Salem Chapel · Chapter 39 (1/2)

XXXIX

The next day dawned amid the agitations natural to such a crisis of affairs. Almost before it was daylight, before Susan had woke, or the young stranger stirred upon her sofa, Miss Smith, troubled and exemplary, had returned to see after her charge. Miss Smith was in a state of much anxiety and discomfort till she had explained to Mrs. Vincent all the strange circumstances in which she found herself; and the widow, who had ventured to rise from Susan’s side, and had been noiselessly busy putting the room in order, that her child might see nothing that was not cheerful and orderly when she woke, was not without curiosity to hear, and gladly took this opportunity, before even Arthur was stirring, to understand, if she could, the story which was so connected with that of her children. She ventured to go into the next room with Miss Smith, where she could hear every movement in the sick-chamber. The widow found it hard to understand all the tale. That Mrs. Hilyard was Mildmay’s wife, and that it was their child who had sought protection of all the world from Susan Vincent, whom the crimes of her father and mother had driven to the very verge of the grave, was so hard and difficult to comprehend, that all the governess’s anxious details of how little Alice first came into her hands, of her mother’s motives for concealing her from Colonel Mildmay, even of the ill-fated flight to Lonsdale, which, instead of keeping her safe, had carried the child into her father’s very presence⁠—and all the subsequent events which Miss Smith had already confided to the minister, fell but dully upon the ears of Susan’s mother. “Her daughter⁠—and his daughter⁠—and she comes to take refuge with my child,” said the widow, with a swelling heart. Mrs. Vincent did not know what secret it was that lay heavy on the soul of the desperate woman who had followed her last night from Grove Street, but somehow, with a female instinct, felt, though she did not understand, that Mrs. Hilyard or Mrs. Mildmay, whatever her name might be, was as guilty in respect to Susan as was her guilty husband⁠—the man who had stolen like a serpent into the Lonsdale cottage and won the poor girl’s simple heart. Full of curiosity as she was, the widow’s thoughts wandered off from Miss Smith’s narrative; her heart swelled within her with an innocent triumph; the good had overcome the evil. This child, over whom its father and mother had fought with so deadly a struggle, had flown for protection to Susan, whom that father and mother had done their utmost to ruin and destroy. They had not succeeded, thank God! Through the desert and the lions the widow’s Una had come victorious, stretching her tender virgin shield over this poor child of passion and sorrow. While Miss Smith maundered through the entire history, starting from the time when Miss Russell married Colonel Mildmay, the widow’s mind was entirely occupied with this wonderful victory of innocence over wickedness. She forgot the passionate despair of the mother whose child did not recognise her. She began immediately to contrive, with unguarded generosity, how Susan and she, when they left Carlingford, should carry the stranger along with them, and nurse her clouded mind into full development. Mrs. Vincent’s trials had not yet taught her any practical lessons of worldly wisdom. Her heart was still as open as when, unthinking of evil, she admitted the false Mr. Fordham into her cottage, and made a beginning of all the misery which seemed now, to her sanguine heart, to be passing away. She went back to Susan’s room full of this plan⁠—full of tender thoughts towards the girl who had chosen Susan for her protector, and of pride and joy still more tender in her own child, who had overcome evil. It was, perhaps, the sweetest solace which could have been offered, after all her troubles, to the minister’s mother. It was at once a vindication of the hard “dealings” of Providence, and of that strength of innocence and purity, in which the little woman believed with all her heart.

The minister himself was much less agreeably moved when he found the governess in possession of his sitting-room. Anything more utterly vexatious could hardly have occurred to Vincent than to find this troubled good woman, herself much embarrassed and disturbed by her own position, seated at his breakfast-table on this eventful morning. Miss Smith was as primly uncomfortable as it was natural for an elderly single woman, still conscious of the fact that she was unmarried, to be, in an absolute tête-à-tête with a young man. She, poor lady, was as near blushing as her grey and composed non-complexion would permit. She moved uneasily in her seat, and made tremulous explanations, as Vincent, who was too young and inexperienced to be absolutely uncourteous, took his place opposite to her. “I am sure I feel quite an intruder,” said poor Miss Smith; “but your mother, Mr. Vincent, and little Alice⁠—and indeed I did not know I was to be left here alone. It must seem so odd to you to find a lady⁠—dear, dear me! I feel I am quite in the way,” said the embarrassed governess; “but Mrs. Mildmay will be here presently. I know she will be here directly. I am sure she would have come with me had she known. But she sat up half the night hearing what I had to tell her, and dropped asleep just in the morning. She is wonderfully changed, Mr. Vincent⁠—very, very much changed. She is so nervous⁠—a thing I never could have looked for. I suppose, after all, married ladies, however much they may object to their husbands, can’t help feeling a little when anything happens,” continued Miss Smith, primly; “and there is something so dreadful in such an accident. How do you think it can have happened? Could it be his groom, or who could it be? but I understand he is getting better now?”

“Yes, I believe so,” said Vincent.

“I am so glad,” said Miss Smith, “not that if it had been the will of Providence.⁠—I would make the tea for you, Mr. Vincent, if you would not think it odd, and I am sure Mrs. Mildmay will be here directly. They were in a great commotion at Grange Lane. Just now, you know, there is an excitement. Though she is not a young girl, to be sure it is always natural. But for that I am sure they would all have come this morning; but perhaps Mr. Fordham⁠—”

“Not any tea, thank you. If you have breakfasted, I will have the things removed. I have only one sitting-room, you perceive,” said the minister, rather bitterly. He could not be positively uncivil⁠—his heart was too young and fresh to be rude to any woman; but he rang the bell with a little unnecessary sharpness when Miss Smith protested that she had breakfasted long before. Her words excited him with a touch beyond telling. He could not, would not ask what was the cause of the commotion in Grange Lane; but he walked to the window to collect himself while the little maid cleared the table, and, throwing it open, looked out with the heart beating loud in his breast. Were these the bells of St. Roque’s chiming into the ruddy sunny air with a confused jangle of joy? It was a saint’s day, no doubt⁠—a festival which the perpetual curate took delight in proclaiming his observance of; or⁠—if it might happen to be anything else, what was that to the minister of Salem, who had so many other things on his mind? As he looked out a cab drove rapidly up to the door⁠—a cab from which he saw emerge Mrs. Hilyard and another figure, which he recognised with a start of resentment. What possible right had this man to intrude upon him in this moment of fate? The minister left the window hastily, and stationed himself with a gloomy countenance on the hearthrug. He might be impatient of the women; but Fordham, inexcusable as his intrusion was, had to be met face to face. With a flash of sudden recollection, he recalled all his previous intercourse with the stranger whose name was so bitterly interwoven with the history of the last six months. What had he ever done to wake so sharp a pang of dislike and injury in Vincent’s mind? It was not for Susan’s sake that her brother’s heart closed and his countenance clouded against the man whose name had wrought her so much sorrow. Vincent had arrived at such a climax of personal existence that Susan had but a dim and secondary place in his thoughts. He was absorbed in his own troubles and plans and miseries. On the eve of striking out for himself into that bitter and unknown life in which his inexperienced imagination rejected the thought of any solace yet remaining, what malicious influence brought this man here?

They came in together into the room, “Mrs. Mildmay and Mr. Fordham”⁠—not Mrs. Hilyard: that was over; and, preoccupied as the minister was, he could not but perceive the sudden change which had come over the Back Grove Street needlewoman. Perhaps her despair had lasted as long as was possible for such an impatient spirit. She came in with the firm, steady step which he had observed long ago, before she had begun to tremble at his eye. Another new stage had commenced in her strange life. She went up to him without any hesitation, clear and decisive as of old.

“I am going away,” she said, holding out her hand to him, “and so I presume are you, Mr. Vincent. I have come to explain everything and see your mother. Let me see your mother. Mr. Fordham has come with me to explain to you. They think in Grange Lane that it is only a man who can speak to a man,” she went on, with the old movement of her thin lips; “and that now I have come to life again, I must not manage my own affairs. I am going back to society and the world, Mr. Vincent. I do not know where you are going, but here is somebody come to answer for me. Do they accept bail in a court of honour? or will you still hold a woman to her parole? for it must be settled now.”

“Why must it be settled now?” said Vincent. He had dropped her hand and turned away from her with a certain repugnance. She had lost her power over him. At that moment the idea of being cruel, tyrannical to somebody⁠—using his power harshly, balancing the pain in his own heart by inflicting pain on another⁠—was not unagreeable to the minister’s excited mind. He could have steeled himself just then to bring down upon her all the horrible penalties of the law. “Why must it be settled?” he repeated; “why must you leave Carlingford? I will not permit it.” He spoke to her, but he looked at Fordham. The stranger was wrapped in a large overcoat which concealed all his dress. What was his dress, or his aspect, or the restrained brightness in his eyes to the minister of Salem? But Vincent watched him narrowly with a jealous inspection. In Fordham’s whole appearance there was the air of a man to whom something was about to happen, which aggravated to the fever-point the dislike and opposition in Vincent’s heart.

“I will be answerable for Mrs. Mildmay,” said Fordham, with an evident response on his side to that opposition and dislike. Then he paused, evidently perceiving the necessity of conciliation. “Mr. Vincent,” he continued, with some earnestness, “we all understand and regret deeply the inconvenience⁠—I mean the suffering⁠—that is to say, the injury and misery which these late occurrences must have caused you. I know how well⁠—that is, how generously, how nobly⁠—you have behaved⁠—”

Here Mr. Fordham came to a pause in some confusion. To express calm acknowledgments to a man for his conduct in a matter which has been to him one of unmitigated disaster and calamity, requires an amount of composure which few people possess when at the height of personal happiness. The minister drew back, and, with a slight bow, and a restraint which was very natural and not unbecoming in his circumstances, looked on at the confusion of the speaker without any attempt to relieve it. He had offered seats to his visitors, but he himself stood on the hearthrug, dark and silent, giving no assistance in the explanation. He had not invited the explanation⁠—it must be managed now as the others might, without any help from him.

“I have seen Colonel Mildmay,” continued Mr. Fordham, after a confused pause. “If it can be any atonement to you to know how much he regrets all that has happened, so far as your family is concerned⁠—how fully he exonerates Miss Vincent, who was all along deceived, and who would not have remained a moment with him had she not been forcibly detained. Mildmay declares she met with nothing but respect at his hands,” continued the embarrassed advocate, lowering his voice; “he says⁠—”

“Enough has been said on the subject,” said Vincent, restraining himself with a violent effort.

“Yes⁠—I beg your pardon, it is quite true⁠—enough has been said,” cried Fordham, with an appearance of relief. Here, at least, was one part of his difficult mediation over. “Mildmay will not,” he resumed, after a pause, “tell me or anyone else who it was that gave him his wound⁠—that is a secret, he says, between him and his God⁠—and another. Whoever that other may be,” continued Fordham, with a quick look towards Mrs. Mildmay, “he is conscious of having wronged⁠—him⁠—and will take no steps against⁠—him. This culprit, it appears, must be permitted to escape⁠—you think so?⁠—worse evils might be involved if we were to demand⁠—his⁠—punishment. Mr. Vincent, I beg you to take this into consideration. It could be no advantage to you; the innocent shall not suffer⁠—but⁠—the criminal⁠—must be permitted to escape.”

“I do not see the necessity,” said Vincent between his teeth.

“No, no,” said Mrs. Mildmay, suddenly. “Escape! who believes in escape? Mr. Vincent knows better. Hush, you are a happy man just now⁠—you are not qualified to judge; but we know better. Escape!⁠—he means from prisons, and suchlike,” she continued, turning to Vincent with a half-disdainful wave of her hand towards her companion. “But you know, and so do I, that there is no escape⁠—not in this world. I know nothing about the next,” said the strange woman, curbing once more the flush of excitement which had overpowered her as she spoke⁠—“nothing; neither do you, though you are a priest. But there is enough of retribution here. The criminal⁠—Mr. Vincent⁠—you know⁠—will not escape.”

She spoke these last words panting, with pauses between, for breath. She was afraid of him again; his blankness, his passive opposition, drove her out of her composure. She put her hands together under her shawl with a certain dumb entreaty, and fixed upon him her eager eyes. They were a strange group altogether. Miss Smith, who had still lingered at the door, notwithstanding Mrs. Mildmay’s imperative gesture of dismissal⁠—out of hearing, but not out of sight⁠—suffered some little sound to escape her at this critical moment; and when her patroness turned round upon her with those dreadful eyes, fled with precipitation, taking refuge in Mrs. Vincent’s room. The table, still covered with its white cloth, stood between that dismayed spectator before she disappeared finally, and the little company who were engaged in this silent conflict. Beside it sat Mrs. Mildmay, with a renewed panic of fear rising in her face. Fordham, considerably disturbed, and not knowing what to say, stood near her buttoning and unbuttoning his overcoat with impatient fingers, anxious to help her, but still more anxious to be gone. The minister stood facing them all, with compressed lips, and eyes which looked at nobody. He was wrapt in a silent dumb resistance to all entreaties and arguments, watching Fordham’s gestures, Fordham’s looks, with a jealous but secret suspicion. His heart was cruel in its bitterness. He for whom Providence had no joys in store, to whom the light was fading which made life sweet, was for this moment superior to the happy man who stood embarrassed and impatient before him; and generous as his real nature was, it was not in him, in this moment of darkness, to let the opportunity go.