Margaret Oliphant - Salem Chapel. Volume 2/2

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.