Salem Chapel Volume II Part 2

"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 embarra.s.sment; 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 a.s.sent, 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 n.o.body 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 pa.s.s 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 l.u.s.treless 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 a.s.sumed 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sumed 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 pa.s.sion, 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.

CHAPTER III.

WAS it possible that she had slept? A moment ago and it was daylight--a red sunset afternoon: now the pale half-light, struggling with the black darkness, filled the apartment. She was lying on the sofa where Mary had laid her, and by her side, upon a chair within her reach, was some tea untasted, which Mary must have brought after she had fallen into that momentary slumber. The fire burned brightly, with occasional little outbreaks of flame. Such a silence seemed in the house--silence that crept and shuddered--and to think she should have slept!

The night had found covert in all the corners, so dark they were; but one pale line of light came from the window, and the room had a little ruddy centre in the fire. Mrs. Vincent, in the poignant anguish of her awakening, grew superst.i.tious; some other breath--some other presence--seemed in the room besides her own. She called "Mary," but there was no answer. In her excited condition anything was possible--the bounds of the living world and the possible seemed gone for ever. She might see anything--hear anything--in the calm of her desperation. She got up, and hastily lighted the candle which stood on the table. As she looked over the little light a great cry escaped her. What was it?

rising darkly, rising slowly, out of the shadows in which it had been crouching, a huddled indistinct figure. Oh G.o.d! not Susan! not her child! As it rose slowly facing her, the widow cried aloud once more, and put her hand over her eyes to shut out the dreadful vision. Ghastly white, with fixed dilated eyes--with a figure dilated and grandiose--like a statue stricken into marble, raised to grandeur--could it be Susan who stood there, without a word, without a movement, only with a blank dark gaze at the horrified woman, who dared not meet those dreadful eyes? When life rallied in Mrs. Vincent's horror-stricken heart, she went to the ghastly creature, and put warm arms round it, and called it Susan! Susan! Had it any consciousness at all, this dreadful ghost? had it come from another world? The mother kissed it with lips that woke no answer--held it motionless in her trembling arms. She cried again aloud--a great outcry--no longer fearing anything. What were appearances now? If it was Susan, it was Susan dead whom she held, all unyielding and terrible in her warm human arms.

Mary heard and came with exclamations of terror and sympathy. They got her between them to the fire, and chafed her chill hands and feet.

n.o.body knew how she had got in, where she had come from; no one was with her--no one had admitted her. She sat a marble woman in the chair where they had placed her, unresistant, only gazing, gazing--turning her awful eyes after her mother. At last she drew some long gasping breaths, and, with a shudder which shook her entire frame, seemed to come to herself.

"I am Susan Vincent," said the awful ghost. No tears, nor cries, nor wild pressure of her mother's arms, nor entreaties poured into her cold ear, could extract any other words. Mrs. Vincent lost her self-possession: she rushed out of the room for remedies--rung the bell--called for Arthur in a voice of despair--could n.o.body help her, even in this horrible crisis? When she had roused the house she recollected herself, and shut the door upon the wondering strangers, and returned once more to her hopeless task. "Oh, Mary! what are we to do?

Oh, Susan, my child, my darling! speak to your poor mother," cried the widow; but the marble figure in the chair, which was Susan, made no reply. It began to shiver with dreadful trembling fits--to be convulsed with long gasping sobs. "I am--Susan--Susan Vincent"--it said at intervals, with a pitiful iteration. The sight of her daughter in this frightful condition, coming after all her fatigue and strain of excitement, unnerved Mrs. Vincent completely. She had locked the door in her sudden dismay. She was kneeling, clasping Susan's knees--wasting vain adjurations upon her--driven beyond hope, beyond sense, beyond capacity. Little rustic Mary had all the weight of the emergency thrown upon her shoulders. It was she who called to the curious landlady outside to send for the doctor, and who managed to get Susan put into her mother's bed. When they had succeeded in laying her down there, a long interval, that seemed like years, pa.s.sed before Dr. Rider came. The bed was opposite the window, through which the pale rays of the twilight were still trembling. The candle on the other side showed Mrs.

Vincent walking about the room wringing her hands, now and then coming to the bedside to look at the unconscious form there, rent by those gasping sobs, uttering those dreadful words. Mary stood crying at the foot of the bed. As for the widow, her eyes were tearless--her heart in an intolerable fever of suffering. She could not bear it. She said aloud she could not bear it--she could not bear it! Then she returned again to call vainly upon her child, her child! Her strength had given way--she had spent all her reserves, and had nothing to resist this unexpected climax of misery.

It was quite dark when Dr. Rider came. Mary held the candle for him as he felt Susan's pulse, and examined her wide-open eyes. The doctor knew nothing about her any more than if he had not been a doctor. He said it must have been some dreadful mental shock, with inquiring looks at Mrs.

Vincent, who began to recover herself. He put back the heavy locks of golden brown hair, which had been loosened down from Susan's head, and said he was afraid there was pressure on the brain. What could he say?--he knew nothing more about it. He left some simple directions, said he would send some medicine, and took Mrs. Vincent into a corner to ask what it was. "Some severe mental shock?" asked Dr. Rider; but, before she could reply, a cab drove rapidly up to the door, and sounds of a sudden arrival were audible in the house. "Oh, doctor, thank G.o.d, my son is come--now I can bear it," said the widow. Dr. Rider, who was of a compa.s.sionate nature, waited with pitying eyes till the minister should come up, and went to take another look at the patient, relieved to think he could speak to her brother, instead of racking her mother's heart. Mrs. Vincent grew calm in the sudden consolation of thinking Arthur at hand. She sat down by the bedside, with her eyes fixed on the door, yearning for her son, the only living creature from whom she could have entire sympathy. Was it necessary that they should speak so loudly as they came up-stairs?--could he be bringing a stranger with him to Susan's sickroom? Her heart began to beat louder with mingled expectation and displeasure. It was not like Arthur--and there was no sound of his voice in the noise that swept up the stair. She rose up instinctively as the footsteps approached--heavy steps, not like her son's. Then the door was thrown open. It was not Arthur who stood upon the dim threshold. It was a stranger in a rough travelling-coat, excited, resolute, full of his own errand. He made a stride into the room to the bedside, thrusting Mrs. Vincent aside, not wittingly, but because she was in his way. Mary stood at the other side with the doctor, holding up the one pale candle, which threw a flickering light upon the marble white figure on the bed, and the utter consternation and surprise in Dr. Rider's face. Mrs. Vincent, too much alarmed and astonished to offer any resistance, followed the man who had thus entered into her sanctuary of anguish. He knew what he was doing, though n.o.body else did. He went straight forward to the bed. But the sight of the unconscious figure there appalled the confident stranger. "It is she, sure enough," he said; "are you a doctor, sir? is the lady taken ill? I've come after her every step of the way. She's in my custody now.

I'll not give any trouble that I can help, but I must stay here."

Mrs. Vincent, who scarcely could endure to hear, and did not understand, rushed forward while he was speaking, and seized him by the arm--"Leave the room!" she cried with sudden pa.s.sion--"He has made some impudent mistake, doctor. G.o.d help me!--will you let my child be insulted? Leave the room, sir--leave the room, I say! This is my daughter, Miss Vincent, lying here. Mary, ring the bell--he must be turned out of the room.

Doctor, doctor! you are a man; you will never let my child be insulted because her brother is away."

"What does it mean?" cried Dr. Rider--"go outside and I will come and speak to you. Miss Vincent is in a most dangerous state--perhaps dying.

If you know her----"

"Know her, doctor! you are speaking of my child," cried Mrs. Vincent, who faced the intruder with blazing eyes. The man held his ground, not impertinently, but with steadiness.

"I know her fast enough," he said; "I've tracked her every step of the way; not to hurt the lady's feelings, I can't help what I'm doing, sir.

It's murder;--I can't let her out of my sight."

Mrs. Vincent clasped her hands together with a grasp of desperation.

"What is murder?" she said, in a voice that echoed through the room. The doctor, with an exclamation of horror, repeated the same question.

Murder! it seemed to ring through the shuddering house.

"It's hard upon a lady, not to say her mother," said the man, compa.s.sionately; "but I have to do my duty. A gentleman's been shot where she's come from. She's the first as suspicion falls on. It often turns out as the one that's first suspected isn't the criminal. Don't fret, ma'am," he added, with a glance of pity, "perhaps it's only as a witness she'll be wanted--but I must stay here. I daren't let her out of my sight."

There was a dreadful pause. Mrs. Vincent looked up at the two men before her with a heartrending appeal in her eyes. Would anybody tell her what it meant?--would n.o.body interfere for Susan? She moaned aloud inarticulate in her voiceless misery. "And Arthur is not here!" was the outcry which at last burst from her heart. She was beyond feeling what this was--her senses were confused with extremity of suffering. She only felt that another blow had been dealt at her, and that Arthur was not here to help to bear it. Then the stranger, who had put himself so horribly in possession of Susan's sickroom, once more began to speak.

The widow could not tell what he said--the voice rang in her ears like a noise of unmeaning sound, but it stirred her to a flush of female pa.s.sion, as violent as it was shortlived. She sprang forward and took hold of his arm with her white little trembling hand: "Not here--not here!" cried the mother in her pa.s.sion. With her feeble force excited into something irresistible, she put the astonished stranger out of the room before he knew what she was doing. If an infant had done it the man could not have been more utterly astonished. Outside, the people of the house were standing in an excited group. She thrust the dreadful messenger of justice out with those hands that shook with tremors of anguish and weakness. She shut the door upon him with all her feeble strength, locked it, put a chair against it; then she stumbled and fell as she stretched out for another--fell down upon her knees, poor soul!

and remained so, forgetting, as it seemed, how she came there, and gradually, by instinct, putting together the hands which trembled like leaves in the wind--"Lord, Lord!" cried the mother, hovering on the wild verge between pa.s.sion and insensibility. She called Him by name only as utter anguish alone knows how; she had nothing to tell Him; she could only call upon Him by His name.

Dr. Rider took the half-insensible form up in his arms and carried her to the bedside, where Susan still lay motionless with her eyes wide open, in an awful abstraction and unconsciousness. He put Mrs. Vincent tenderly into the chair, and held the hands that shook with that palsied irrestrainable tremor. "No one can bring her to life but you," said the doctor, turning the face of the miserable mother towards her child. "She has kept her senses till she reached you; when she was here she no longer wanted them; she has left her life in your hands." He held those hands fast as he spoke; pressed them gently, but firmly; repeated his words over again. "In your hands," said the doctor once more, struck to his heart with horror and pity. Susan's bare beautiful arm lay on the coverlid, white, round, and full, like marble. The doctor, who had never seen the fair Saxon girl who was Mrs. Vincent's daughter a week ago, thought in his heart that this full developed form and face, rapt to grandeur by the extremity of woe, gave no contradiction to the accusation he had just heard with so much horror. That week had obliterated Susan's soft girlish innocence and the simplicity of her eighteen years. She was a grand form as she lay there upon that bed--might have loved to desperation--fallen--killed. Unconsciously he uttered aloud the thought in his heart--"Perhaps it would be better she should die!"

Then the mother rose. Once more her painful senses came back to the woman who was still the minister's mother, and, even in this hideous dream of misery, had not forgotten the habits of her life. "When my son comes he will settle it all," said Mrs. Vincent. "I expect him--any time--he may come any minute. Some one has made--a mistake. I don't know what that man said; but he has made--a mistake, doctor. My son, Mr.

Vincent, will see to all that. It has nothing to do with us. Tell me what we are to do for my child. Cut off her hair? Oh, yes, yes, anything! I don't mind it, though it is a sacrifice. She has had--a--a great fright, doctor. She could not tell me particulars. When her brother comes home, we will hear all--" said the widow, looking with a jealous gaze in his eyes to see if he believed her. The scene altogether overcame Dr. Rider. He turned away and went to the other side of the room, and took a gla.s.s of water from the table before he could answer her or meet that appeal. Then he soothed her as he best could with directions about Susan. He went away immediately to come back in an hour, if perhaps there might be any change--so he said; but, in reality, he wanted to escape, to hear this dreadful story, to think what was best. Friendless, with n.o.body near to protect them, and the officer of justice waiting at the door, what were these women to do? perhaps death waited closer than the visible messenger of fate. Would it be well to stay that more merciful executioner on his way?