It was the very height of day when the travellers arrived in
Carlingford. It would be vain to attempt to describe their transit
through London in the bustling sunshine of the winter morning after the
vigil of that night, and in the frightful suspense and excitement of
their minds. Vincent remembered, for years after, certain cheerful
street-corners, round which they turned on their way from one station to
another, with shudders of recollection, and an intense consciousness of
all the life circulating about them, even to the attitudes of the boys
that swept the crossings, and their contrast with each other. His mother
made dismal attempts now and then to say something; that he was looking
pale; that after all he could yet preach, and begin his course on the
Miracles; that it would be such a comfort to rest when they got home;
but at last became inaudible, though he knew by her bending across to
him, and the motion of those parched lips with which she still tried to
smile, that the widow still continued to make those pathetic little
speeches without knowing that she had become speechless in the rising
tide of her agony. But at last they reached Carlingford, where
everything was at its brightest, all the occupations of life afloat in
the streets, and sunshine, lavish though ineffectual, brightening the
whole aspect of the town. When they emerged from the railway, Mrs.
Vincent took her son's arm, and for the last time made some remark with
a ghastly smile--but no sound came from her lips. They walked up the
sunshiny street together with such silent speed as would have been
frightful to look at had anybody known what was in their hearts. Mrs.
Pigeon, who was coming along the other side, crossed over on purpose to
accost the minister and be introduced to his mother, but was driven
frantic by the total blank unconsciousness with which the two swept past
her; "taking no more notice than if he had never set eyes on me in his
born days!" as she described it afterwards. The door of the house where
Vincent lived was opened to them briskly by the little maid in holiday
attire; everything wore the most sickening, oppressive brightness within
in fresh Saturday cleanliness. Vincent half carried his mother up the
steps, and held fast in his own to support her the hand which he had
drawn tightly through his arm. "Is there any one here? Has anybody come
for me since I left?" he asked, with the sound of his own words ringing
shrilly into his ears. "Please, sir, Mr. Tozer's been," said the girl,
alertly, with smiling confidence. She could not comprehend the groan
with which the young man startled all the clear and sunshiny atmosphere,
nor the sudden rustle of the little figure beside him, which moved
somehow, swaying with the words as if they were a wind. "Mother, you are
going to faint!" cried Vincent--and the little maid flew in terror to
call her mistress, and bring a glass of water. But when she came back,
the mother and son were no longer in the bright hall with its newly
cleaned wainscot and whitened floor. When she followed them up-stairs
with the water, it was the minister who had dropped into the easy-chair
with his face hidden on the table, and his mother was standing beside
him. Mrs. Vincent looked up when the girl came in and said, "Thank
you--that will do," looking in her face, and not at what she carried.
She was of a dreadful paleness, and looked with eyes that were terrible
to that wondering observer upon the little attendant. "Perhaps there
have been some letters or messages," said Mrs. Vincent. "We--we expected
somebody to come; think! a young lady came here?--and when she found we
were gone----"
"Only Miss Phoebe!" said the girl, in amazement--"to say as her
Ma----"
"Only Miss Phoebe!" repeated the widow, as if she did not comprehend
the words. Then she turned to her son, and smoothed down the ruffled
locks on his head; then held out her hand again to arrest the girl as
she was going away. "Has your mistress got anything in the house," she
asked--"any soup or cold meat, or anything? Would you bring it up,
please, directly?--soup would perhaps be best--or a nice chop. Ask what
she has got, and bring it up on a tray. You need not lay the cloth--only
a tray with a napkin. Yes, I see you know what I mean."
"Mother!" cried Vincent, raising his head in utter fright as the maid
left the room. He thought in the shock his mother's gentle wits had
gone.
"You have eaten nothing, dear, since we left," she said, with a
heartbreaking smile. "I am not going crazy, Arthur. O no, no, my dear
boy! I will not go crazy; but you must eat something, and not be killed
too. Susan is not here," said Mrs. Vincent, with a ghastly, wistful look
round the room; "but we are not going to distrust her at the very first
moment, far less her Maker, Arthur. Oh, my dear, I must not speak, or
something will happen to me; and nothing must happen to you or me till
we have found your sister. You must eat when it comes, and then you must
go away. Perhaps," said Mrs. Vincent, sitting down and looking her son
direct in the eyes, as if to read any suggestion that could arise there,
"she has lost her way:--perhaps she missed one of these dreadful
trains--perhaps she got on the wrong railway, Arthur. Oh, my dear boy,
you must take something to eat, and then you must go and bring Susan
home. She has nobody to take care of her but you."
Vincent returned his mother's look with a wild inquiring gaze, but with
his lips he said "Yes," not daring to put in words the terrible thoughts
in his heart. The two said nothing to each other of the horror that
possessed them both, or of the dreadful haze of uncertainty in which
that Susan whom her brother was to go and bring home as if from an
innocent visit, was now enveloped. Their eyes spoke differently as they
looked into each other, and silently withdrew again, each from each, not
daring to communicate further. Just then a slight noise came below, to
the door. Mrs. Vincent stood up directly in an agony of listening,
trembling all over. To be sure it was nothing. When nothing came of it,
the poor mother sank back again with a piteous patience, which it was
heartbreaking to look at; and Vincent returned from the window which he
had thrown open in time to see Phoebe Tozer disappear from the door.
They avoided each other's eyes now; one or two heavy sobs broke forth
from Mrs. Vincent's breast, and her son walked with a dreadful funereal
step from one end of the room to the other. Not even the consolation of
consulting together what was to be done, or what might have happened,
was left them. They dared not put their position into words--dared not
so much as inquire in their thoughts where Susan was, or what had
befallen her. She was to be brought home; but whence or from what abyss
neither ventured to say.
Upon their misery the little maid entered again with her tray, and the
hastily prepared refreshment which Mrs. Vincent had ordered for her son.
The girl's eyes were round and staring with wonder and curiosity; but
she was aware, with female instinct, that the minister's mother, awful
little figure, with lynx eyes, which nothing escaped, was watching her,
and her observations were nervous accordingly. "Please, sir, it's a
chop," said the girl--"please, sir, missus sent to know was the other
gentleman a-coming?--and please, if he is, there ain't nowhere as missus
knows of, as he can sleep--with the lady, and you, and all; and the
other lodgers as well"--said the handmaiden with a sigh, as she set down
her tray and made a desperate endeavour to turn her back upon Mrs.
Vincent, and to read some interpretation of all this in the unguarded
countenance of the minister; "and please, am I to bring up the Wooster
sauce, and would the lady like some tea or anythink? And missus would be
particklar obliged if you would say. Miss Phoebe's been to ask the
gentleman to tea, but where he's to sleep, missus says----"
"Yes, yes, to be sure," said Vincent, impatiently; "he can have my room,
tell your mistress--that will do--we don't want anything more."
"Mr. Vincent is going to leave town again this afternoon," said his
mother. "Tell your mistress that I shall be glad to have a little
conversation with her after my son goes away--and you had better bring
the sauce--but it would have saved you trouble and been more sensible,
if you had put it on the tray in the first place. Oh, Arthur," cried his
mother again, when she had seen the little maid fairly out--"do be a
little prudent, my dear! When a minister lodges with one of his flock,
he must think of appearances--and if it were only for my dear child's
sake, Arthur! Susan must not be spoken of through our anxiety; oh, my
child!--Where can she be?--Where can she be?"
"Mother dear, you must keep up, or everything is lost!" cried Vincent,
for the first time moved to the depths of his heart by that outcry of
despair. He came to her and held her trembling hands, and laid his face
upon them without any kiss or caress, that close clinging touch of
itself expressing best the fellowship of their wretchedness. But Mrs.
Vincent put her son away from her, when the door again bounced open.
"My dear boy, here is the sauce, and you must eat your chop," she said,
getting up and drawing forward a chair for him; her hands, which
trembled so, grew steady as she put everything in order, cut the bread,
and set his plate before him. "Oh, eat something, Arthur dear--you must,
or you cannot go through it," said the widow, with her piteous smile.
Then she sat down at the table by him in her defensive armour. The
watchful eyes of "the flock" were all around spying upon the dreadful
calamity which had overwhelmed them; at any moment the college companion
whom Vincent had sent for might come in upon them in all the gaiety of
his holiday. What they said had to be said with this consciousness--and
the mother, in the depth of her suspense and terror, sat like a queen
inspected on all sides, and with possible traitors round her, but
resolute and self-commanding in her extremity, determined at least to be
true to herself.
"Arthur, can you think where to go?" she said, after a little interval,
almost under her breath.
"To London first," said Vincent--"to inquire after--_him_, curse him!
don't say anything, mother--I am only a man after all. Then, according
to the information I get.--God help us!--if I don't get back before
another Sunday----"
Mrs. Vincent gave a convulsive start, which shook the table against
which she was leaning, and fell to shivering as if in a fit of ague.
"Oh, Arthur, Arthur, what are you saying? Another Sunday!" she
exclaimed, with a cry of despair. To live another day seemed impossible
in that horror. But self-restraint was natural to the woman who had
been, as she said, a minister's wife for thirty years. She clasped her
hands tight, and took up her burden again. "I will see Mr. Beecher when
he comes, dear, and--and speak to him," she said, with a sigh, "and I
will see the Tozers and--and your people, Arthur; and if it should be
God's will to keep us so long in suspense, if--if--I can keep alive,
dear, I may be of some use. Oh, Arthur, Arthur, the Lord have pity upon
us! if my darling comes back, will she come here or will she go home?
Don't you think she will come here? If I go back to Lonsdale, I will not
be able to rest for thinking she is at Carlingford; and if I stay--oh,
Arthur, where do you think Susan will go to? She might be afraid to see
you, and think you would be angry, but she never could distrust her poor
mother, who was the first to put her in danger; and to think of my dear
child going either there or here, and not finding me, Arthur! My dear,
you are not eating anything. You can never go through it all without
some support. For my sake, try to eat a little, my own boy; and oh,
Arthur, what must I do?"
"These Tozers and people will worry you to death if you stay here," said
the minister, with an impatient sigh, as he thought of his own
difficulties; "but I must not lose time by going back with you to
Lonsdale, and you must not travel by yourself, and this is more in the
way, whatever happens. Send word to Lonsdale that you are to have a
message by telegraph immediately--without a moment's loss of time--if
she comes back."
"You might say _when_, Arthur, not _if_," said his mother, with a little
flash of tender resentment--then she gave way for the moment, and leaned
her head against his arm and held him fast with that pressure and close
clasp which spoke more than any words. When she raised her pale face
again, it was to entreat him once more to eat. "Try to take something,
if it were only a mouthful, for Susan's sake," pleaded the widow. Her
son made a dismal attempt as she told him. Happy are the houses that
have not seen such dreadful pretences of meals where tears were the only
possible food! When she saw him fairly engaged in this desperate effort
to take "some support," the poor mother went away and wrote a crafty
female letter, which she brought to him to read. He would have smiled at
it had the occasion been less tragic. It was addressed to the minister
of "the connection" at Lonsdale, and set forth how she was detained at
Carlingford by some family affairs--how Susan was visiting friends and
travelling, and her mother was not sure where to address her--and how it
would be the greatest favour if he would see Williams at the cottage,
and have a message despatched to Mrs. Vincent the moment her daughter
returned. "Do you not think it would be better to confide in him a
little, and tell him what anxiety we are in?" said Vincent, when he read
this letter. His mother took it out of his hands with a little cry.
"Oh, Arthur, though you are her brother, you are only a man, and don't
understand," cried Mrs. Vincent. "Nobody must have anything to say about
my child. If she comes to-night, she will come here," continued the poor
mother, pausing instinctively once more to listen; "she might have been
detained somewhere; she may come at any moment--at any moment, Arthur
dear! Though these telegraphs frighten me, and look as if they must
bring bad news, I will send you word directly when my darling girl
comes; but oh, my dear, though it is dreadful to send you away, and to
think of your travelling to-morrow and breaking the Sunday, and very
likely your people hearing it--oh, Arthur, God knows better, and will
not blame you: and if you will not take anything more to eat, you should
not lose time, my dearest boy! Don't look at me, Arthur--don't say
good-bye. Perhaps you may meet her before you leave--perhaps you may not
need to go away. Oh, Arthur dear, don't lose any more time!"
"It is scarcely time for the train yet," said the minister, getting up
slowly; "the world does not care, though our hearts are breaking; it
keeps its own time. Mother, good-bye. God knows what may have happened
before I see you again."
"Oh, Arthur, say nothing--say nothing! What can happen but my child to
come home?" cried his mother, as he clasped her hands and drew her
closer to him. She leaned against her son's breast, which heaved
convulsively, for one moment, and no more. She did not look at him as he
went slowly out of the room, leaving her to the unspeakable silence and
solitude in which every kind of terror started up and crept about. But
before Vincent had left the house his mother's anxiety and hope were
once more excited to passion. Some one knocked and entered; there was a
sound of voices and steps on the stair audibly approaching this room in
which she sat with her fears. But it was not Susan; it was a young man
of Arthur's own age, with his travelling-bag in his hand, and his
sermons in his pocket. He had no suspicion that the sight of him brought
the chill of despair to her heart as he went up to shake hands with his
friend's mother. "Vincent would not come back to introduce me," said Mr.
Beecher, "but he said I should find you here. I have known him many
years, and it is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance. Sometimes
he used to show me your letters years ago. Is Miss Vincent with you? It
is pleasant to get out of town for a little, even though one has to
preach; and they will all be interested in 'Omerton to hear how Vincent
is getting on. Made quite a commotion in the world, they say, with these
lectures of his. I always knew he would make an 'it if he had
fair-play."
"I am very glad to see you," said Mrs. Vincent. "I have just come up
from Lonsdale, and everything is in a confusion. When people grow old,"
said the poor widow, busying herself in collecting the broken pieces of
bread which Arthur had crumbled down by way of pretending to eat, "they
feel fatigue and being put out of their way more than they ought. What
can I get for you? will you have a glass of wine, and dinner as soon as
it can be ready? My son had to go away."
"Preaching somewhere?" asked the lively Mr. Beecher.
"N-no; he has some--private business to attend to," said Mrs. Vincent,
with a silent groan in her heart.
"Ah!--going to be married, I suppose?" said the man from 'Omerton;
"that's the natural consequence after a man gets a charge. Miss Vincent
is not with you, I think you said? I'll take a glass of wine, thank you;
and I hear one of the flock has sent over to ask me to tea--Mr. Tozer, a
leading man, I believe, among our people here," added Mr. Beecher, with
a little complacence. "It's very pleasant when a congregation is
hospitable and friendly. When a pastor's popular, you see, it always
reacts upon his brethren. May I ask if you are going to Mr. Tozer's to
tea to-night?"
"Oh, no," faltered poor Mrs. Vincent, whom prudence kept from adding,
"heaven forbid!" "They--did not know I was here," she continued,
faintly, turning away to ring the bell. Mr. Beecher, who flattered
himself on his penetration, nodded slightly when her back was turned.
"Jealous that they've asked me," said the preacher, with a lively thrill
of human satisfaction. How was he to know the blank of misery, the
wretched feverish activity of thought, that possessed that mild little
woman, as she gave her orders about the removal of the tray, and the
dinner which already was being prepared for the stranger? But the lively
young man from 'Omerton perceived that there was something wrong.
Vincent's black looks when he met him at the door, and the exceeding
promptitude of that invitation to tea, were two and two which he could
put together. He concluded directly that the pastor, though he had made
"an 'it," was not found to suit the connection in Carlingford; and that
possibly another candidate for Salem might be required ere long. "I
would not injure Vincent for the world," he said to himself, "but if he
does not 'it it, I might." The thought was not unpleasant. Accordingly,
while Vincent's mother kept her place there in the anguish of her heart,
thinking that perhaps, even in this dreadful extremity, she might be
able to do something for Arthur with his people, and conciliate the
authorities, her guest was thinking, if Vincent were to leave
Carlingford, what a pleasant distance from town it was, and how very
encouraging of the Tozers to ask him to tea. It might come to something
more than preaching for a friend; and if Vincent did not "'it it," and a
change were desirable, nobody could tell what might happen. All this
smiling fabric the stranger built upon the discomposed looks of the
Vincents and Phoebe's invitation to tea.
To sit by him and keep up a little attempt at conversation--to
superintend his dinner, and tell him what she knew of Salem and her
son's lectures, and his success generally, as became the minister's
mother--was scarcely so hard as to be left afterwards, when he went out
to Tozer's, all alone once more with the silence, with the sounds
outside, with the steps that seem to come to the door, and the carriages
that paused in the street, all sending dreadful thrills of hope through
poor Mrs. Vincent's worn-out heart. Happily, her faculties were engaged
by those frequent and oft-repeated tremors. In the fever of her anxiety,
always startled with an expectation that at last this was Susan, she did
not enter into the darker question where Susan might really be, and what
had befallen the unhappy girl. Half an hour after Mr. Beecher left her,
Phoebe Tozer came in, affectionate and anxious, driving the wretched
mother almost wild by the sound of her step and the apparition of her
young womanhood, to beg and pray that Mrs. Vincent would join them at
their "friendly tea." "And so this is Mr. Vincent's room," said
Phoebe, with a bashful air; "it feels so strange to be here! and you
must be _so_ dull when he is gone. Oh, do come, and let us try to amuse
you a little; though I am sure none of us could ever be such good
company as the minister--oh, not half, nor quarter!" cried Phoebe.
Even in the midst of her misery, the mother was woman enough to think
that Phoebe showed too much interest in the minister. She declined the
invitation with gentle distinctness. She did not return the enthusiastic
kiss which was bestowed upon her. "I am very tired, thank you," said
Mrs. Vincent. "On Monday, if all is well, I will call to see your mamma.
I hope you will not catch cold coming out in this thin dress. I am sure
it was very kind of you; but I am very tired to-night. On--Monday."
Alas, Monday! could this horror last so long, and she not die? or would
all be well by that time, and Susan in her longing arms? The light went
out of her eyes, and the breath from her heart, as that dreadful
question stared her in the face. She scarcely saw Phoebe's
withdrawal; she lay back in her chair in a kind of dreadful trance, till
those stumbling steps and passing carriages began again, and roused her
back into agonised life and bootless hope.