Margaret Oliphant - Salem Chapel. Volume 2/2

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 Phœbe 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 Phœbe 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.”