WHEN Vincent came to himself, and began to see clearly the true horrors
of his position, his mind, driven to its last stronghold, rallied
convulsively to meet the worst. It was Susan who was raving close by;
but her brother, in the sickening despair of his heart, had not the
courage to go into that agitated sick-room. He sat waiting for Tozer's
return with a sense of helplessness, a sense of irritation, against
which he had no strength to contend. In that bitter moment he gave up
everything, and felt himself no longer capable of striving against his
fate. He felt in his heart that all Carlingford must already be
discussing the calamity that had come upon him, and that his innocent
honourable name was already sullied by the breath of the crowd; and,
with a strange mixture of intolerance and eagerness, he waited the
return of the man who had first, as it appeared, thrust himself into the
secret--a man whom the minister must not affront, must not defy, on
peril of all he had in the world. These few silent moments were more
terrible to Vincent than any that had gone before them. Was it any good
holding out, attempting to keep a brave face to the world, struggling
against this crushing blow?--or would it not be easiest to give in, to
drop the useless arms, to fly from the inevitable downfall? Some corner
of the earth there surely remained where he could hide his head and find
a shelter for the two poor women who were greater sufferers than he. It
was with such feelings that he awaited the return of Tozer--feelings
aggravated by the consciousness that somehow the butterman was engaged
in his service at this very moment, and by a shadowy and unexpressed
suspicion in his mind as to the character of the stranger whom Tozer had
taken away. The excellent deacon returned at last with looks of
conscious importance. He was very sorry and anxious, but he could not
help looking confidential, and standing a little higher upon the ground
of this mystery, which nobody shared but himself. Once more he shook
hands with Vincent, sympathetically, and with a grasp full of meaning.
"The thing for us to do is to keep it quiet--to keep it quiet, sir,"
said Tozer, lowering his voice as he spoke. "Nothing must be said about
it--no more nor can be helped, Mr. Vincent. As far as it has gone,
there's nobody as has heard but me. If it could be kept private from the
Salem folks," continued the butterman, taking a seat at the table, and
looking cautiously round him, as if to make sure that no one was within
hearing, "it would be for the best. Them women do make such a talk about
everything. Not to tell a falsehood, sir, as I wouldn't, not to save my
own, if so be as my own could be in such a position--we'll say as your
sister's took bad, sir, that's what we'll say. And no lie neither--hear
to her, poor soul!-- But, Mr. Vincent," said Tozer, drawing closer, and
confiding his doubt in a whisper, "what she says is best not to be
listened to, if you'll take my advice. It ain't to be built upon what a
poor creature says in a fever, but them sort of words and screechings
don't come out of nothing but a troubled mind. She was aggravated
awful--so the man tells me."
"Who was the man?" asked Vincent, hurriedly.
"The man? oh!--which man was you meaning, sir?" asked Tozer, with a
little fright, recurring to his more generous intention of keeping this
intruder altogether from the knowledge of the minister; "nobody in
particular, Mr. Vincent--nobody as is worth mentioning. One as was sent
to inquire--that's all. I've cleared him away out of the road," said the
butterman, not without some natural complacency: "there ain't no matter
about him. Don't ask me no more, Mr. Vincent, for it's losing time as is
precious. If there's anything as can be done, it's best to do it
directly. I'd speak to John Brown as is the cleverest attorney in
Carlingford, sir, if I was you. She's young, and, as I was saying, she
was aggravated awful. She might be got off."
"Hush!" said Vincent, who had to put a desperate curb upon himself, lest
the restrained rage with which he heard this implication of guilt should
burst out; "you think there is something in this horrible business--that
my sister has something to do with it. It is all a frightful
delusion--an infernal----"
"Mr. Vincent, sir, you mustn't swear. I'm as sorry for you as a man can
be; but you're a minister, and you mustn't give way," said Tozer. "If
there ain't nothing in it, so much the better; but I'm told as the
evidence is clean again' her. Well, I won't say no more; it's no
pleasure to me to think of a young creature, and a minister's daughter,
with a mother like what she's got, going any ways astray--far the
contrary, Mr. Vincent: your own father, if he was living, couldn't be
more sorry than me. But my advice is, keep quiet, and don't let anything
get out no more nor can be helped. I don't mean to say as it can be
altogether kep' quiet--that ain't in the nature of things; nor I don't
mean to make you suppose as all is likely to go smooth, and no fault
found. There's pretty sure to be some unpleasantness, one way or
another; and the only thing as I can see is just to put up with it, and
stand your ground, and do your duty all the same. And I for one will
stand by you, sir," said Tozer, rising to his feet with a little glow of
conscious generosity and valour, and shaking the hand of the poor young
minister with cordial kindness--"I'll stand by you, sir, for one,
whatever happens; and we'll tide it out, Mr. Vincent, that's what we'll
do, sir, if you can but hold on."
"Thank you," said poor Vincent, moved to the heart--"thank you. I dare
not think how it is all to end, but thank you all the same; I shall not
forget what you say."
"And tell your mother," continued Tozer, swelling to a little triumph in
his own magnanimity--"tell your mother as I said so; tell her as I'll
stand by you through thick and thin; and we'll pull through, we'll pull
through!" said the butterman, slowly disappearing, with a face radiant
with conscious bounty and patronage, through the open door.
Vincent had followed him with an instinct of civility and gratitude.
Just as Tozer withdrew, a fresh burst of outcry came from the sick-room,
ringing through the excited house. The deacon turned round half-way down
the stair, held up his hands, listened, and made a movement of wondering
pity towards the closed door which hid Susan, but did not keep in her
cries. The wretched minister drew back from that compassionate gesture
as if some one had struck him a blow. He went back and threw himself
down on the sofa, and covered his face with his hands. The pity and the
patronage were the last drop of humiliation in his bitter cup. Hot tears
came to his eyes; it seemed to him more than flesh and blood could bear.
Some time elapsed, however, before Vincent had the courage to meet his
mother. When those dreadful outcries sank into exhaustion, and all for
the moment was quiet in the sick-room, he sent to tell her he had
arrived, and went to the dreadful door which she kept closed so
jealously. He was afraid to meet her eye when she came to him, and
noiselessly drew him within. Judging by himself, he had not ventured to
think what his mother's horror and despair would be. But Mrs. Vincent
put her arms round her son with an exclamation of thanksgiving. "Oh,
Arthur! thank God, you are come. Now I shall be able to bear it," cried
his mother. She cried a little upon his breast, and then wiped her eyes
and looked up at him with quivering lips. "Oh, Arthur, what my poor
darling must have come through!" said Mrs. Vincent, with a wistful
appeal to him in her tender eyes. She said nothing of the darker horror.
It lay upon her soul a frightful, inarticulate shadow; but in the mean
time she could only think of Susan and her fever--that fever which
afforded a kind of comfort to the mother--a proof that her child had not
lost her innocence lightly, but that the shock had been to Susan a
horrible convulsion, shaking earth and heaven. The mother and son went
together to the bedside to look at the unhappy cause of all their
sorrows--she clinging with her tender hand to his arm, wistful now, and
afraid in the depths of her heart lest Arthur, who was only a man, might
be hard upon Susan in her terrible abasement. It was more than a year
since Vincent had seen his sister. Was it Susan? The grandeur of the
stricken form, the features sublimed and elevated, the majestic
proportions into which this awful crisis of fate had developed the
fair-haired girl of Lonsdale, struck her brother with unspeakable awe
and pity. Pity and awe: but yet another feeling mingled in the wonder
with which he gazed upon her. A thrill of terror came over him. That
frightful, tropical blaze of passion, anguish, and woe which had
produced this sudden development, had it developed no unknown qualities
in Susan's heart? As she lay there in the majesty of unconsciousness,
she resembled more a woman who could avenge herself, than a soft girl,
the sudden victim of a bad man. Vincent turned away from the bed with an
involuntary shudder. He would not, could not, look at her again: he left
his mother to her unceasing vigil, and himself went to his own room, to
try if rest were possible. Rest was not easy in such a terrible
complication of affairs; but weariness is omnipotent with youth. He did
sleep by snatches, in utter fatigue and exhaustion--slept long enough to
secure for himself the unspeakable torture of waking to the renewed
horror of a new day.