The events above narrated were all prefatory of the great success
accomplished by Mr. Vincent in Carlingford. Indeed, the date of the
young minister's fame--fame which, as everybody acquainted with that
town must be aware, was widely diffused beyond Carlingford itself, and
even reached the metropolis, and gladdened his _Alma Mater_ at
Homerton--might almost be fixed by a reference to Lady Western's
housekeeping book, if she kept any, and the date of her last
summer-party. That event threw the young Nonconformist into just the
state of mind which was wanted to quicken all the prejudices of his
education, and give individual force to all the hereditary limits of
thought in which he had been born. An attempt on the part of the
Government to repeal the Toleration Act, or reinstate the Test, could
scarcely have produced a more permanent and rapid effect than Lady
Western's neglect, and the total ignorance of Mr. Vincent displayed by
polite society in Carlingford. No shame to him. It was precisely the
same thing in private life which the other would have been in public.
Repeal of the Toleration Act, or re-enactment of the Test, are things
totally impossible; and when persecution is not to be apprehended or
hoped for, where but in the wrongs of a privileged class can the true
zest of dissidence be found? Mr. Vincent, who had received his
dissenting principles as matters of doctrine, took up the familiar
instruments now with a rush of private feeling. He was not conscious of
the power of that sentiment of injury and indignation which possessed
him. He believed in his heart that he was but returning, after a
temporary hallucination, to the true duties of his post; but the fact
was, that this wound in the tenderest point--this general slight and
indifference--pricked him forward in all that force of personal
complaint which gives warmth and piquancy to a public grievance. The
young man said nothing of Lady Western even to his dearest friend--tried
not to think of her except by way of imagining how she should one day
hear of him, and know his name when it possessed a distinction which
neither the perpetual curate of St. Roque's, nor any other figure in
that local world, dared hope for. But with fiery zeal he flew to the
question of Church and State, and set forth the wrongs which
Christianity sustained from endowment, and the heinous evils of rich
livings, episcopal palaces, and spiritual lords. It was no mean or
ungenerous argument which the young Nonconformist pursued in his fervour
of youth and wounded self-regard. It was the natural cry of a man who
had entered life at disadvantage, and chafed, without knowing it, at all
the phalanx of orders and classes above him, standing close in order to
prevent his entrance. With eloquent fervour he expatiated upon the
kingdom that was not of this world. If these words were true, what had
the Church to do with worldly possessions, rank, dignities, power? Was
his Grace of Lambeth more like Paul the tentmaker than his Holiness of
Rome? Mr. Vincent went into the whole matter with genuine conviction,
and confidence in his own statements. He believed and had been trained
in it. In his heart he was persuaded that he himself, oft disgusted and
much misunderstood in his elected place at Salem Chapel, ministered the
gospel more closely to his Master's appointment than the rector of
Carlingford, who was nominated by a college; or the curate of St.
Roque's, who had his forty pounds a-year from a tiny ancient endowment,
and was spending his own little fortune on his church and district.
These men had joined God and mammon--they were in the pay of the State.
Mr. Vincent thundered forth the lofty censures of an evangelist whom the
State did not recognise, and with whom mammon had little enough to do.
He brought forth all the weapons out of the Homerton armoury, new,
bright, and dazzling; and he did not know any more than his audience
that he never would have wielded them so heartily--perhaps would
scarcely have taken them off the wall--but for the sudden sting with
which his own inferior place, and the existence of a privileged class
doubly shut against his entrance, had quickened his personal
consciousness. Such, however, was the stimulus which woke the minister
of Salem Chapel into action, and produced that series of lectures on
Church and State which, as everybody knows, shook society in Carlingford
to its very foundation.
"Now we've got a young man as is a credit to us," said Tozer; "and now
he's warming to his work, as I was a little afraid of at first; for
somehow I can't say as I could see to my satisfaction, when he first
come, that his heart was in it,--I say, now as we've got a pastor as
does us credit, I am not the man to consider a bit of expense. My
opinion is as we should take the Music Hall for them lectures. There's
folks might go to the Music Hall as would never come to Salem, and we're
responsible for our advantages. A clever young man like Mr. Vincent
ain't to be named along with Mr. Tufton; we're the teachers of the
community, that's what we are. I am for being public-spirited--I always
was; and I don't mind standing my share. My opinion is as we should take
the Music Hall."
"If we was charging sixpence a-head or so----" said prudent Pigeon, the
poulterer.
"That's what I'll never give my consent to--never!" said Tozer. "If we
was amusin' the people, we might charge sixpence a-head; but mark my
words," continued the butterman, "there ain't twenty men in Carlingford,
nor in no other place, as would give sixpence to have their minds
enlightened. No, sir, we're conferring of a boon; and let's do it
handsomely, I say--let's do it handsomely; and here's my name down for
five pound to clear expenses: and if every man in Salem does as well,
there ain't no reason for hesitating. I'm a plain man, but I don't make
no account of a little bit of money when a principle's at stake."
This statement was conclusive. When it came to the sacrifice of a little
bit of money, neither Mrs. Pigeon nor Mrs. Brown could have endured
life had their husbands yielded the palm to Tozer. And the Music Hall
was accordingly taken; and there, every Wednesday for six weeks, the
young Nonconformist mounted his _cheval de bataille_, and broke his
impetuous spear against the Church. Perhaps Carlingford was in want of a
sensation at the moment; and the town was virgin soil, and had never yet
been invaded by sight or sound of heresy. Anyhow, the fact was, that
this fresh new voice attracted the ear of the public. That personal
impetuosity and sense of wrong which gave fire to the discourse, roused
the interest of the entire community. Mr. Vincent's lectures became the
fashion in Carlingford, where nobody in the higher levels of society had
ever heard before of the amazing evils of a Church Establishment. Some
of the weaker or more candid minds among the audience were even upset by
the young minister's arguments. Two or three young people of both sexes
declared themselves converted, and were persecuted to their hearts'
desire when they intimated their intention of henceforward joining the
congregation of Salem. The two Miss Hemmings were thrown into a state of
great distress and perplexity, and wrung their hands, and looked at each
other, as each new enormity was brought forth. A very animated
interested audience filled the benches in the Music Hall for the three
last lectures. It was Mr. Tozer's conviction, whispered in confidence to
all the functionaries at Salem, that the rector himself, in a muffler
and blue spectacles, listened in a corner to the voice of rebellion; but
no proof of this monstrous supposition ever came before the public.
Notwithstanding, the excitement was evident. Miss Wodehouse took
tremulous notes, her fingers quivering with anger, with the intention of
calling upon Mr. Wentworth to answer and deny these assertions. Dr.
Marjoribanks, the old Scotchman, who in his heart enjoyed a hit at the
Episcopate, cried "Hear, hear," with his sturdy northern _r_ rattling
through the hall, and clapped his large brown hands, with a broad grin
at his daughter, who was "high," and one of Mr. Wentworth's sisters of
mercy. But poor little Rose Lake, the drawing-master's daughter, who was
going up for confirmation next time the bishop came to Carlingford,
turned very pale under Mr. Vincent's teaching. All the different phases
of conviction appeared in her eager little face--first indignation, then
doubt, lastly horror and intense determination to flee out from Babylon.
Her father laughed, and told her to attend to her needlework, when Rose
confided to him her troubles. Her needlework! She who had just heard
that the Church was rotten, and tottering on its foundations; that it
was choked with filthy lucre and State support; that Church to which she
had been about to give in her personal adhesion. Rose put away her
catechism and confirmation good-books, and crossed to the other side of
the street that she might not pass Masters's, that emporium of evil. She
looked wistfully after the young Nonconformist as he passed her on the
streets, wondering what high martyr-thoughts must be in the apostolic
mind which entertained so high a contempt for all the honours and
distinctions of this world. Meanwhile Mr. Vincent pursued his own way,
entirely convinced, as was natural for a young man, that he was "doing a
great work" in Carlingford. He was still in that stage of life when
people imagine that you have only to state the truth clearly to have it
believed, and that to convince a man of what is right is all that is
necessary to his immediate reformation. But it was not with any very
distinct hopes or wishes of emptying the church in Carlingford, and
crowding Salem Chapel, that the young man proceeded. Such expectations,
high visions of a day to come when not a sitting could be had in Salem
for love or money, did indeed glance into the souls of Tozer and his
brother deacons; but the minister did not stand up and deliver his blow
at the world--his outcry against things in general--his warm youthful
assertion that he too had a right to all the joys and privileges of
humanity,--as, by means of sermons, lectures, poems, or what not, youth
and poverty, wherever they have a chance, do proclaim their protest
against the world.
On the last night of the lectures, just as Vincent had taken his place
upon his platform, a rustle, as of some one of importance entering,
thrilled the audience. Looking over the sea of heads before him, the
breath almost left the young minister's lips when he saw the young
Dowager, in all the glory of full-dress, threading her way through the
crowd, which opened to let her pass. Mr. Vincent stood watching her
progress, unaware that it was time for him to begin, and that his
hearers, less absorbed than he, were asking each other what it was which
had so suddenly paled his face and checked his utterance. He watched
Lady Western and her companion come slowly forward; he saw Tozer, in a
delighted bustle, leading the way to one of the raised seats of the
orchestra close to the platform. When they were seated, and not till
then, the lecturer, drawing a long gasping breath, turned to his
audience. But the crowd was hazy to his eyes. He began, half
mechanically, to speak--then made a sudden pause, his mind occupied with
other things. On the very skirts of the crowd, far back at the door,
stood his friend of Back Grove Street. In that momentary pause, he saw
her standing alone, with the air of a person who had risen up
unconsciously in sudden surprise and consternation. Her pale dark face
looked not less confused and startled than Vincent himself was conscious
of looking, and her eyes were turned in the same direction as his had
been the previous moment. The crowd of Carlingford hearers died off from
the scene for the instant, so far as the young Nonconformist was
concerned. He knew but of that fair creature in all her sweet bloom and
blush of beauty--the man who accompanied her--Mrs. Hilyard, a thin,
dark, eager shadow in the distance--and himself standing, as it were,
between them, connecting all together. What could that visionary link be
which distinguished and separated these four, so unlike each other, from
all the rest of the world? But Mr. Vincent had no leisure to follow out
the question, even had his mind been sufficiently clear to do it. He saw
the pale woman at the end of the hall suddenly drop into her seat, and
draw a thick black veil over her face; and the confused murmur of
impatience in the crowd before him roused the young man to his own
position. He opened the eyes which had been hazing over with clouds of
imagination and excitement. He delivered his lecture. Though he never
was himself aware what he had said, it was received with just as much
attention and applause as usual. He got through it somehow; and, sitting
down at last, with parched lips and a helpless feeling of excitement,
watched the audience dispersing, as if they were so many enemies from
whom he had escaped. Who was this man with Her? Why did She come to
bewilder him in the midst of his work? It did not occur to the poor
young fellow that Lady Western came to his lecture simply as to a
"distraction." He thought she had a purpose in it. He pretended not to
look as she descended daintily from her seat in the orchestra, drawing
her white cloak with a pretty shiver over her white shoulders. He
pretended to start when her voice sounded in his expectant ear.
"Oh, Mr. Vincent, how very clever and wicked of you!" cried Lady
Western. "I am so horrified, and charmed. To think of you attacking the
poor dear old Church, that we all ought to support through everything!
And I am such a stanch churchwoman, and so shocked to hear all this; but
you won't do it any more."
Saying this, Lady Western leaned her beautiful hand upon Mr. Vincent's
table, and looked in his face with a beseeching insinuating smile. The
poor minister did all he could to preserve his virtue. He looked aside
at Lady Western's companion to fortify himself, and escape the
enervating influence of that smile.
"I cannot pretend to yield the matter to your ladyship," said Vincent,
"for it had been previously arranged that this was to be the last of my
lectures at present. I am sorry it did not please you."
"But it did please me," said the young Dowager; "only that it was so
very wicked and wrong. Where did you learn such dreadful sentiments? I
am so sorry I shan't hear you again, and so glad you are finished. You
never came to see me after my little fête. I am afraid you thought us
stupid. Good-night: but you really must come to me, and I shall convert
you. I am sure you never can have looked at the Church in the right way:
why, what would become of us if we were all Dissenters? What a frightful
idea! Thank you for such a charming evening. Good-night."
And Lady Western held out that "treasured splendour, her hand," to the
bewildered Nonconformist, who only dared touch it, and let it fall,
drawing back from the smile with which the syren beguiled him back again
into her toils. But Mr. Vincent turned round hastily as he heard a
muttered exclamation, "By Jove!" behind him, and fixed the gaze of angry
and instinctive repugnance upon the tall figure which brushed past.
"Make haste, Alice--do you mean to stay here all night?" said this
wrathful individual, fixing his eyes with a defiant stare upon the
minister; and he drew the beauty's arm almost roughly into his own, and
hurried her away, evidently remonstrating in the freest and boldest
manner upon her civility. "By Jove! the fellow will think you are in
love with him," Vincent, with his quickened and suspicious ears, could
hear the stranger say, with that delightful indifference to being
overheard which characterises some Englishmen of the exalted classes;
and the strain of reproof evidently continued as they made their way to
the door. Vincent, for his part, when he had watched them out of sight,
dropped into his chair, and sat there in the empty hall, looking over
the vacant benches with the strangest mixture of feelings. Was it
possible that his eager fervour and revolutionary warmth were diminished
by these few words and that smile?--that the wrongs of Church and State
looked less grievous all at once, and that it was an effort to return to
the lofty state of feeling with which he had entered the place two hours
ago? As he sat there in his reverie of discomfiture, he could see Tozer,
a single black figure, come slowly up the hall, an emissary from the
group at the door of "chapel people," who had been enjoying the defeat
of the enemy, and were now waiting for the conqueror. "Mr. Vincent,"
shouted Tozer, "shall we turn off the gas, and leave you to think it all
over till the morning, sir? They're all as pleased as Punch and as
curious as women down below here, and my Phoebe will have it you're
tired. I must say as it is peculiar to see you a-sitting up there all by
yourself, and the lights going out, and not another soul in the place,"
added the butterman, looking round with a sober grin; and in reality the
lights diminished every moment as Mr. Vincent rose and stumbled down
from his platform into the great empty hall with its skeleton benches.
If they _had_ left him there till the morning, it would have been a
blessed exchange from that walk home with the party, that invitation to
supper, and all the applauses and inquiries that followed. They had the
Pigeons to supper that night at the butter-shop, and the whole matter
was discussed in all its bearings--the flutter of the "Church folks,"
the new sittings let during the week, the triumphant conviction of the
two deacons that Salem would soon be overflowing.
"Oh, why were 'deacons' made so coarse,
Or parsons made so fine?"
Mr. Vincent did not bethink himself of that touching ditty. He could not
see the serio-comic lights in which the whole business abounded. It was
all the saddest earnest to the young pastor, who found so little
encouragement or support even in the enthusiasm of his flock.
"And, oh, Mr. Vincent," said the engaging Phoebe, in a half-whisper
aside, "how _did_ you come to be so friendly with Lady Western? How she
did listen, to be sure! and smiled at you _so_ sweetly. Ah, I don't
wonder now that you can't see anything in the Carlingford young ladies;
but do tell us, please, how you came to know her so well?"
Insensibly to himself, a gleam of gratification lighted up Mr. Vincent's
face. He was gracious to Phoebe. "I can't pretend to know her _well_,"
he said, with a little mock humility; whereupon the matrons of the party
took up their weapons immediately.
"And all the better, Mr. Vincent--all the better!" cried Mrs. Tozer;
"she didn't come there for no good, you may be sure. Them great ladies,
when they're pretty-looking, as I don't deny she's pretty-looking----"
"Oh, mamma, beautiful!" exclaimed Phoebe.
"When they're pretty-looking, as I say," continued Mrs. Tozer, "they're
no better nor evil spirits--that's what I tell you, Phoebe. They'll go
out o' their way, they will, for to lay hold on a poor silly young man
(which was not meaning you, Mr. Vincent, that knows better, being a
minister), and when they've got him fast, they'll laugh at him--that's
their sport. A minister of our connection as was well acquainted among
them sort of folks would be out o' nature. My boy shall never make no
such acquaintances as long as I'm here."
"I saw her a-speaking to the minister," said Mrs Pigeon, "and the
thought crossed my mind as it wasn't just what I expected of Mr.
Vincent. Painted ladies, that come out of a night with low necks and
flowers in their hair, to have all Carlingford a-staring at them, ain't
fit company for a good pastor. _Them's_ not the lambs of the flock--not
so far as I understand; they're not friends as Salem folks would approve
of, Mr. Vincent. I'm always known for a plain speaker, and I don't
deceive you. It's a deal better to draw back in time."
"I have not the least reason to believe that Lady Western means to
honour me with her friendship," said Vincent, haughtily--"so it is
premature to discuss the matter. As I feel rather tired, perhaps you'll
excuse me to-night. Come over to my rooms, Mr. Tozer, to-morrow, if you
can spare a little time and we will discuss our business there. I hope
Mrs. Tozer will pardon me withdrawing so early, but I am not very
well--rather tired--out of sorts a little to-night."
So saying, the young pastor extricated himself from the table, shook
hands, regardless of all remonstrances, and made his way out with some
difficulty from the little room, which was choke-full, and scarcely
permitted egress. When he was gone, the three ladies looked at each
other in dumb amazement. Phoebe, who felt herself aggrieved, was the
first to break silence.
"Ma and Mrs. Pigeon," cried the aggravated girl, "you've been and hurt
his feelings. I knew you would. He's gone home angry and disappointed;
he thinks none of us understand him; he thinks we're trying to humble
him and keep him down, when, to tell the truth----"
Here Phoebe burst into tears.
"Upon _my_ word," said Mrs. Pigeon, "dear, deary me! It's just what I
said whenever I knew you had made up your minds to a _young_ minister.
He'll come a-dangling after our girls, says I, and a-trifling with their
affections. Bless my heart, Phoebe! if it had been my Maria now that's
always a-crying about something--but you! Don't take on,
dear--fretting's no good--it'll spoil your colour and take away your
appetite, and that ain't the way to mend matters: and to think of his
lifting his eyes to my Lady Dowager! Upon _my_ word! but there ain't no
accounting for young men's ways no more than for girls--and being a
minister don't make a bit of difference, so far as I can see."
"Why, what's the matter?" cried Tozer: "the pastor's gone off in a huff,
and Phoebe crying. What's wrong? You've been saying somethin'--you
women with your sharp tongues."
"It's Phoebe and Mr. Vincent have had some words. Be quiet,
Tozer--don't you see the child's hurt in her feelings?" said his wife.
Mr. and Mrs. Pigeon exchanged looks. "I'll tell you what it is," said
the latter lady, solemnly. "It's turned his head. I never approved of
the Music Hall myself. It's a deal of money to throw away, and it's not
like as if it was mercy to poor souls. And such a crush, and the
cheering, and my Lady Western to shake hands with him, has turned the
minister's head. Now, just you mark my words. He hasn't been here three
month yet, and he's a-getting high already. You men'll have your own
adoes with him. Afore a year's over our heads, he'll be a deal too high
for Salem. His head's turned--that's what it is."
"Oh, Mrs. Pigeon, how unkind of you!" cried Phoebe, "when he's as good
as good--and not a bit proud, nor ever was--and always such a
gentleman!--and never neglects the very poorest whenever he's sent
for--oh, it's _so_ unkind of you."
"I can't see as his head isn't straight enough on his shoulders," said
Tozer himself, with authority. "He's tired, that's what it is--and
excited a bit, I shouldn't wonder: a man can't study like he does, and
make hisself agreeable at the same time--no, no--by a year's time he'll
be settling down, and we'll know where we are; and as for Salem and our
connection, they never had a chance, I can tell you, like what they're
a-going to have now."
But Mrs. Pigeon shook her head. It was the first cloud that had risen on
the firmament of Salem Chapel, so far as Mr. Vincent was concerned.