On the next evening after this there was a tea-meeting in Salem Chapel.
In the back premises behind the chapel were all needful accommodations
for the provision of that popular refreshment--boilers, tea-urns,
unlimited crockery and pewter. In fact, it was one of Mr. Tozer's
boasts, that owing to the liberality of the "connection" in Carlingford,
Salem was fully equipped in this respect, and did not need to borrow so
much as a spoon or teapot, a very important matter under the
circumstances. This, however, was the first tea-meeting which had taken
place since that one at which Mr. Tufton's purse had been presented to
him, and the old pastor had taken leave of his flock. The young pastor,
indeed, had set his face against tea-meetings. He was so far behind his
age as to doubt their utility, and declared himself totally unqualified
to preside over such assemblies; but, in the heat of his recent
disappointment, when, stung by other people's neglect, he had taken up
Salem and all belonging to it into his bosom, a cruel use had been made
of the young minister's compliance. They had wrung a reluctant consent
from him in that unguarded moment, and the walls of Carlingford had been
for some days blazing with placards of the tea-meeting, at which the now
famous (in Carlingford) lecturer on Church and State was to speak. Not
Tozer, with all his eloquence, had been able to persuade the pastor to
preside; but at least he was to appear, to take tea at that table
elevated on the platform, where Phoebe Tozer, under the matronly care
of Mrs. Brown (for it was necessary to divide these honours, and guard
against jealousy), dispensed the fragrant lymph, and to address the
meeting. There had been thoughts of a grand celebration in the Music
Hall to do more honour to the occasion; but as that might have
neutralised the advantages of having all the needful utensils within
themselves, convenience and economy carried the day, and the scene of
these festivities, as of all the previous festivities of Salem, was the
large low room underneath the chapel, once intended for a school, but
never used, except on Sundays, in that capacity. Thither for two or
three days all the "young ladies" of the chapel had streamed to and fro,
engaged in decorations. Some manufactured festoons of evergreens, some
concocted pink and white roses in paper to embellish the same. The
printed texts of the Sunday school were framed, and in some cases
obliterated, in Christmas garlands. Christmas, indeed, was past, but
there were still holly and red berries and green smooth laurel leaves.
The Pigeon girls, Phoebe Tozer, Mrs. Brown's niece from the country,
and the other young people in Salem who were of sufficiently advanced
position, enjoyed the preparations greatly--entering into them with even
greater heartiness than Lucy Wodehouse exhibited in the adornment of St.
Roque's, and taking as much pleasure in the task as if they had been
picturesque Italians adorning the shrine of their favourite saint.
Catterina and Francesca with their flower-garlands are figures worthy of
any picture, and so is Lucy Wodehouse under the chancel arch at St.
Roque's; but how shall we venture to ask anybody's sympathy for Phoebe
and Maria Pigeon as they put up their festoons round the four square
walls of the low schoolroom in preparation for the Salem tea-party?
Nevertheless it is a fact that the two last mentioned had very much the
same intentions and sensations, and amid the coils of fresh ivy and
laurel did not look amiss in their cheerful labour--a fact which, before
the work was completed, had become perceptible to various individuals of
the Carlingford public. But Mr. Vincent was, on this point, as on
several others, unequal to the requirements of his position. When he did
glance in for a moment of the afternoon of the eventful day, it was in
company with Tozer and the Rev. Mr. Raffles of Shoebury, who was to take
the chair. Mr. Raffles was very popular in Carlingford, as everywhere.
To secure him for a tea-meeting was to secure its success. He examined
into all the preparations, tasted the cake, pricked his fingers with the
garlands to the immense delight of the young ladies, and complimented
them on their skill with beaming cheerfulness; while the minister of
Salem, on the contrary, stalked about by his side pale and preoccupied,
with difficulty keeping himself from that contempt of the actual things
around to which youth is so often tempted. His mind wandered off to the
companion of his last night's walk--to the stranger pacing up and down
that damp garden with inscrutable unknown thoughts--to the beautiful
creature within those lighted windows, so near and yet so overwhelmingly
distant--as if somehow they had abstracted life and got it among
themselves. Mr. Vincent had little patience for what he considered the
mean details of existence nearer at hand. As soon as he could possibly
manage it, he escaped, regarding with a certain hopeless disgust the
appearance he had to make in the evening, and without finding a single
civil thing to say to the fair decorators. "My young brother looks sadly
low and out of spirits," said jolly Mr. Raffles. "What do you mean by
being so unkind to the minister, Miss Phoebe, eh?" Poor Phoebe
blushed pinker than ever, while the rest laughed. It was pleasant to be
supposed "unkind" to the minister; and Phoebe resolved to do what she
could to cheer him when she sat by his elbow at the platform table
making tea for the visitors of the evening.
The evening came, and there was not a ticket to be had anywhere in
Carlingford: the schoolroom, with its blazing gas, its festoons, and its
mottoes, its tables groaning with dark-complexioned plumcake and heavy
buns, was crowded quite beyond its accommodation; and the edifying sight
might be seen of Tozer and his brother deacons, and indeed all who were
sufficiently interested in the success of Salem to sacrifice themselves
on its behalf, making an erratic but not unsubstantial tea in corners,
to make room for the crowd. And in the highest good-humour was the
crowd which surrounded all the narrow tables. The urns were well filled,
the cake abundant, the company in its best attire. The ladies had
bonnets, it is true, but these bonnets were worthy the occasion. At the
table on the platform sat Mr. Raffles, in the chair, beaming upon the
assembled party, with cheerful little Mrs. Tufton and Mrs. Brown at one
side of him, and Phoebe looking very pink and pretty, shaded from the
too enthusiastic admiration of the crowd below by the tea-urn at which
she officiated. Next to her, the minister cast abstracted looks upon the
assembly. He was, oh, so interesting in his silence and pallor!--he
spoke little; and when any one addressed him, he had to come back as if
from a distance to hear. If anybody could imagine that Mr. Raffles
contrasted dangerously with Mr. Vincent in that reserve and quietness,
it would be a mistake unworthy a philosophic observer. On the contrary,
the Salem people were all doubly proud of their pastor. It was not to be
expected that such a man as he should unbend as the reverend chairman
did. They preferred that he should continue on his stilts. It would have
been a personal humiliation to the real partisans of the chapel, had he
really woke up and come down from that elevation. The more commonplace
the ordinary "connection" was, the more proud they felt of their student
and scholar. So Mr. Vincent leaned his head upon his hands and gazed
unmolested over the lively company, taking in all the particulars of the
scene, the busy groups engaged in mere tea-making and tea-consuming--the
flutter of enjoyment among humble girls and womankind who knew no
pleasure more exciting--the whispers which pointed out himself to
strangers among the party--the triumphant face of Tozer at the end of
the room, jammed against the wall, drinking tea out of an empty
sugar-basin. If the scene woke any movement of human sympathy in the
bosom of the young Nonconformist, he was half ashamed of himself for it.
What had the high mission of an evangelist--the lofty ambition of a man
trained to enlighten his country--the warm assurance of talent which
felt itself entitled to the highest sphere,--what had these great things
to do in a Salem Chapel tea-meeting? So the lofty spirit held apart,
gazing down from a mental elevation much higher than the platform; and
all the people who had heard his lectures pointed him out to each other,
and congratulated themselves on that studious and separated aspect which
was so unlike other men. In fact, the fine superiority of Mr. Vincent
was at the present moment the very thing that was wanted to rivet their
chains. Even Mrs. Pigeon looked on with silent admiration. He was
"high"--never before had Salem known a minister who did not condescend
to be gracious at a tea-meeting--and the leader of the opposition
honoured him in her heart.
And even when at last the social meal was over, when the urns were
cleared away, and with a rustle and flutter the assembly composed itself
to the intellectual regale about to follow, Mr. Vincent did not change
his position. Mr. Raffles made quite one of his best speeches; he kept
his audience in a perpetual flutter of laughter and applause; he set
forth all the excellencies of the new minister with such detail and
fulness as only the vainest could have swallowed. But the pleased
congregation still applauded. He praised Mr. Tufton, the venerable
father of the community, he praised the admirable deacons; he praised
the arrangements. In short, Mr. Raffles applauded everybody, and
everybody applauded Mr. Raffles. After the chairman had concluded his
speech, the hero of the evening gathered himself up dreamily, and rose
from Phoebe Tozer's side. He told them he had been gazing at them this
hour past, studying the scene before him; how strangely they appeared to
him, standing on this little bright gaslighted perch amid the dark sea
of life that surged round them; that now he and they were face to face
with each other, it was not their social pleasure he was thinking of,
but that dark unknown existence that throbbed and echoed around: he bade
them remember the dark night which enclosed that town of Carlingford,
without betraying the secret of its existence even to the nearest
village; of those dark streets and houses which hid so many lives and
hearts and tragic histories; he enlarged upon Mrs. Hilyard's idea of the
sentiment of "such a night," till timid people threw glances behind
them, and some sensitive mothers paused to wonder whether the minister
could have heard that Tommy had fallen into the fire, or Mary scalded
herself, and took this way to break the news. The speech was the
strangest that ever was listened to at a tea-party. It was the wayward
capricious pouring forth of a fanciful young mind under an unquiet
influence, having no connection whatever with the "object," the place,
or the listeners. The consequence was, that it was listened to with
breathless interest--that the faces grew pale and the eyes bright, and
shivers of restrained emotion ran through the astonished audience. Mr.
Vincent perceived the effect of his eloquence, as a nursery story-teller
perceives the rising sob of her little hearers. When he saw it, he
awoke, as the same nursery minstrel does sometimes, to feel how unreal
was the sentiment in his own breast which had produced this genuine
feeling in others, and with a sudden amusement proceeded to deepen his
colours and make bolder strokes of effect. His success was perfect;
before he concluded, he had in imagination dismissed the harmless Salem
people out of their very innocent recreation to the dark streets which
thrilled round them--to the world of unknown life, of which each man for
himself had some knowledge--to the tragedies that might be going on side
by side with them, for aught they knew. His hearers drew a long breath
when it was over. They were startled, frightened, enchanted. If they had
been witnessing a melodrama, they scarcely could have been more excited.
He had put the most dreadful suggestions in their mind of all sorts of
possible trouble; he sat down with the consciousness of having done his
duty by Salem for this night at least.
But when Tozer got up after him to tell about the prosperity of the
congregation, the anticlimax was felt even by the people of Salem. Some
said, "No, no," audibly, some laughed, not a few rose up and went away.
Vincent himself, feeling the room very hot, and not disliking the little
commotion of interest which arose on his departure, withdrew himself
from the platform, and made his way to the little vestry, where a breath
of air was to be had; for, January night as it was, the crowd and the
tea had established a very high temperature in the under-regions of
Salem. He opened the window in the vestry, which looked out upon the
damp ground behind the chapel and the few gravestones, and threw himself
down on the little sofa with a sensation of mingled self-reproach and
amusement. Somehow, even when one disapproves of one's self for doing
it, one has a certain enjoyment in bewildering the world. Mr. Vincent
was rather pleased with his success, although it was only a variety of
"humbug." He entertained with Christian satisfaction the thought that he
had succeeded in introducing a certain visionary uneasiness into the
lively atmosphere of the tea-meeting--and he was delighted with his own
cleverness in spite of himself.
While he lay back on his sofa, and pondered this gratifying thought, he
heard a subdued sound of voices outside--voices and steps that fell with
but little sound upon the damp grass. A languid momentary wonder touched
the mind of the minister: who could have chosen so doleful a retirement?
It was about the last place in the world for a lover's interview, which
was the first thing that suggested itself to the young man; the next
moment he started bolt upright, and listened with undisguised
curiosity. That voice so different from the careless voices of Salem,
the delicate refined intonations which had startled him in the shabby
little room in Back Grove Street, awoke an interest in his mind which no
youthful accents in Carlingford could have excited. He sat upright on
the instant, and edged towards the open window. The gas burned low in
the little vestry, which nobody had been expected to enter, and the
illumination from all the schoolroom windows, and sounds of cheering and
commotion there, had doubtless made the absolute darkness and silence
behind seem perfectly safe to the two invisible people now meeting under
the cloud of night. Mr. Vincent was not startled into eavesdropping
unawares, nor did he engage in any sophistical argument to justify
himself for listening. On the contrary, he listened honestly, with the
full intention of hearing all he could--suddenly changed from the
languid sentimentalist, painful and self-conscious, which the influences
of the evening had made him, into a spectator very wide awake and
anxious, straining his ear to catch some knowledge of a history, in
which a crowd of presentiments warned him that he himself should yet be
concerned.
"If you must speak, speak here," said that voice which Vincent had
recognised: "it is scarcely the atmosphere for a man of your fine taste,
to be sure; but considering the subject of the conference, it will do.
What do you want with me?"
"By Jove, it looks dangerous!--what do you mean to suggest by this sweet
rendezvous--murder?" said the man, whoever he was, who had accompanied
Mrs. Hilyard to the damp yard of Salem Chapel, with its scattered
graves.
"My nerves are strong," she answered. "It is a pity you should take the
trouble to be melodramatic. Do you think I am vain enough to imagine
that you could subject yourself to all the unpleasant accessories of
being hanged on my account? Fancy a rough hempen rope, and the dirty
fingers that would adjust it. Pah! you would not risk it for me."
Her companion swore a muttered oath. "By Jove! I believe you'd be
content to be murdered, to make such an end of me," he answered, in the
baffled tone of rage which a man naturally sinks into when engaged in
unequal conflict of recrimination with a woman.
"This is too conjugal," said Mrs. Hilyard; "it reminds me of former
experiences: come to the point, I beg of you. You did not come here and
seek me out that we might have an amusing conversation--what do you want
with me?"
"Don't tempt me too far with your confounded impertinence," exclaimed
the man, "or there is no telling what may happen. I want to know where
that child is; you know I do. I mean to reclaim my rights so far as she
is concerned. If she had been a ward in Chancery, a man might have
submitted. But I am a reformed individual--my life is of the most
exemplary description--no court in Christendom would keep her from my
custody now. I want the girl for her own good--she shall marry
brilliantly, which she never could do with you. I know she's grown up
as lovely as I expected----"
"How do you know?" interrupted Mrs. Hilyard, with a certain hoarseness
in her voice.
"Ah! I have touched you at last. Remembering what her mother was," he
went on, in a mocking tone, "though I am grieved to see how much you
have gone off in late years--and having a humble consciousness of her
father's personal advantages, and, in short, of her relatives in
general, I know she's a little beauty--and, by Jove, she shall be a
duchess yet."
There was a pause--something like a hard sob thrilled in the air, rather
a vibration than a sound; and Vincent, making a desperate gesture of
rage towards the school-room, from which a burst of applause at that
moment sounded, approached closer to the window. Then the woman's voice
burst forth passionate, but subdued.
"You have seen her! you!--you that blasted her life before she was born,
and confused her sweet mind for ever--how did you dare to look at my
child? And I," cried the passionate voice, forgetting even
caution--"_I_, that would give my life drop by drop to restore what
never can be restored to that victim of your sin and my weakness--I do
not see her. I refuse myself that comfort. I leave it to others to do
all that love and pity can do for my baby. You speak of murder--man! if
I had a knife, I could find it in my heart to put an end to your horrid
career; and, look you, I will--Coward! I will! I will kill you before
you shall lay your vile hands on my child."
"She-wolf!" cried the man, grinding his teeth, "do you know how much it
would be to my advantage if you never left this lonely spot you have
brought me to? By Jove, I have the greatest mind----"
Another momentary silence. Vincent, wound up to a high state of
excitement, sprang noiselessly to his feet, and was rushing to the
window to proclaim his presence, when Mrs. Hilyard's voice, perfectly
calm, and in its usual tone, brought him back to himself.
"Second thoughts are best. It would compromise you horribly, and put a
stop to many pleasures--not to speak of those dreadful dirty fingers
arranging that rough rope round your neck, which, pardon me, I can't
help thinking of when you associate your own name with such a vulgar
suggestion as murder. _I_ should not mind these little details, but
_you_! However, I excited myself unreasonably, you have not seen her.
That skilful inference of yours was only a lie. She was not at Lonsdale,
you know."
"How the devil do you know I was at Lonsdale?" said her companion.
"I keep myself informed of the movements of so interesting a person. She
was not there."
"No," replied the man, "she was not there; but I need not suggest to
your clear wits that there are other Lonsdales in England. What if Miss
Mildmay were in her father's lawful guardianship now?"
Here the air palpitated with a cry, the cry as of a wild creature in
sudden blind anguish. It was echoed by a laugh of mockery and
exultation. "Should you like me to tell you which of the Lonsdales you
honoured with your patronage?" continued the mocking voice: "that in
Derbyshire, or that in Devonshire, or that in Cumberland? I am afflicted
to have defeated your skilful scheme so easily. Now that you see I am a
match for you, perhaps you will perceive that it is better to yield
peaceably, and unite with me in securing the girl's good. She needs only
to be seen to----"
"Who do you imagine you are addressing, Colonel Mildmay?" said Mrs.
Hilyard, haughtily; "there has been enough of this: you are mistaken if
you think you can deceive me for more than a moment: my child is not in
your hands, and never will be, please God. But mark what I say," she
continued, drawing a fierce, hard breath, "if you should ever succeed in
tracing her--if you should ever be able to snatch her from me--then
confess your sins, and say your last prayers, for as sure as I live you
shall die in a week."
"She-devil! murderess!" cried her companion, not without a certain shade
of alarm in his voice; "if your power were equal to your will----"
"In that case my power should be equal to my will," said the steady,
delicate woman's voice, as clear in very fine articulation as if it were
some peaceful arrangement of daily life for which she declared herself
capable: "you should not escape if you surrounded yourself with a king's
guards. I swear to you, if you do what you say, that I will kill you
somehow, by whatever means I can attain--and I have never yet broken my
word."
An unsteady defiant laugh was the only reply. The man was evidently more
impressed with the sincerity, and power to execute her intentions, of
the woman than she with his. Apparently they stood regarding each other
for another momentary interval in silence. Again Mrs. Hilyard was the
first to speak.
"I presume our conference is over now," she said, calmly; "how you could
think of seeking it is more than I can understand. I suppose poor pretty
Alice, who thinks every woman can be persuaded, induced you to attempt
this. Don't let me keep you any longer in a place so repugnant to your
taste. I am going to the tea-meeting at Salem Chapel to hear my young
friend the minister speak: perhaps this unprofitable discussion has lost
me that advantage. You heard him the other night, and were pleased, I
trust. Good-night. I suppose, before leaving you, I should thank you for
having spared my life."
Vincent heard the curse upon her and her stinging tongue, which burst in
a growl of rage from the lips of the other, but he did not see the
satirical curtsy with which this strange woman swept past, nor the
scarcely controllable impulse which made the man lift his stick and
clench it in his hand as she turned away from him those keen eyes, out
of which even the gloom of night could not quench the light. But even
Mrs. Hilyard herself never knew how near, how very near, she was at that
moment to the unseen world. Had her step been less habitually firm and
rapid,--had she lingered on her way--the temptation might have been too
strong for the man, maddened by many memories. He made one stride after
her, clenching his stick. It was perfectly dark in that narrow passage
which led out to the front of the chapel. She might have been stunned in
a moment, and left there to die, without any man being the wiser. It was
not virtue, nor hatred of bloodshed, nor repugnance to harm her, which
restrained Colonel Mildmay's hand: it was half the rapidity of her
movements, and half the instinct of a gentleman, which vice itself could
not entirely obliterate. Perhaps he was glad when he saw her disappear
from before him down the lighted steps into the Salem schoolroom. He
stood in the darkness and watched her out of sight, himself unseen by
any one, and then departed on his way, a splendid figure, all unlike the
population of Grove Street. Some of the Salem people, dispersing at the
moment, saw him sauntering down the street grand and leisurely, and
recognised the gentleman who had been seen in the Music Hall with Lady
Western. They thought he must have come privately once more to listen to
their minister's eloquence. Probably Lady Western herself, the leader of
fashion in Carlingford, would appear next Sunday to do Mr. Vincent
honour. The sight of this very fine gentleman picking his leisurely way
along the dark pavement of Grove Street, leaning confidingly upon that
stick over which his tall person swayed with fashionable languor, gave a
climax to the evening in the excited imaginations of Mr. Vincent's
admirers. Nobody but the minister and one utterly unnoted individual in
the crowd knew what had brought the Colonel and his stick to such a
place. Nobody but the Colonel himself, and the watchful heavens above,
knew how little had prevented him from leaving a silent, awful witness
of that secret interview upon the chapel steps.
When Mr. Vincent returned to the platform, which he did hurriedly, Mr.
Pigeon was addressing the meeting. In the flutter of inquiries whether
he was better, and gentle hopes from Phoebe that his studies had not
been too much for him, nobody appeared to mark the eagerness of his
eyes, and the curiosity in his face. He sat down in his old place, and
pretended to listen to Mr. Pigeon. Anxiously from under the shadow of
his hands he inspected the crowd before him, who had recovered their
spirits. In a corner close to the door he at last found the face he was
in search of. Mrs. Hilyard sat at the end of a table, leaning her face
on her hand. She had her eyes fixed upon the speaker, and there passed
now and then across the corners of her close-shut mouth that momentary
movement which was her symbol for a smile. She was not _pretending_ to
listen, but giving her entire attention to the honest poulterer. Now and
then she turned her eyes from Pigeon, and perused the room and the
company with rapid glances of amusement and keen observation. Perhaps
her eyes gleamed keener, and her dark cheek owned a slight flush--that
was all. Out of her mysterious life--out of that interview, so full of
violence and passion--the strange woman came, without a moment's
interval, to amuse herself by looking at and listening to all those
homely innocent people. Could it be that she was taking notes of
Pigeon's speech? Suddenly, all at once, she had taken a pencil out of
her pocket and began to write, glancing up now and then towards the
speaker. Mr. Vincent's head swam with the wonder he was
contemplating--was she flesh and blood after all, or some wonderful
skeleton living a galvanic life? But when he asked himself the question,
her cry of sudden anguish, her wild, wicked promise to kill the man who
stole her daughter, came over his mind, and arrested his thoughts. He,
dallying as he was on the verge of life, full of fantastic hopes and
disappointment, could only pretend to listen to Pigeon; but the good
poulterer turned gratified eyes towards Mrs. Hilyard. He recognised her
real attention and interest; was it the height of voluntary sham and
deception?--or was she really taking notes?
The mystery was solved after the meeting was over. There was some music,
in the first place--anthems in which all the strength of Salem united,
Tozer taking a heavy bass, while Phoebe exerted herself so in the
soprano that Mr. Vincent's attention was forcibly called off his own
meditations, in terror lest something should break in the throat so
hardly strained. Then there were some oranges, another speech, a hymn,
and a benediction; and then Mr. Raffles sprang joyfully up, and leaned
over the platform to shake hands with his friends. This last process was
trying. Mr. Vincent, who could no longer take refuge in silence,
descended into the retiring throng. He was complimented on his speech,
and even by some superior people, who had a mind to be fashionable, upon
the delightful evening they had enjoyed. When they were all gone, there
were still the Tozers, the Browns, the Pigeons, Mrs. Tufton, and Mr.
Raffles. He was turning back to them disconsolate, when he was suddenly
confronted by Mrs. Hilyard out of her corner with the fly-leaf of the
hymn-book the unscrupulous woman had been writing in, torn out in her
hand.
"Stop a minute!" she cried; "I want to speak to you. I want your help,
if you will give it me. Don't be surprised at what I ask. Is your mother
a good woman--was it she that trained you to act to the forlorn as you
did to me last night? I have been too hasty--I take away your
breath;--never mind, there is no time to choose one's words. The
butterman is looking at us, Mr. Vincent. The ladies are alarmed; they
think I want spiritual consolation at this unsuitable moment. Make
haste--answer my question. Would she do an act of Christian charity to a
woman in distress?"
"My mother is--yes, I know she would, what do you want of her?--my
mother is the best and tenderest of women," cried Vincent, in utter
amazement.
"I want to send a child to her--a persecuted, helpless child, whom it is
the object of my life to keep out of evil hands," said Mrs. Hilyard, her
dark thin face growing darker and more pallid, her eyes softening with
tears. "She will be safe at Lonsdale now, and I cannot go in my own
person at present to take her anywhere. Here is a message for the
telegraph," she added, holding up the paper which Vincent had supposed
to be notes of Mr. Pigeon's speech; "take it for me--send it off
to-night--you will? and write to your mother; she shall suffer no loss,
and I will thank her on my knees. It is life or death."
"I know--I am aware!" cried Vincent, not knowing what he said. "There is
no time to be lost."
She put the paper into his hand, and clasped it tight between both of
hers, not knowing in the excitement which she was so well trained to
repress, that he had betrayed any special knowledge of her distress. It
seemed natural, in that strain of desperation, that everybody should
understand her. "Come to-morrow and tell me," she said, hurriedly, and
then hastened away, leaving him with the paper folded close into his
hand as her hard grasp had left it. He turned away from the group which
awaited his coming with some curiosity and impatience, and read the
message by the light of one of the garlanded and festive lamps. "Rachel
Russell to Miss Smith, Lonsdale, Devonshire. Immediately on receiving
this, take the child to Lonsdale, near Peterborough--to Mrs. Vincent's;
leave the train at some station near town, and drive to a corresponding
station on the Great Northern; don't enter London. Blue veil--care--not
to be left for an instant. I trust all to you." Mr. Vincent put the
message in his pocketbook, took it out again--tried it in his purse, his
waistcoat pocket, everywhere he could think of--finally, closed his hand
over it as at first, and in a high state of excitement went up to the
chattering group at the little platform, the only thought in his mind
being how to get rid of them, that he might hasten upon his mission
before the telegraph office was closed for the night.
And, as was to be expected, Mr. Vincent found it no easy matter to get
rid of the Tozers and Pigeons, who were all overflowing about the
tea-party, its provisions, its speeches, and its success. He stood with
that bit of paper clenched in his hand, and endured the jokes of his
reverend brother, the remarks of Mrs. Tufton, the blushes of Phoebe.
He stood for half an hour at least perforce in unwilling and constrained
civility--at last he became desperate;--with a wild promise to return
presently, he rushed out into the night. The station was about half a
mile out of Carlingford, at the new end, a long way past Dr. Rider's.
When Vincent reached it, the telegraph clerk was putting on his hat to
go away, and did not relish the momentary detention; when the message
was received and despatched, the young minister drew breath--he went out
of the office, wiping his hot forehead, to the railway platform, where
the last train for town was just starting. As Vincent stood recovering
himself and regaining his breath, the sudden flash of a match struck in
one of the carriages attracted his attention. He looked, and saw by the
light of the lamp inside a man stooping to light his cigar. The action
brought the face, bending down close to the window, clearly out against
the dark-blue background of the empty carriage; hair light, fine, and
thin, in long but scanty locks--a high-featured eagle-face, too sharp
for beauty now, but bearing all the traces of superior good looks
departed--a light beard, so light that it did not count for its due in
the aspect of that remarkable countenance--a figure full of ease and
haughty grace: all these particulars Vincent noted with a keen rapid
inspection. In another moment the long leash of carriages had plunged
into the darkness. With a strange flush of triumph he watched them
disappear, and turned away with a smile on his lips. The message of
warning was already tingling along the sensitive wires, and must
outspeed the slow human traveller. This face, which so stamped itself
upon his memory, which he fancied he could see pictured on the air as he
returned along the dark road, was the face of the man who had been Lady
Western's companion at the lecture. That it was the same face which had
confronted Mrs. Hilyard in the dark graveyard behind Salem Chapel he
never doubted. With a thrill of active hatred and fierce enmity which it
was difficult to account for, and still more difficult for a man of his
profession to excuse, the young man looked forward to the unknown future
with a certainty of meeting that face again.
We drop a charitable veil over the conclusion of the night. Mr. Raffles
and Mr. Vincent supped at Pigeon's, along with the Browns and Tozers;
and Phoebe's testimony is on record that it was a feast of reason and
a flow of soul.