Mrs. Vincent came to a dead stop as they passed the doors of Salem,
which were ajar, taking resolution in the desperateness of her
uncertainty--for the feelings in the widow's mind were not confined to
one burning impulse of terror for Susan, but complicated by a wonderful
amount of flying anxieties about other matters as well. _She_ knew, by
many teachings of experience, what would be said by all the connection,
when it was known that the minister's mother had been in Carlingford
without going to see anybody--not even Mrs. Tufton, the late minister's
wife, or Mrs. Tozer, who was so close at hand. Though her heart was
racked, Mrs. Vincent knew her duty. She stopped short in her fright and
distress with the mild obduracy of which she was capable. Before rushing
away out of Carlingford to protect her daughter, the mother,
notwithstanding her anxiety, could not forget the injury which she might
possibly do by this means to the credit of her son.
"Arthur, the chapel is open--I should like to go in and rest," she said,
with a little gasp; "and oh, my dear boy, take a little pity upon me! To
see the state you are in, and not to know anything, is dreadful. You
must have a vestry, where one could sit down a little--let us go in."
"A vestry--yes; it will be a fit place," cried Vincent, scarcely knowing
what he was saying, and indeed worn out with the violence of his own
emotions. This little persistent pause of the widow, who was not
absorbed by any one passionate feeling, but took all the common cares of
life with her into her severest trouble, awoke the young man to himself.
He, too, recollected that this enemy who had stolen into his house was
not to be reached by one wild rush, and that everything could not be
suffered to plunge after Susan's happiness into an indiscriminate gulf
of ruin. All his own duties pricked at his heart with bitter reminders
in that moment when he stood by the door of Salem, where two poor women
were busy inside, with pails and brushes, preparing for Sunday. The
minister, too, had to prepare for Sunday. He could not dart forth,
breathing fire and flame at a moment's notice, upon the serpent who had
entered his Eden. Even at this dreadful moment, in all the fever of such
a discovery, the touch of his mother's hand upon his arm brought him
back to his lot. He pushed open the mean door, and led her into the
scene of his weekly labours with a certain sickening disgust in his
heart which would have appalled his companion. _She_ was a dutiful
woman, subdued by long experience of that inevitable necessity against
which all resistance fails; and he a passionate young man, naturally a
rebel against every such bond. They could not understand each other; but
the mother's troubled face, all conscious of Tufton and Tozer, and what
the connection would say, brought all the weight of his own particular
burden back upon Vincent's mind. He pushed in past the pails with a
certain impatience which grieved Mrs. Vincent. She followed him with a
pained and disapproving look, nodding, with a faint little smile, to the
women, who no doubt were members of the flock, and might spread an evil
report of the pastor, who took no notice of them. As she followed him to
the vestry, she could not help thinking, with a certain strange mixture
of pain, vexation, and tender pride, how different his dear father would
have been. "But Arthur, dear boy, has my quick temper," sighed the
troubled woman. After all, it was her fault rather than her son's.
"This is a very nice room," said Mrs. Vincent, sitting down with an air
of relief; "but I think it would be better to close the window, as there
is no fire. You were always very susceptible to cold, Arthur, from a
child. And now, my dear boy, we are undisturbed, and out of those
dreadful glaring streets where everybody knows you. I have not troubled
you, Arthur, for I saw you were very much troubled; but, oh! don't keep
me anxious now."
"Keep you anxious! You ask me to make you anxious beyond anything you
can think of," said the young man, closing the window with a hasty and
fierce impatience, which she could not understand. "Good heavens,
mother! why did you let that man into your innocent house?"
"Who is he, Arthur?" asked Mrs. Vincent, with a blanched face.
"He is----" Vincent stopped with his hand upon the window where he had
overheard that conversation, a certain awe coming over him. Even Susan
went out of his mind when he thought of the dreadful calmness with which
his strange acquaintance had promised to kill her companion of that
night. Had she started already on this mission of vengeance? A cold
thrill came over him where he stood. "I can't tell who he is," he
exclaimed, abruptly, throwing himself down upon the little sofa; "but it
was to be in safety from him that Mrs. Hilyard sent her daughter to
Lonsdale. It was he whom she vowed to kill if he found the child.
Ah!--he is," cried the young man, springing to his feet again with a
sudden pang and smothered exclamation as the truth dawned upon him,
"Lady Western's brother. What other worse thing he is I cannot tell.
Ruin, misery, and horror at the least--death to Susan--not much less to
me."
"To you? Oh, Arthur, have pity upon me, my heart is breaking," said Mrs.
Vincent. "Oh, my boy, my boy, whom I would die to save from any trouble!
don't tell me I have destroyed you. That cannot be, Arthur--_that_
cannot be!"
The poor minister did not say anything--his heart was bitter within him.
He paced up and down the vestry with dreadful thoughts. What was She to
him if she had a hundred brothers? Nothing in the world could raise the
young Nonconformist to that sweet height which she made beautiful; and
far beyond that difference came the cruel recollection of those smiles
and tears--pathetic, involuntary confessions. If there was another man
in the world whom she could trust "with life--to death!" what did it
matter though a thousand frightful combinations involved poor Vincent
with her kindred? He tried to remind himself of all this, but did not
succeed. In the mean time, the fact glared upon him that it was her
brother who had aimed this deadly blow at the honour and peace of his
own humble house; and his heart grew sad with the thought that, however
indifferent she might be to him, however unattainable, here was a
distinct obstacle which must cut off all that bewildering tantalising
intercourse which at present was still possible, notwithstanding every
other hindrance. He thought of this, and not of Susan, as the floor of
the little vestry thrilled under his feet. He was bitter, aggrieved,
indignant. His troubled mother, who sat by there, half afraid to cry,
watching him with frightened, anxious, uncomprehending eyes, had done
him a sharp and personal injury. _She_ could not fancy how it was, nor
what she could have done. She followed him with mild tearful glances,
waiting with a woman's compelled patience till he should come to
himself, and revolving thoughts of Salem, and supply for the pulpit
there, with an anxious pertinacity. But in her way Mrs. Vincent was a
wise woman. She did not speak--she let him wear himself out first in
that sudden apprehension of the misfortune personal to himself, which
was at the moment so much more poignant and bitter than any other dread.
When he had subsided a little--and first of all he threw up the window,
leaning out, to his mother's great vexation, with a total disregard of
the draught, and receiving the chill of the January breeze upon his
heated brow--she ventured to say, gently, "Arthur, what are we to do?"
"To go to Lonsdale," said Vincent. "When we came in here, I thought we
could rush off directly; but these women outside there, and this place,
remind me that I am not a free man, who can go at once and do his duty.
I am in fetters to Salem, mother. Heaven knows when I may be able to get
away. Sunday must be provided for first. No natural immediate action is
possible to me."
"Hush, Arthur dear--oh, hush! Your duty to your flock is above your duty
even to your sister," said the widow, with a tremulous voice, timid of
saying anything to him whose mood she could not comprehend. "You must
find out when the first train starts, and I will go. I have been very
foolish," faltered the poor mother, "as you say, Arthur; but if my poor
child is to bear such a dreadful blow, I am the only one to take care of
her. Susan"--here she made a pause, her lip trembled, and she had all
but broken into tears--"will not upbraid me, dear. You must not neglect
your duty, whatever happens; and now let us go and inquire about the
train, Arthur, and you can come on Monday, after your work is over; and,
oh! my dear boy, we must not repine, but accept the arrangements of
Providence. It was what your dear father always said to his dying day."
Her face all trembling and pale, her eyes full of tears which were not
shed, her tender humility, which never attempted a defence, and those
motherly, tremulous, wistful advices which it now for the first time
dawned upon Mrs. Vincent her son was not certain to take, moved the
young Nonconformist out of his personal vexation and misery.
"This will not do," he said. "I must go with you; and we must go
directly. Susan may be less patient, less believing, less ready to take
our word for it, than you imagine, mother. Come; if there is anybody to
be got to do this preaching, the thing will be easy. Tozer will help me,
perhaps. We will waste no more time here."
"I am quite rested, Arthur dear," said Mrs. Vincent; "and it will be
right for me to call at Mrs. Tozer's too. I wish I could have gone to
Mrs. Tufton's, and perhaps some others of your people. But you must tell
them, dear, that I was very hurried--and--and not very well; and that it
was family business that brought me here."
"I do not see they have any business with the matter," said the
rebellious minister.
"My dear, it will of course be known that I was in Carlingford; and I
know how things are spoken of in a flock," said Mrs. Vincent, rising;
"but you must tell them all I wanted to come, and could not--which,
indeed, will be quite true. A minister's family ought to be very
careful, Arthur," added the much-experienced woman. "I know how little a
thing makes mischief in a congregation. Perhaps, on the whole, I ought
not to call at Mrs. Tozer's, as there is no time to go elsewhere. But
still I should like to do it. One good friend is often everything to a
young pastor. And, my dear, you should just say a word in passing to the
women outside."
"By way of improving the occasion?" said Vincent, with a little scorn.
"Mother, don't torture yourself about me. I shall get on very well; and
we have plenty on our hands just now without thinking of Salem. Come,
come; with this horrible cloud overhanging Susan, how can you spare a
thought for such trifles as these?"
"Oh, Arthur, my dear boy, must not we keep you right?" said his mother;
"are not you our only hope? If this dreadful news you tell me is true,
my child will break her heart, and I will be the cause of it; and Susan
has no protector or guardian, Arthur dear, that can take care of her,
but you."
Wiping her eyes, and walking with a feeble step, Mrs. Vincent followed
her son out of Salem; but she looked up with gentle interest to his
pulpit as she passed, and said it was a cold day to the cleaners, with
anxious carefulness. She was not carried away from her palpable
standing-ground by any wild tempest of anxiety. Susan, whose heart would
be broken by this blow, was her mother's special object in life; but the
thought of that coming sorrow which was to crush the girl's heart, made
Mrs. Vincent only the more anxiously concerned to conciliate and please
everybody whose influence could be of any importance to her son.
So they came out into the street together, and went on to Tozer's shop.
She, tremulous, watchful, noting everything; now lost in thought as to
how the dreadful truth was to be broken to Susan; now in anxious plans
for impressing upon Arthur the necessity of considering his people--he,
stinging with personal wounds and bitterness, much more deeply alarmed
than his mother, and burning with consciousness of all the complications
which she was totally ignorant of. Fury against the villain himself,
bitter vexation that he was Lady Western's brother, anger at his mother
for admitting, at Susan for giving him her heart, at Mrs. Hilyard for he
could not tell what, because she had added a climax to all, burned in
Vincent's mind as he went on to George Street with his mother leaning on
his arm, who asked him after every wayfarer who passed them, Who was
that? It was not wonderful that the young man gradually grew into a
fever of excitement and restless misery. Everything conspired to
exasperate him,--even the fact that Sunday came so near, and could not
be escaped. The whirl of his brain came to a climax when Lady Western's
carriage drove past, and through the mist of his wretchedness he saw the
smile and the beautiful hand waved to him in sweet recognition. Oh
heaven! to bring tears to those eyes, or a pang to that heart!--to have
her turn from him shuddering, or pass him with cold looks, because her
brother was a villain, and _he_ the avenger of that crime! His mother,
almost running to keep up with his unconsciously quickened pace, cast
pitiful looks at him, inquiring what it was. The poor young fellow could
not have told even if he would. It was a combination of miseries,
sharply stimulated to the intolerable point by the mission on which he
had now to enter Tozer's shop.
"We heard you was come, ma'am," said Tozer, graciously, "and in course
was looking for a call. I hope you are going to stay awhile and help us
take care of the pastor. He don't take that care of himself as his
friends would wish," said the butterman. "Mr. Vincent, sir, I've a deal
to say to you when you're at leisure. Old Mr. Tufton, he has a deal to
say to you. We are as anxious as ever we can be, us as are old stagers,
to keep the minister straight, ma'am. He's but a young man, and he's
come into a deal of popularity, and any one more thought on in our
connection, I don't know as I would wish to see; but it wouldn't do to
let him have his head turned. Them lectures on Church and State couldn't
but be remarked, being delivered, as you may say, in the world, all on
us making a sacrifice to do our duty by our fellow-creaturs, seein' what
we had in our power. But man is but mortal; and us Salem folks don't
like to see no signs of that weakness in a pastor; it's our duty to see
as his head's not turned."
"Indeed, I trust there is very little fear of that," said Mrs. Vincent,
roused, and set on the defensive. "My dear boy has been used to be
appreciated, and to have people round him who could understand him. As
for having his head turned, that might happen to a man who did not know
what intelligent approbation was; but after doing so well as he did at
college, and having his dear father's approval, I must say I don't see
any cause to apprehend _that_, Mr. Tozer. I am not surprised at all, for
my part,--I always knew what my Arthur could do."
"No more of this," said Vincent, impatiently. "Look here, I have come
on a special business. Can any one be got, do you think, to preach on
Sunday? I must go home with my mother to-day."
"To-day!" Tozer opened his eyes, with a blank stare, as he slowly took
off his apron. "You was intimated to begin that course on the Miracles,
Mr. Vincent, if you'll excuse _me_, on Sunday. Salem folks is a little
sharp, I don't deny. It would be a great disappointment, and I can't say
I think as it would be took well if you was to go away."
"I can't help that," said the unfortunate minister, to whom opposition
at this moment was doubly intolerable. "The Salem people, I presume,
will hear reason. My mother has come upon----"
"Family business," interrupted Mrs. Vincent, with the deepest trembling
anxiety. "Arthur dear, let me explain it, for you are too susceptible.
My son is all the comfort we have in the world, Mr. Tozer," said the
anxious widow. "I ought not to have told him how much his sister wanted
him, but I was rash, and did so; and now I ought to bear the penalty. I
have made him anxious about Susan; but, Arthur dear, never mind; you
must let me go by myself, and on Monday you can come. Your dear father
always said his flock was his first duty, and if Sunday is a special
day, as Mr. Tozer says----"
"Oh, Pa, is it Mrs. Vincent? and you keep her in the shop, when we are
all as anxious as ever we can be to see her," said Phoebe, who
suddenly came upon the scene. "Oh, please to come up-stairs to the
drawing-room. Oh, I _am_ so glad to see you! and it was so unkind of Mr.
Vincent not to let us know you were coming. Mamma wanted to ask you to
come here, for she thought it would be more comfortable than a
bachelor's rooms; and we did think the minister would have told _us_,"
said Phoebe, with reproachful looks; "but now that you have come back
again, after such a long time, please, Mr. Vincent, let your mother come
up-stairs. They say you don't think us good enough to be trusted now;
but oh, I don't think you could ever be like that!" continued Phoebe,
pausing by the door as she ushered Mrs. Vincent into the drawing-room,
and giving the minister an appealing remonstrative glance before she
dropped her eyelids in virginal humility. Poor Vincent paused too,
disgusted and angry, but with a certain confusion. To fling out of the
house, dash off to his rooms, make his hasty preparations for the
journey, was the impulse which possessed him; but his mother was looking
back with wistful curiosity, wondering what the two could mean by
pausing behind her at the door.
"I am exactly as I was the last time I saw you, which was on Tuesday,"
he said, with some indignation. "I will follow you, please. My mother
has no time to spare, as she leaves to-day--can Mrs. Tozer see her? She
has been agitated and worn out, and we have not really a moment to
spare."
"Appearingly not--not for your own friends, Mr. Vincent," said Mrs.
Tozer, who now presented herself. "I hope I see you well, ma'am, and
proud to see you in my house, though I will say the minister don't show
himself not so kind as was to be wished. Phoebe, don't put on none o'
your pleading looks--for shame of yourself, Miss! If Mr. Vincent has
them in Carlingford as he likes better than any in his own flock, it
ain't no concern of ours. It's a thing well known as the Salem folks are
all in trade, and don't drive their carriages, nor give themselves up to
this world and vanity. I never saw no good come, for my part, of folks
sacrificing theirselves and their good money as Tozer and the rest set
their hearts on, with that Music Hall and them advertisings and
things--not as I was meaning to upbraid you, Mr. Vincent, particular not
before your mother, as is a stranger--but we was a deal comfortabler
before them lectures and things, and taking off your attention from your
own flock."
Before this speech was finished, the whole party had assembled in the
drawing-room, where a newly-lighted fire, hastily set light to on the
spur of the moment by Phoebe, was sputtering drearily. Mrs. Vincent
had been placed in an arm-chair at one side, and Mrs. Tozer, spreading
out her black silk apron and arranging her cap, set herself doggedly on
the other, with a little toss of her head and careful averting of her
eyes from the accused pastor. Tozer, without his apron, had drawn a
chair to the table, and was drumming on it with the blunt round ends of
his fingers; while Phoebe, in a slightly pathetic attitude, ready for
general conciliation, hovered near the minister, who grew red all over,
and clenched his hand with an emphasis most intelligible to his
frightened mother. The dreadful pause was broken by Phoebe, who rushed
to the rescue.
"Oh, Ma, how can you!" cried that young lady--"you were all worrying
and teasing Mr. Vincent, you know you were; and if he does know that
beautiful lady," said Phoebe, with her head pathetically on one side,
and another glance at him, still more appealing and tenderly
reproachful--"and--and likes to go to see her--it's--it's the naturalest
thing that ever was. Oh, I knew he never could think anything of anybody
else in Carlingford after Lady Western! and I am sure, whatever other
people may say, I--I--never can think Mr. Vincent was to blame."
Phoebe's words were interrupted by her feelings--she sank back into a
seat when she had concluded, and put a handkerchief to her eyes. As for
Tozer, he still drummed on the table. A certain human sympathy was in
the mind of the butterman, but he deferred to the readier utterance of
his indignant wife.
"I never said it was any concern of ours," said Mrs. Tozer. "It ain't
our way to court nobody as doesn't seek our company; but a minister as
we've all done a deal to make comfortable, and took an interest in equal
to a son, and has been made such a fuss about as I never see in our
connection--it's disappointing, I will say, to see him a-going off after
worldly folks that don't care no more about religion than I do about
playing the piano. Not as Phoebe doesn't play the piano better than
most--but such things ain't in my thoughts. I do say it's disappointing,
and gives folks a turn. If she's pretty-lookin'--as she may be, for what
I can tell--it ain't none of the pastor's business. Them designing
ladies is the ruin of a young man; and when he deserts his flock, as
are making sacrifices, and goes off after strangers, I don't say if it's
right or wrong, but I say it's disappointin', and what wasn't looked for
at Mr. Vincent's hands."
Vincent had listened up to this point with moderate
self-restraint--partially, perhaps, subdued by the alarmed expression of
his mother's face, who had fixed her anxious eyes upon him, and vainly
tried to convey telegraphic warnings; but the name of Lady Western stung
him. "What is all this about?" he asked, with assumed coldness. "Nobody
supposes, surely, that I am to render an account of my private friends
to the managers of the chapel. It is a mistake, if it has entered any
imagination. I shall do nothing of the kind. There is enough of this.
When I neglect my duties, I presume I shall hear of it more seriously.
In the mean time, I have real business in hand."
"But, Arthur dear, I daresay some one has misunderstood you," said his
mother; "it always turns out so. I came the day before yesterday, Mrs.
Tozer. I left home very suddenly in great anxiety, and I was very much
fatigued by the journey, and I must go back to-day. I have been very
selfish, taking my son away from his usual occupations. Never mind me,
Arthur dear; if you have any business, leave me to rest a little with
Mrs. Tozer. I can take such a liberty here, because I know she is such a
friend of yours. Don't keep Mr. Tozer away from his business on my
account. I know what it is when time is valuable. I will just stay a
little with Mrs. Tozer, and you can let me know when it is time for the
train. Yes, I came up very hurriedly," said the gentle diplomatist,
veiling her anxiety as she watched the gloomy countenances round her.
"We had heard some bad news; I had to ask my son to go to town yesterday
for me, and--and I must go home to-day without much comfort. I feel a
good deal shaken, but I dare not stay away any longer from my dear child
at home."
"Dear, dear; I hope it's nothing serious as has happened?" said Mrs.
Tozer, slightly mollified.
"It is some bad news about the gentleman Susan was going to marry," said
Mrs. Vincent, with a rapid calculation of the necessities of the
position; "and she does not know yet. Arthur, my dear boy, it would be a
comfort to my mind to know about the train."
"Oh, and you will be so fatigued!" said Phoebe. "I do so hope it's
nothing bad. I _am_ so interested about Miss Vincent. Oh, Pa, do go
down-stairs and look at the railway bill. Won't you lie down on the sofa
a little and rest? Fancy, mamma, taking two journeys in three days!--it
would kill you; and, oh, I do so hope it is nothing very bad. I have so
longed to see you and Mr. Vincent's sister. He told me all about her one
evening. Is the gentleman ill? But do lie down and rest after all your
fatigue. Mamma, don't you think it would do Mrs. Vincent good?"
"We'll have a bit of dinner presently," said Mrs. Tozer. "Phoebe, go
and fetch the wine. There is one thing in trouble, that it makes folks
find out their real friends. It wouldn't be to Lady Western the
minister would think of taking his mother. I ain't saying anything,
Tozer--nor Mr. Vincent needn't think I am saying anything. If I speak my
mind a bit, I don't bear malice. Phoebe's a deal too feelin', Mrs.
Vincent--she's overcome, that's what she is; and if I must speak the
truth, it's disappointing to see our pastor, as we've all made
sacrifices for, following after the ungodly. I am a mother myself,"
continued Mrs. Tozer, changing her seat, as her husband, followed by the
indignant Vincent, went down-stairs, "and I know a mother's feelin's:
but after what I heard from Mrs. Pigeon, and how it's going through all
the connection in Carlingford----"
Mrs. Vincent roused herself to listen. Her son's cause was safe in her
hands.
Meantime Vincent went angry and impetuous down-stairs. "I will not
submit to any inquisition," cried the young man. "I have done nothing I
am ashamed of. If I dine with a friend, I will suffer no questioning on
the subject. What do you mean? What right has any man in any connection
to interfere with my actions? Why, you would not venture to attack your
servant so! Am I the servant of this congregation? Am I their slave?
Must I account to them for every accident of my life? Nobody in the
world has a right to make such a demand upon me."
"If a minister ain't a servant, we pays him his salary at the least, and
expects him to please us," said Tozer, sulkily. "If it weren't for that,
I don't give a sixpence for the Dissenting connection. Them as likes to
please themselves would be far better in a State Church, where it
wouldn't disappoint nobody; not meaning to be hard on you as has given
great satisfaction, them's my views; but if the Chapel folks is a little
particular, it's no more nor a pastor's duty to bear with them, and
return a soft answer. I don't say as I'm dead again' you, like the
women," added the butterman, softening; "they're jealous, that's what
they are; but I couldn't find it in my heart, not for my own part, to be
hard on a man as was led away after a beautiful creature like that. But
there can't no good come of it, Mr. Vincent; take my advice, sir, as
have seen a deal of the world--there can't no good come of it. A man as
goes dining with Lady Western, and thinking as she means to make a
friend of him, ain't the man for Salem. We're different sort of folks,
and we can't go on together. Old Mr. Tufton will tell you just the same,
as has gone through it all--and that's why I said both him and me had a
deal to say to you, as are a young man, and should take good advice."
It was well for Vincent that the worthy butterman was lengthy in his
address. The sharp impression of resentment and indignation which
possessed him calmed down under this outpouring of words. He bethought
himself of his dignity, his character. A squabble of self-defence, in
which the sweet name of the lady of his dreams must be involved--an
angry encounter of words about her, down here in this mean world to
which the very thought of her was alien, wound up her young worshipper
into supernatural self-restraint. He edged past the table in the
back-parlour to the window, and stood there looking out with a
suppressed fever in his veins, biting his lip, and bearing his lecture.
On the whole, the best way, perhaps, would have been to leave
Carlingford at once, as another man would have done, and leave the
Sunday to take care of itself. But though he groaned under his bonds,
the young Nonconformist was instinctively confined by them, and had the
habits of a man trained in necessary subjection to circumstances. He
turned round abruptly when the butterman at last came to a pause.
"I will write to one of my friends in Homerton," he said, "if you will
make an apology for me in the chapel. I daresay I could get Beecher to
come down, who is a very clever fellow; and as for the beginning of that
course of sermons----"
He stopped short with a certain suppressed disgust. Good heavens! what
mockery it seemed. Amid these agonies of life, a man overwhelmed with
deadly fear, hatred, and grief might indeed pause to snatch a burning
lesson, or appropriate with trembling hands a consolatory promise; but
with the whole solemn future of his sister's life hanging on a touch,
with all the happiness and peace of his own involved in a feverish
uncertainty, with dark unsuspected depths of injury and wretchedness
opening at his feet--to think of courses of sermons and elaborate
preachments, ineffectual words, and pretences of teaching! For the first
time in the commotion of his soul, in the resentments and forebodings to
which he gave no utterance, in the bitter conviction of uncertainty in
everything which consumed his heart, a doubt of his own ability to teach
came to Vincent's mind. He stopped short with an intolerable pang of
impatience and self-disgust.
"And what of that, Mr. Vincent?" said Tozer. "I can't say as I think
it'll be well took to see a stranger in the pulpit after them
intimations. I made it my business to send the notices out last night;
and after saying everywhere as you were to begin a coorse, as I always
advised, if you had took my advice, it ain't a way to stop talk to put
them off now. Old Mr. Tufton, you know, he was a different man; it was
experience as was his line; and I don't mean to say nothing against
experience," said the worthy deacon. "There ain't much true godliness,
take my word, where there's a shrinking from disclosin' the state of
your soul; but for keeping up a congregation there's nothing I know on
like a coorse--and a clever young man as has studied his subjects, and
knows the manners of them old times, and can give a bit of a description
as takes the interest, that's what I'd set my heart on for Salem.
There's but three whole pews in the chapel as isn't engaged," said the
butterman, with a softening glance at the pastor; "and the Miss Hemmings
sent over this morning to say as they meant to come regular the time you
was on the Miracles; and but for this cackle of the women, as you'll
soon get over, there ain't a thing as I can see to stop us filling up to
the most influential chapel in the connection; I mean in our parts."
The subdued swell of expectation with which the ambitious butterman
concluded, somehow made Vincent more tolerant even in his undiminished
excitement. He gave a subdued groan over all this that was expected of
him, but not without a little answering thrill in his own troubled and
impatient heart.
"A week can't make much difference, if I am ever to do any good," said
the young man. "I must go now; but if you explain the matter for me, you
will smooth the way. I will bring my mother and sister here," he went
on, giving himself over for a moment to a little gleam of comfort, "and
everything will go on better. I am worried and anxious now, and don't
know what I am about. Give me some paper, and I will write to Beecher.
You will like him. He is a good fellow, and preaches much better than I
do," added poor Vincent with a sigh, sitting wearily down by the big
table. He was subdued to his condition at that moment, and Tozer
appreciated the momentary humbleness.
"I am not the man to desert my minister when he's in trouble," said the
brave butterman. "Look you here, Mr. Vincent; don't fret yourself about
it. I'll take it in hand; and I'd like to see the man in Salem as would
say to the contrary again' me and the pastor both. Make your mind easy;
I'll manage 'em. As for the women," said Tozer, scratching his head, "I
don't pretend not to be equal to that; but my missis is as reasonable as
most; and Phoebe, she'll stand up for you, whatever you do. If you'll
take my advice, and be a bit prudent, and don't go after no more
vanities, things ain't so far wrong but a week or two will make them
right."
With this consolatory assurance Vincent began to write his letter.
Before he had concluded it, the maid came to lay the cloth for dinner,
thrusting him into a corner, where he accomplished his writing painfully
on his knee with his ink on the window-sill, a position in which
Phoebe found him when she ventured down-stairs. It was she who took
his letter from him, and ran with it to the shop to despatch it at once;
and Phoebe came back to tell him that Mrs. Vincent was resting, and
that it was _so_ pleasant to see him back again after such a time. "I
never expected you would have any patience for us when I saw you knew
Lady Western _so_ well. Oh, she is so sweetly pretty! and if I were a
gentleman, I know I should fall _deep_ in love with her," said Phoebe,
with a sidelong glance, and not without hopes of calling forth a
disclaimer from the minister; but the poor minister, jammed up in the
corner, whence it was now necessary to extricate his chair preparatory
to sitting down to a family dinner with the Tozers, was, as usual,
unequal to the occasion, and had nothing to say. Phoebe's chair was by
the minister's side during that substantial meal; and the large fire
which burned behind Mrs. Tozer at the head of the table, and the
steaming viands on the hospitable board, and the prevailing atmosphere
of cheese and bacon which entered when the door was opened, made even
Mrs. Vincent pale and flush a little in the heroic patience and
friendliness with which she bent all her powers to secure the support of
these adherents to her son. "I could have wished, Arthur, they were a
little more refined," she said, faintly, when the dinner was over, and
they were at last on their way to the train; "but I am sure they are
very _genuine_, my dear; and one good friend is often everything to a
pastor; and I am so glad we went at such a time." So glad! The young
Nonconformist heaved a tempestuous sigh, and turned away not without a
reflection upon the superficial emotions of women who at such a time
could be glad. But Mrs. Vincent, for her part, with a fatigue and
sickness of heart which she concealed from herself as much as she could,
let down her veil, and cried quietly behind it. Perhaps her share of the
day's exhaustion had not been the mildest or least hard.