It was about this time, when Mr. Vincent was deeply cast down about his
prospects, and saw little comfort before or around him, and when,
consequently, an interest apart from himself, and which could detach his
thoughts from Salem and its leading members, was of importance, that his
mother's letters began to grow specially interesting. Vincent could not
quite explain how it was, but unquestionably those female epistles had
expanded all at once; and instead of the limited household atmosphere
hitherto breathing in them--an atmosphere confined by the strait cottage
walls, shutting in the little picture which the absent son knew so well,
and in which usually no figure appeared but those of his pretty sister
Susan, and their little servant, and a feminine neighbour or
two--instead of those strict household limits, the world, as we have
said, had expanded round the widow's pen; the cottage walls or windows
seemed to have opened out to disclose the universe beyond: life itself,
and words the symbols of life, seemed quickened and running in a fuller
current; and the only apparent reason for all this revolution was that
one new acquaintance had interrupted Mrs. Vincent's seclusion,--one only
visitor, who, from an unexpected call, recorded with some wonderment a
month or two before, had gained possession of the house apparently, and
was perpetually referred to--by Susan, in her gradually shortening
letters, with a certain timidity and reluctance to pronounce his name;
by the mother with growing frequency and confidence. Vincent, a little
jealous of this new influence, had out of the depths of his own
depression written with some impatience to ask who this Mr. Fordham was,
and how he had managed to establish himself so confidentially in the
cottage, when his mother's letter astounded him with the following piece
of news:--
"MY DEAREST BOY,--Mr. Fordham is, or at least will be--or, if I must be
cautious, as your poor dear papa always warned me I should--wishes very
much, and I hope will succeed in being--your brother, my own Arthur.
This is sudden news, but you know, and I have often told you, that a
crisis always does seem to arrive suddenly; however much you may have
been looking for it, or making up your mind to it, it does come like a
blow at the time; and no doubt there is something in human nature to
account for it, if I was a philosopher, like your dear papa and you.
Yes, my dear boy, that is how it is. Of course, I have known for some
time past that he must have had a motive--no mother could long remain
ignorant of that; and I can't say but what, liking Mr. Fordham so much,
and seeing him _every way so unexceptionable_, except, perhaps, in the
way of means, which we know nothing about, and which I have always
thought a secondary consideration to character, as I always brought up
my children to think, I was very much pleased. For you know, my dear
boy, life is uncertain with the strongest; and I am becoming an old
woman, and you will marry no doubt, and what is to become of Susan
unless she does the same? So I confess I was pleased to see Mr.
Fordham's inclinations showing themselves. And now, dear Arthur, I've
given them my blessing, and they are as happy as ever they can be, and
nothing is wanting to Susan's joy but your sympathy. I need not suggest
to my dear boy to write a few words to his sister to make her feel that
he shares our happiness; for Providence has blessed me in affectionate
children, and I can trust the instincts of my Arthur's heart; and oh! my
dear son, how thankful I ought to be, and how deeply I ought to feel
God's blessings! He has been a father to the fatherless, and the
strength of the widow. To think that before old age comes upon me, and
while I am still able to enjoy the sight of your prosperity, I should
have the happiness of seeing you comfortably settled, and in the way to
do your Master's work, and make yourself a good position, and Susan so
happily provided for, and instead of losing her, a new son to
love--indeed, I am overpowered, and can scarcely hold up my head under
my blessings.
"Write immediately, my dearest boy, that we may have the comfort of your
concurrence and sympathy, and I am always, with much love,
"My Arthur's loving mother,
"E. S. VINCENT.
"_P. S._--Mr. Fordham's account of his circumstances seems quite
satisfactory. He is not in any profession, but has enough, he says, to
live on very comfortably, and is to give me more particulars afterwards;
which, indeed, I am ashamed to think he could imagine necessary, as it
looks like want of trust, and as if Susan's happiness was not the first
thing with us--but indeed I must learn to be prudent and
_self-interested_ for your sakes."
* * * * *
It was with no such joyful feelings as his mother's that Vincent read
this letter. Perhaps it was the jealousy with which he had heard of this
unknown Mr. Fordham suddenly jumping into the friendship of the cottage,
which made him contemplate with a most glum and suspicious aspect the
stranger's promotion into the love of Susan, and the motherly regard of
Mrs. Vincent. Hang the fellow! who was he? the young minister murmured
over his spoiled breakfast: and there appeared to him in a halo of sweet
memories, as he had never seen them in reality, the simple graces of his
pretty sister, who was as much above the region of the Phoebe Tozers
as that ineffable beauty herself who had seized with a glance the vacant
throne of poor Arthur Vincent's heart. There was nothing ineffable about
Susan--but her brother had seen no man even in Homerton whom he would
willingly see master of her affections; and he was equally startled,
dissatisfied, and alarmed by this information. Perhaps his mother's
unworldliness was excessive. He imagined that _he_ would have exacted
more positive information about the fortunes of a stranger who had
suddenly appeared without any special business there, who had no
profession, and who might disappear lightly as he came, breaking poor
Susan's heart. Mr. Vincent forgot entirely the natural process by which,
doubtless, his mother's affections had been wooed and won as well as
Susan's. To him it was a stranger who had crept into the house, and
gained ascendancy there. Half in concern for Susan, half in jealousy for
Susan's brother eclipsed, but believing himself to be entirely actuated
by the former sentiment, the young minister wrote his mother a hurried,
anxious, not too good-tempered note, begging her to think how important
a matter this was, and not to come to too rapid a conclusion; and after
he had thus relieved his feelings, went out to his day's work in a more
than usually uncomfortable frame of mind. Mrs. Vincent congratulated
herself upon her son's happy settlement, as well as upon her daughter's
engagement. What if Mr. Fordham should turn out as unsatisfactory as
Salem Chapel? His day's work was a round of visits, which were not very
particularly to Mr. Vincent's mind. It was the day for his weekly call
upon Mr. Tufton and various other members of the congregation not more
attractive; and at Siloam Cottage he was reminded of Mrs. Hilyard, whom
he had not seen again. Here at least was something to be found different
from the ordinary level. He went up to Back Grove Street, not without a
vague expectation in his mind, wondering if that singular stranger would
look as unlike the rest of his flock to-day as she had done on the
former occasion. But when Vincent emerged into the narrow street, what
was that unexpected object which threw the young man into such sudden
agitation? His step quickened unconsciously into the rapid silent stride
of excitement. He was at the shabby door before any of the onlookers had
so much as perceived him in the street. For once more the narrow
pavement owned a little tattered crowd gazing at the pawing horses, the
big footman, the heavenly chariot; and doubtless the celestial visitor
must be within.
Mr. Vincent did not pause to think whether he ought to disturb the
interview which, no doubt, was going on up-stairs. He left himself no
time to consider punctilios, or even to think what was right in the
matter. He went up with that swell of excitement somehow winging his
feet and making his footsteps light. How sweet that low murmur of
conversation within as he reached the door? Another moment, and Mrs.
Hilyard herself opened it, looking out with some surprise, her dark thin
head, in its black lace kerchief, standing out against the bit of shabby
drab-coloured wall visible through the opening of the door. A look of
surprise for one moment, then a gleam of something like mirth lighted in
the dark eyes, and the thin lines about her mouth moved, though no smile
came. "It is you, Mr. Vincent?--come in," she said. "I should not have
admitted any other visitor, but you shall come in, as you are my ghostly
adviser. Sit down. My dear, this gentleman is my minister and spiritual
guide."
And She, sitting there in all her splendour, casting extraordinary
lights of beauty round her upon the mean apartment, perfuming the air
and making it musical with that rustle of woman's robes which had never
been out of poor Vincent's ears since he saw her first;--She lifted her
lovely face, smiled, and bowed her beautiful head to the young man, who
could have liked to go down on his knees, not to ask anything, but
simply to worship. As he dared not do that, he sat down awkwardly upon
the chair Mrs. Hilyard pointed to, and said, with embarrassment, that he
feared he had chosen a wrong time for his visit, and would return
again--but nevertheless did not move from where he was.
"No, indeed; I am very glad to see you. My visitors are not so many,
nowadays, that I can afford to turn one from the door because another
chooses to come the same day. My dear, you understand Mr. Vincent has
had the goodness to take charge of my spiritual affairs," said the
mistress of the room, sitting down, in her dark poor dress, beside her
beautiful visitor, and laying her thin hands, still marked with traces
of the coarse blue colour which rubbed off her work, and of the scars of
the needle, upon the table where that work lay. "Thank heaven that's a
luxury the poorest of us needs not deny herself. I liked your sermon
last Sunday, Mr. Vincent. That about the fashion of treating serious
things with levity, was meant for me. Oh, I didn't dislike it, thank
you! One is pleased to think one's self of so much consequence. There
are more ways of keeping up one's _amour propre_ than _your_ way, my
lady. Now, don't you mean to go? You see I cannot possibly unburden my
mind to Mr. Vincent while you are here."
"Did you ever hear anything so rude?" said the beauty, turning
graciously to the young minister. "You call me a great lady, and all
sorts of things, Rachel; but I never could be as rude as you are, and as
you always were as long as I remember."
"My dear, the height of good-breeding is to be perfectly ill-bred when
one pleases," said Mrs. Hilyard, taking her work upon her knee and
putting on her thimble: "but though you are wonderfully pretty, you
never had the makings of a thorough fine lady in you. You can't help
trying to please everybody--which, indeed, if there were no women in the
world," added that sharp observer, with a sudden glance at Vincent, who
saw the thin lines again move about her mouth, "you might easily do
without giving yourself much trouble. Mr. Vincent, if this lady won't
leave us, might I trouble you to talk? For two strains of thought,
carried on at the same moment, now that I'm out of society, are too
exhausting for me."
With which speech she gravely pinned her work to her knee, threaded her
needle with a long thread of blue cotton, and began her work with the
utmost composure, leaving her two visitors in the awkward _tête-à-tête_
position which the presence of a third person, entirely absorbed in her
own employment, with eyes and face abstracted, naturally produces. Never
in his life had Vincent been so anxious to appear to advantage--never
had he been so totally deprived of the use of his faculties. His eager
looks, his changing colour, perhaps interceded for him with the
beautiful stranger, who was not ignorant of those signs of subjugation
which she saw so often.
"I think it was you that were so good as to clear the way for me the
last time I was here," she said, with the sweetest grace, raising those
lovely eyes, which put even Tozer beside himself, to the unfortunate
pastor's face. "I remember fancying you must be a stranger here, as I
had not seen you anywhere in society. Those wonderful little wretches
never seem to come to any harm. They always appear to me to be
scrambling among the horses' feet. Fancy, Rachel, one of those boys who
flourish in the back streets, with such rags--oh, such rags!--you could
not possibly _make_ them, if you were to try, with scissors--such
perfection must come of itself;--had just pushed in before me, and I
don't know what I should have done, if Mr. ---- (I beg your pardon)--if
_you_ had not cleared the way."
"Mr. Vincent," said Mrs. Hilyard breaking in upon Vincent's deprecation.
"I am glad to hear you had somebody to help you in such a delicate
distress. We poor women can't afford to be so squeamish. What! are you
going away? My dear, be sure you say down-stairs that you brought that
poor creature some tea and sugar, and how grateful she was. That
explains everything, you know, and does my lady credit at the same time.
Good-bye. Well, I'll kiss you if you insist upon it; but what can Mr.
Vincent think to see such an operation performed between us? There! my
love, you can make the men do what you like, but you know of old you
never could conquer me."
"Then you will refuse over and over again--and you don't mind what I
say--and you know he's in Lonsdale, and why he's there, and all about
him----"
"Hush," said the dark woman, looking all the darker as she stood in that
bright creature's shadow. "I know, and always will know, wherever he
goes, and that he is after evil wherever he goes; and I refuse, and
always will refuse--and my darling pretty Alice," she cried, suddenly
going up with rapid vehemence to the beautiful young woman beside her,
and kissing once more the delicate rose-cheek to which her own made so
great a contrast, "I _don't_ mind in the least what you say."
"Ah, Rachel, I don't understand you," said Lady Western, looking at her
wistfully.
"You never did, my dear; but don't forget to mention about the tea and
sugar as you go down-stairs," said Mrs. Hilyard, subsiding immediately,
not without the usual gleam in her eyes and movement of her mouth, "else
it might be supposed you came to have your fortune told, or something
like that; and I wish your ladyship _bon voyage_, and no encounter with
ragged boys in your way. Mr. Vincent," she continued, with great
gravity, standing in the middle of the room, when Vincent, trembling
with excitement, afraid, with the embarrassing timidity of inferior
position, to offer his services, yet chafing in his heart to be obliged
to stay, reluctantly closed the door, which he had opened for Lady
Western's exit, "tell me why a young man of your spirit loses such an
opportunity of conducting the greatest beauty in Carlingford to her
carriage? Suppose she should come across another ragged boy, and faint
on the stairs?"
"I should have been only too happy; but as I am not so fortunate as to
know Lady Western," said the young minister, hesitating, "I feared to
presume----"
With an entirely changed aspect his strange companion interrupted him.
"Lady Western could not think that any man whom she met in _my_ house
presumed in offering her a common civility," said Mrs. Hilyard, with the
air of a duchess, and an imperious gleam out of her dark eyes. Then she
recollected herself, gave her startled visitor a comical look, and
dropped into her chair, before which that coarsest of poor needlewoman's
work was lying. "_My_ house! it does look like a place to inspire
respect, to be sure," she continued, with a hearty perception of the
ludicrous, which Vincent was much too preoccupied to notice. "What fools
we all are! but, my dear Mr. Vincent, you are too modest. My Lady
Western could not frown upon anybody who honoured her with such a rapt
observation. Don't fall in love with her, I beg of you. If she were
merely a flirt, I shouldn't mind, but out of her very goodness she's
dangerous. She can't bear to give pain to anybody, which of course
implies that she gives double and treble pain when the time comes.
There! I've warned you; for of course you'll meet again."
"Small chance of that," said Vincent, who had been compelling himself
to remain quiet, and restraining his impulse, now that the vision had
departed, to rush away out of the impoverished place. "Small chance of
that," he repeated, drawing a long breath, as he listened with intent
ears to the roll of the carriage which carried Her away; "society in
Carlingford has no room for a poor Dissenting minister."
"All the better for him," said Mrs. Hilyard, regarding him with curious
looks, and discerning with female acuteness the haze of excitement and
incipient passion which surrounded him. "Society's all very well for
people who have been brought up in it; but for a young recluse like you,
that don't know the world, it's murder. Don't look affronted. The reason
is, you expect too much--twenty times more than anybody ever finds. But
you don't attend to my philosophy. Thinking of your sermon, Mr. Vincent?
And how is our friend the butterman? I trust life begins to look more
cheerful to you under his advice."
"Life?" said the preoccupied minister, who was gazing at the spot where
that lovely apparition had been; "I find it change its aspects
perpetually. You spoke of Lonsdale just now, did you not? Is it possible
that you know that little place? My mother and sister live there."
"I am much interested to know that you have a mother and sister," said
the poor needlewoman before him, looking up with calm, fine-lady
impertinence in his face. "But you did not hear me speak of Lonsdale; it
was her ladyship who mentioned it. As for me, I interest myself in what
is going on close by, Mr. Vincent. I am quite absorbed in the chapel; I
want to know how you get on, and all about it. I took that you said on
Sunday about levity deeply to heart. I entertain a fond hope that you
will see me improve under your ministrations, even though I may never
come up to the butterman's standard. Some people have too high an ideal.
If you are as much of an optimist as your respected deacon, I fear it
will be ages before I can manage to make you approve of me."
Vincent's wandering thoughts were recalled a little by this attack. "I
hope," he said, rousing himself, "that you don't think me so
inexperienced as not to know that you are laughing at me? But indeed I
should be glad to believe that the services at the chapel might
sometimes perhaps be some _comfort_ to you," added the young pastor,
assuming the dignity of his office. He met his penitent's eyes at the
moment, and faltered, moon-struck as he was, wondering if she saw
through and through him, and knew that he was neither thinking of
consolation nor of clerical duties, but only of those lingering echoes
which, to any ears but his own, were out of hearing. There was little
reason to doubt the acute perceptions of that half-amused,
half-malicious glance.
"_Comfort!_" she cried; "what a very strange suggestion to make! Why,
all the old churches in all the old ages have offered comfort. I thought
you new people had something better to give us; enlightenment," she
said, with a gleam of secret mockery, throwing the word like a
stone--"religious freedom, private judgment. Depend upon it, that is
the _rôle_ expected from you by the butterman. Comfort! one has that in
Rome."
"You never can have that but in conjunction with truth, and truth is not
to be found in Rome," said Vincent, pricking up his ears at so familiar
a challenge.
"We'll not argue, though you do commit yourself by an assertion," said
Mrs. Hilyard; "but oh, you innocent young man, where is the comfort to
come from? Comfort will not let your seats and fill your chapel, even
granting that you knew how to communicate it. I prefer to be instructed,
for my part. You are just at the age, and in the circumstances, to do
that."
"I fear you still speak in jest," said the minister, with some doubt,
yet a little gratification; "but I shall be only too happy to have been
the means of throwing any light to you upon the doctrines of our faith."
For a moment the dark eyes gleamed with something like laughter. But
there was nothing ill-natured in the amusement with which his strange
new friend contemplated the young pastor in the depressions and
confidences of his youth. She answered with a mock gravity which, at
that moment, he was by no means clear-sighted enough to see through.
"Yes," she said, demurely, "be sure you take advantage of your
opportunities, and instruct us as long as you have any faith in
instruction. Leave consolation to another time: but you don't attend to
me, Mr. Vincent; come another day: come on Monday, when I shall be able
to criticise your sermons, and we shall have no Lady Western to put us
out. These beauties are confusing, don't you think? Only, I entreat you,
whatever you do, don't fall in love with her; and now, since I know you
wish it, you may go away."
Vincent stammered a faint protest as he accepted his dismissal, but rose
promptly, glad to be released. Another thought, however, seemed to
strike Mrs. Hilyard as she shook hands with him.
"Do your mother and sister in Lonsdale keep a school?" she said. "Nay,
pray don't look affronted. Clergymen's widows and daughters very often
do in the Church. I meant no impertinence in this case. They don't?
well, that is all I wanted to know. I daresay they are not likely to be
in the way of dangerous strangers. Good-bye; and you must come again on
Monday, when I shall be alone."
"But--dangerous strangers--may I ask you to explain?" said Vincent, with
a little alarm, instinctively recurring to his threatened
brother-in-law, and the news which had disturbed his composure that
morning before he came out.
"I can't explain; and you would not be any the wiser," said Mrs.
Hilyard, peremptorily. "Now, good morning. I am glad they don't keep a
school; because, you know," she added, looking full into his eyes, as if
defying him to make any meaning out of her words, "it is very tiresome,
tedious work, and wears poor ladies out. There!--good-bye; next day you
come I shall be very glad to see you, and we'll have no fine ladies to
put us out."
Vincent had no resource but to let himself out of the shabby little room
which this strange woman inhabited as if it had been a palace. The
momentary alarm roused by her last words, and the state of half offence,
half interest, into which, notwithstanding his pre-occupation, she had
managed to rouse him, died away, however, as he re-entered the poor
little street, which was now a road in Fairyland instead of a lane in
Carlingford, to his rapt eyes. Golden traces of those celestial wheels
surely lingered still upon the way, they still went rolling and echoing
over the poor young minister's heart, which he voluntarily threw down
before that heavenly car of Juggernaut. Every other impression faded out
of his mind, and the infatuated young man made no effort of resistance,
but hugged the enchanted chain. He had seen Her--spoken with
Her--henceforward was of her acquaintance. He cast reason to the winds,
and probability, and every convention of life. Did anybody suppose that
all the world leagued against him could prevent him from seeing her
again? He went home with an unspeakable elation, longing, and
excitement, and at the same time with a vain floating idea in his mind
that, thus inspired, no height of eloquence was impossible to him, and
that triumph of every kind was inevitable. He went home, and got his
writing-desk, and plunged into his lecture, nothing doubting that he
could transfer to his work that glorious tumult of his thoughts; and,
with his paper before him, wrote three words, and sat three hours
staring into the roseate air, and dreaming dreams as wild as any Arabian
tale. Such was the first effort of that chance encounter, in which the
personages were not Lady Western and the poor Dissenting minister, but
Beauty and Love, perennial hero and heroine of the romance that never
ends.