his preoccupation, saw the good butterman’s anxiety, and appreciated it. “I know very well that all that is pleasant tonight is owing to you. Don’t suppose I don’t understand how you’ve fought for me; but now the business is mine, and I can take no more advice. Think no more of it; you have done all that you could do.”