TO-MORROW! to-morrow was Monday morning, a new day, a new
work-week--cheerful, healthful, and exhilarating--bright with that
frosty sunshine, which carried comparative comfort to many a poor house
in Carlingford. The widow's face was sharper, paler, of a wonderful ashy
colour. Nature could not go on under such a struggle without showing
signs of it. Beecher, who was not to go until a late train, took leave
of her as soon as he could, not without a little fright, and betook
himself to Tozer's, where he said she overawed him with her grand
manners, and where he was led to admit that Vincent had always been a
little "high." If she could have abandoned herself to her dreadful
vigil, perhaps Mrs. Vincent might have found it easier, perhaps
harder--she herself thought the former; but she dared not give up to it.
She had to set her face like a flint--she was Arthur's representative,
and had still to show a steadfast front of battle for him, and if not
discomfit, still confront his enemies. She had to call at Siloam
Cottage, at Mrs. Tozer's, to do what else might be necessary for the
propitiation of the flock. She never dreamed of saying to herself that
she could not do it; there was no question of that; the flag had to be
kept flying for Arthur. No friend of his must be jeopardised, no
whisper allowed to rise which his mother could prevent: she had been a
minister's wife for thirty years; well had she learned in that time,
like Mrs. Tufton, that a deal of attention was needed to keep all things
straight.
Accordingly, in the height of her excitement and anxiety, believing that
any moment the poor fugitive might be brought home, the widow, in her
unflinching martyrdom, once more put on her bonnet, and drew out her
black ribbon into bows of matchless neatness. Though she wrung her poor
hands in speechless anguish as she went out of the room, it was with
composed, though colourless lips, that she spoke to the little maid in
the hall. "Mr. Vincent may come home any time to-day," said the widow;
"you must have some lunch ready, and tea; perhaps his sister may be with
him--or--or she may come alone. Any one who comes is to be taken
up-stairs. I will not be long gone; and I am going to Mrs. Tufton's, if
anybody should want me----"
At this moment a knock came to the door--a hurried single knock, always
alarming, and sounding like an evil omen. Mrs. Vincent's voice failed
her at that sound--most likely her face went into convulsive twitches,
for the maid stood staring at her, too much startled to open the door,
until a wild gesture from the speechless woman, who was herself unable
to move, her breath almost forsaking her, and coming in sobs, recalled
the girl to her senses. The door was opened, and Mrs. Vincent stood with
burning eyes gazing out. Ah, not Susan! never Susan!--a little, stout,
rustic figure, all weary and dishevelled, looking ashamed, frightened,
almost disreputable in utter forlornness and unhappiness. Mrs. Vincent
gave a great sob to get breath, and dropped upon the chair, and held out
her hand to Mary. She had forgotten Mary--forgotten her momentary
comfort in the fact that Susan's flight was not alone. Now was it life
or death the girl was bringing? She drew the frightened creature near,
close, and shrieked, as she thought, her question in her ear. "What?
what?" said Mrs. Vincent in her own mind; but no sound came to Mary's
ears.
"O missis dear, missis dear!" sobbed the girl. "I've been and told Mr.
Arthur exact where she is--he's gone to fetch her home. O missis, don't
take on! they'll soon be here. Miss Susan's living, she ain't dead. O
missis, missis, she ain't dead--it might be worse nor it is."
At these words Mrs. Vincent roused herself up once more. "My daughter
has been ill," she said in gasps, turning a dreadful look upon the
servant of the house. Then she rose, took hold of Mary's arm, and went
up-stairs with her, holding her fast. She shut the door with her own
hands when they got back to the lonely parlour full of daylight and
silence. "Miss Susan has been ill?" she said once more with parched
lips, looking again, with that full blank gaze which seemed to deny and
defy any other answer, in Mary's frightened face.
"O missis, don't take on!" sobbed the terrified girl.
"No, oh no, no, that is impossible. I can't take on, Mary, if I
would--oh no, not now," said the poor widow, with what seemed a
momentary wandering of her strained senses. "Tell me all-- I am ready to
hear it all."
And then Mary began the pitiful story, the same they had heard in
Lonsdale--the sudden arrival of the girl and her governess, and innocent
Susan's puzzled interest in them; Mr. Fordham's appearance afterwards,
his sudden snatch at the stranger, his ready use of Arthur's letter,
which Susan was disturbed about, to persuade her that she must instantly
go to her mother and set all right; the journey bringing them late at
night to an unknown place, which, with the boom of the unexpected sea in
their ears, the defenceless deceived creatures found out not to be
Carlingford. Mary knew nothing of the scene which had been enacted
up-stairs, when the villanous scheme was made known to the unhappy
victim. She could tell nothing but by guesses of what had passed and
followed, and Mary, of course, by a natural certainty, guessed the
worst. But next day Susan had written to her mother, either because she
was still deceived or still innocent; and the next day again Mary was
sent away under a pretence of being sent to church, and the false
Fordham himself had conducted her to town and left her there. Such was
Mary's tale. Last night she had met Mr. Arthur and given him the
address. Now, no doubt, they were on their way,--if only missis would
not take on! "No," said the widow once more, with speechless lips. Take
on! oh no, never more. Surely all these light afflictions that could
bring tears were over now--nothing but horror and agony remained. The
poor mother sat for a little in a dreadful silence, aching all over her
anguished frame. Nothing was to be said or done; the pause of utter
misery, in which thought itself had no place, but one horrible sensation
of suffering was all that remained of life, passed over her; then a
faint agonised smile fluttered upon her white lips. She drew on her
glove again slowly and with pain. "I must go out, Mary," said Arthur's
mother. "I must do my duty if the world were all breaking up, as I--I
think it is; and you must stay here and tell my poor darling her mother
will come back to her directly. And don't talk to the other servant,
Mary. You shall be like my own child if you will stand by us now."
"O missis dear, not a word--not if it was to save my life!" said poor
Mary, through her tears.
And in her bravery and desperation the widow went out to her other
forlorn hope. She went away out of the doors which enclosed at least the
knowledge of this event, through the everyday streets, where, if there
were other tragedies, nobody knew of them any more than of hers. She had
her veil over her face, on which that shadow had settled, and no one
could have suspected her of carrying a broken heart through those
sunshiny ways. She could not think or anticipate or even fear anything
further. Susan might die under that load of shame and anguish, but her
mother apprehended, was sensible of, nothing more. The worst had come,
except for Arthur, who might be helped out of his troubles. So, stunned
and hopeless, she set out to visit Arthur's people, with a courage more
desperate than that of battle. That was the duty which must be done if
the world went to pieces--to talk to Adelaide Tufton and hear her sharp
criticism and bitter gossip--to listen to the old minister dawdling
forth his slow sentiments--to visit the Tozers and soothe their
feelings, and hear what they had to say. An auto-da-fé in the old
Spanish fashion would have been easier, to be sure; but this was how the
minister's mother, in the depths of unknown anguish and calamity, was
expected to exert herself, the only way she could serve her son.
The parlour in Siloam Cottage was as green and obscure, as warm and
close, as of old. The big geranium had grown, and covered the little
window still more completely, and the fire burned with virulence,
conscious of the frost. The minister's invalid daughter, with the
colourless face and sharp eyes, was still knitting, leaning back upon
her pillows. Poor Mrs. Vincent, when she sat down, as near the door as
possible, feeling as if she could not get breath, became immediately
aware that to confront those eyes was a more dangerous process than any
which she had yet been subjected to in Carlingford. They penetrated
through her, keen with the restless life and curiosity, which made up to
that disabled woman for the privations of her existence. In the dim
green parlour the minister's mother saw nothing but Adelaide Tufton's
eyes. If they had been beautiful eyes the effect would have been less
surprising; but they were not beautiful; they were pale blue, and had
something of the shrill shining of a rainy sky in the glistening white,
which counted for far more than the faint watery colour. Mrs. Vincent
gave way before them as she had never yet done. She cast down her own
eyes, and drew back her chair, and even faltered in her speech, when she
was obliged to face their observation. The danger was all the greater
for being unexpected. As for Mrs. Tufton, that good woman was in a
flutter of interest and sympathy. She wanted to know whether Susan had
gone through all the orthodox number of fevers and youthful ailments,
and was in her element talking of the merits of camphor as a preventive,
and of all the means that might be used to avoid infection.
"When my children were young, and their papa always being noted for so
active a man among his people, I don't know what I should have done if I
had been easily frightened," said Mrs. Tufton. "Don't worry--keep her
quiet, and give her----"
"Mrs. Vincent never said she was afraid of infection," said Adelaide.
"Is it typhus fever? My mother jumps at everything, and never stops to
inquire. I daresay it's something quite different. Love affairs? Oh no;
of course we don't want you to tell us. I don't think Phoebe Tozer
will die of her failure. This young man from Homerton will console her.
Has your son recovered his little affair with the young Dowager, Mrs.
Vincent? He dined there, you know. I daresay his head was turned; but
there is one safeguard with those fine ladies. If a man has his wits
about him, he can always know that they mean nothing all the time."
"Indeed, I don't know what you mean. My son knows Lady Western, I
believe; I remember one time he dined there. My Arthur," said the
mother, with a faint smile, "is not one to have his head turned. He has
been used to be thought a great deal of at home."
"Ah, he's a precious young man!" said Mr. Tufton, see-sawing the air
with his large grey hand. "I am much interested in my dear young
brother. He thinks too much, perhaps--too much--of pleasing the carnal
mind; and my people, that have been used to practical preaching so long,
find the difference. But when he has deeper experiences----"
"Stuff!" said the invalid, turning her head half aside; "you know the
chapel has filled since he came. Even when they are asses like your
Salem people, you know they like a man with brains. I don't see that it
matters much what Mr. Vincent goes wrong in; he was sure to go wrong
somehow. I gave him six months, but he has got through the six months,
and they have not killed him off yet. What does he mean, thrusting
himself into other people's messes? As far as I can make out, it's quite
a little tragedy. There was that Mrs. Hilyard, you know--the woman in
Back Grove Street. Ah, you know her!" said Adelaide, keenly, seeing the
little shiver with which the visitor received the name.
"I have heard my son speak of her," said the widow, faintly.
"She was some connection of the Bedford family," said Adelaide, going
on, with her curious eyes fixed on Mrs. Vincent's face, who quailed
before her, "and she married a half brother of Lady Western's--a
desperate rascal he was. They had one baby, and then she left him--one
baby, a girl, that has grown up an idiot; and here this lady lives--a
poor needle-woman--to keep the girl safe, somehow, out of her father's
hand. Why he should want to have her I can't exactly tell. I suspect,
because she's pretty, to make a decoy of her, and sell her somehow,
either to be married, or worse----"
"Adelaide!" cried Mrs. Tufton; "oh, my dear, do mind what you're saying;
Mrs. Vincent does not know you. What can she think if you talk like
that?"
"Mrs. Vincent sees well enough I am not a girl to be frightened for
words," said the sick woman. "Now, what I want to know is, what has your
son to do with it? He's gone off after them, now, for some reason or
other; of course I don't expect you to tell me. Perhaps Lady Western has
sent him?--never mind, I will find out; but I know it has something to
do with Mrs. Hilyard, for they both went off from Carlingford the same
day. I have no share in life for myself," said Adelaide, with another
keen look at the stranger; "and so, instead of comforting myself that
it's all for the best, as papa says, I interfere with my
fellow-creatures. Oh, pray, don't be sorry for me! I get on as well as
most people. Nobody in this place ever succeeds in concealing anything
from me."
"Indeed it is a pity when people have anything to conceal," said poor
Mrs. Vincent, thinking, with a sensation of deadly sickness at her
heart, of the awful secret which was in Mary's keeping, and faltering,
in spite of all her self-command. She rose up hurriedly, when she met
once more the glance of those sharp eyes: she could not bear that
investigation; all her dreadful suspense and excitement seemed to ooze
out unawares, and betray themselves; her only safety seemed in flight.
"This is a very short visit," said Mr. Tufton. "My dear anxious sister,
we can only pray you may be comforted. All things work together for
good; you don't need to be told that. It's sure to be for the best,
whatever happens: take that consolation to your heart--it's sure to be
for the best."
"If her daughter dies and her son is dismissed, I wonder will that be
for the best?" said Adelaide Tufton, as soon as the widow had left the
room. Mrs. Vincent's ears, made acute by suffering, caught enough of
this valedictory address to realise, if that were possible, an
additional pang. Kind Mrs. Tufton did not hear it, not being in any such
state of feverish susceptibility. She, on the contrary, kissed the
mother, whom she pitied with all her heart, and entreated her not to
worry. "A young healthy girl does not fall ill for nothing. You'll see
things will turn out all right," said the kind soul; and Mrs. Vincent
went upon her forlorn way.
At Mrs. Tozer's the minister's mother found a little committee
assembled. Mrs. Brown was there from the Devonshire Dairy, and Mrs.
Pigeon, whose gratification in being able to hail Mrs. Vincent as an
acquaintance, to the confusion of the dairywoman and amazement of Mrs.
Tozer, almost restored the minister to that lady's favour. They were in
the drawing-room, where, in honour of the expected visitors, a fire had
been lighted; and as Mrs. Vincent ascended the dark staircase, she
obtained a passing glimpse of Mr. Beecher seated at the table in the
parlour studying "The Railway Guide," which Phoebe expounded to him,
until they were both sent for up-stairs. Altogether the conjunction did
not look promising for Arthur's interests. She went in thrilling with a
touch of exasperation and defiance. Now was the time to make a final
stand for Arthur. This covert rebellion could be deprecated no longer.
"I expect my son home to-day," said the brave mother, gulping down all
the pangs of her expectation. "I think, now that I see for myself how
much he is thought of in Carlingford, I ought to make an apology to the
Salem people. It was I that induced him to go away, not thinking that
one Sunday would be such a great matter; but indeed it was very
gratifying to me to see how disappointed everybody was. I hope Mr.
Beecher will pardon me, for I am sure he preached us a very nice sermon,
and we were all grateful for it; but, naturally on my dear boy's
account, to see how disappointed everybody was, was a great
gratification to me."
"Oh! I did not mind," said Mr. Beecher, with a little laugh of
embarrassment; but the young man was much taken aback, and stared with
astonished looks before he answered, at this totally unexpected address.
Having thus floored one of her adversaries, and seeing the female foe
more voluble and ready, quite prepared to answer her, Mrs. Vincent
blandly proceeded.
"And this, you know, Mrs. Tozer, was all the more gratifying to me,
because I was not quite sure that Arthur had done wisely in choosing
Carlingford. His dear father had so many friends in our denomination,
and people are so kind as to speak of my boy as such a rising young man.
Before I knew Carlingford," said the widow, looking round her with an
air of gentle superiority, "I used to regret my son had not accepted the
invitation from Liverpool. Many people said to me that his talents would
have had so much more room there; but I am reconciled now," she added,
turning her mild eyes upon Mrs. Pigeon, who showed symptoms of
resistance. "I may say I am quite satisfied now. He would have been
better off, and had more opportunity of making himself a position in
Liverpool, but what is that in comparison with the attachment of a
flock?"
"Well, indeed, that's just the thing, ma'am," said Mrs. Brown, who
imagined herself addressed; "we are fond of him. I always said he was an
uncommon nice young man; and if he was but to settle down----"
"That will come in time," said the minister's mother, graciously; "and I
am glad, for my part, that he has been away, for it shows me how his
dear people feel towards him; and though he would have been, of course,
better off in Liverpool, I would never consider that in comparison. They
still want to have him, you know, and keep writing me letters, and him
too, I don't doubt; but after what I have seen, I could never advise him
to break the link that has been formed here. The connection between
pastor and people is a sacred tie; it should never be broken," said Mrs.
Vincent, with mild grandeur, "for anything so poor as a money object;
but my dear boy is far above any such consideration as that."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Pigeon, drawing a long breath of involuntary awe and
admiration; "and I don't doubt as the pastor would have been a deal
better off in Liverpool," she added, after a pause, quite overpowered by
that master-stroke.
"It's a deal bigger a place," suggested Mrs. Tozer; "and grander folks,
I don't have a doubt," she too added, after an interval. This new idea
took away their breath.
"But, ah! what is that to affection," said Arthur's artful mother, "when
a minister has the love of his flock! My dear Mrs. Pigeon, though a
mother is naturally anxious for her son, nothing on earth would induce
me to advise him to break such a tie as that!"
"And indeed, ma'am, it's as a Christian mother should act," gasped the
poulterer's subdued wife. Mrs. Brown made a little movement of admiring
assent, much impressed with the fine sentiments of the minister's
mother. Phoebe put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Mr. Beecher found
it was time for his train. "Tell Vincent I am very glad to have been of
use to him. We were all delighted in 'Omerton to hear of him making such
an 'it," said Mr. Beecher, friendly but discomfited. He made his
leave-taking all round, before Mrs. Vincent, at the height of victory,
rose and went her way. Then she, too, shook hands, and blandly parted
with the astonished women. They remained behind, and laid their heads
together, much subdued, over this totally new light. She departed,
gently victorious. This little demonstration had done her good. When she
got out into the street, however, she fell down again into those depths
of despair out of which she had risen so bravely for Arthur's sake. She
began to plan how she and Susan could go away--not to Lonsdale--never
again to Lonsdale--but to some unknown place, and hide their
shame-stricken heads. She was so weary and sick in her heart, it was
almost a comfort to think of creeping into some corner, taking her poor
darling into her arms, healing those dreadful wounds of hers, hiding her
from the sight of men. This was what they must do as soon as her dearest
child came back--go to Scotland, perhaps, or into the primitive south
country, where nobody knew them, or---- but softly, who was this?
A new claim upon the overworked anxious soul. At the door of her son's
house stood a carriage--an open carriage--luxurious and handsome, with
two fine horses impatiently pawing the air, and a very fine footman at
the door, talking to the little maid. Within the carriage, the same
beautiful young woman whom Mrs. Vincent remembered to have seen waving a
lovely hand to Arthur. No doubt it was Lady Western. The beauty did not
bewilder Mrs. Vincent as she had bewildered Mrs. Vincent's son; but,
with a thrill of mingled pride, admiration, and disapproval, she
hastened forward at sight of her. Could she be asking for Arthur?--and
could Arthur have ventured to love that lovely creature in her radiance
of wealth and rank? With a mother's involuntary self-delusion Mrs.
Vincent looked at the beautiful vision as at Arthur's possible bride,
and was proud and displeased at the same moment; proud, that anything so
lovely and splendid was to fall to her son's lot--disapproving, that
Arthur's chosen should offer a mark of favour even to Arthur, so much
more decided than accorded with the widow's old-fashioned notion of what
became a woman. Mrs. Vincent did not think of the other figure by Lady
Western's side--a man of great height, very slight, and rapid in his
movements, with a long brown beard, and thoughtful eyes--eyes which
lightened up and became as keen as they were dreamy, whenever occasion
arose. Why should the widow look at him? She had nothing to do with him.
This once in their life they were to come into momentary contact--never
more.
"Mr. Vincent ain't at home--but oh, look year!--here's his mother as can
tell you better nor me," cried the half-frightened maid at the door.
"His mother?" said the beautiful creature in the carriage; she had
alighted in a moment, and was by Mrs. Vincent's side--"Oh, I am so glad
to see Mr. Vincent's mother! I am Lady Western--he has told you of me?"
she said, taking the widow's hand; "take us in, please, and let us talk
to you--we will not tease you--we have something important to say."
"Important to us--not to Mrs. Vincent," said the gentleman who followed
her, a remarkable figure, in his loose light-coloured morning dress; and
his eyes fell with a remorseful pity upon the widow, standing,
drawn-back, and self-restrained, upon the ground of her conscious
misery, not knowing whether to hope that they brought her news, or to
steel herself into a commonplace aspect of civility. This man had a
heart; he looked from the brilliant creature before him, all flushed and
radiant with her own happiness, to the little woman by her side, in her
pitiful widow's dress, in her visible paleness and desperation of
self-control. It was he who had brought Lady Western here to put his own
innocence beyond doubt, but the cruelty of that selfish impulse struck
him now as he saw them stand together. "Important to us--not to Mrs.
Vincent," he said again, taking off his hat to her with devout respect.
"Ah, yes! to us," said Lady Western, looking up to him with a momentary
gleam of love and happiness. Then the pretty tender-hearted creature
changed her look, and composed her countenance into sympathy. "I am so
sorry for you, dear Mrs. Vincent!" she said, with the saddest voice. At
this the widow on her part started, and was recalled to herself.
"I am a stranger in Carlingford," said the mild little woman, drawing up
her tiny figure. "I do not know what has procured me this pleasure--but
all my son's friends are welcome to me. I will show you the way
up-stairs," she continued, going up before them with the air of dignity
which, after the hard battles and encounters and bitter wounds of this
day, became the heroic little figure. She sent Mary, who started up in
dismay at her entrance, into another room, and gave Lady Western a
chair, but herself continued standing, always the conservator of
Arthur's honour. If Arthur loved her, who was this man? why did such
glances pass between them? Mrs. Vincent stood erect before Lady Western,
and did not yield even to the winning looks for which poor Arthur would
have given his life.
"Oh, dear Mrs. Vincent, I am so sorry for you!" said Lady Western again;
"I know it all, and it makes my heart bleed to think of it. I will be
your friend and your daughter's friend as long as I live, if you will
let me. Oh, don't shut your heart against me! Mr. Vincent trusts me, and
so must you; and I am heartbroken to think all that you must have gone
through----"
"Stop!" said Mrs. Vincent, with a gasp. "I--I cannot tell--what you
mean," she articulated, with difficulty, holding by the table to support
herself, but looking with unflinching eyes in her new persecutor's face.
"Oh, don't shut your heart against me!" cried the young dowager, with
genuine tears in her lovely eyes. "This gentleman was with Mr. Vincent
yesterday--he came up here this morning. He is--Mr. Fordham." She broke
off abruptly with a terrified cry. But Mrs. Vincent had not died or
fainted standing rigid there before her, as the soft creature thought.
Her eyes had only taken that blank lustreless gaze, because the force of
emotion beneath was too much for them, and inexpressible. Even in that
extremity, it was in the widow's heart, wrung to desperation, to keep
her standing-ground of assumed ignorance, and not to know what this
sudden offer of sympathy could mean.
"I do not know--the gentleman," she said, slowly, trying to make the
shadow of a curtsy to him. "I am sorry to seem uncivil; but I am tired
and anxious. What--what did you want of me?" she asked, in a little
outburst of uncontrollable petulance, which comforted Lady Western. It
was a very natural question. Surely, in this forlorn room, where she had
passed so many wretched hours, her privacy might have been sacred; and
she was jealous and angry at the sight of Fordham for Arthur's sake. It
was another touch in the universal misery. She looked at Lady Western's
beauty with an angry heart. For these two, who ventured to come to her
in their happiness, affronting her anguish, was Arthur's heart to be
broken too?
"We wanted--our own ends," said Fordham, coming forward. "I was so cruel
as to think of myself, and that you would prove it was another who had
assumed my name. Forgive me--it was I who brought Lady Western here; and
if either of us can serve you, or your daughter--or your son--" added
Fordham, turning red, and looking round at his beautiful companion----
Mrs. Vincent could bear it no longer. She made a hasty gesture of
impatience, and pointed to the door. "I am not well enough, nor happy
enough, to be civil," cried Arthur's mother; "we want nothing--nothing."
Her voice failed her in this unlooked-for exasperation. A few bitter
tears came welling up hot to her eyes. It was very different from the
stupor of agony--it was a blaze of short-lived passion, which almost
relieved, by its sense of resentment and indignation, a heart worn out
with other emotions. Fordham himself, filled with compunction, led Lady
Western to the door; but it was not in the kind, foolish heart of the
young beauty to leave this poor woman in peace. She came back and seized
Mrs. Vincent's trembling hands in her own; she begged to be allowed to
stay to comfort her; she would have kissed the widow, who drew back,
and, half fainting with fatigue and excitement, still kept her erect
position by the table. Finally, she went away in tears, no other means
of showing her sympathy being practicable. Mrs. Vincent dropped down on
her knees beside the table as soon as she was alone, and leaned her
aching, throbbing head upon it. Oh, dreadful lingering day, which was
not yet half gone! Unconsciously groans of suffering, low but repeated,
came out of her heart. The sound brought Mary, with whom no concealment
was possible, and who gave what attendance and what sympathy she might
to her mistress's grievous trouble. Perhaps the work of this dreadful
day was less hard than the vigil to which the mother had now to nerve
her heart.