Kitabı oku: «Salem Chapel. Volume 1/2», sayfa 10
“Oh, mother, have a little prudence now,” cried the afflicted minister; “if he were base enough to propose marriage to Susan (confound him! that’s not an oath – my father himself would have said as much) under such circumstances, don’t you think he has the courage to tell a lie as well? I shall go up to town, and to his address to-morrow, and see what is to be found there. You must rest in the mean time. Writing is out of the question; what is to be done, I must do– and without a moment’s loss of time.”
The mother took his hand again, and put her handkerchief to her eyes – “God bless my dear boy,” she said, with a mother’s tearful admiration – “Oh, what a thing for me, Arthur, that you are grown up and a man, and able to do what is right in such a dreadful difficulty as this! You put me in mind more and more of your dear father when you settle so clearly what is to be done. He was always ready to act when I used to be in a flutter, which was best. And, oh, how good has the Father of the fatherless been to me in giving me such a son!”
“Ah, mother,” said the young minister, “you gave premature thanks before, when you thought the Father of the fatherless had brought poor Susan a happy lot. Do you say the same now?”
“Always the same, Arthur dear,” cried his mother, with tears – “always the same. If it is even so, is it me, do you think, or is it Him that knows best?”
After this the agitation and distress of the first meeting gradually subsided. That mother, with all her generous imprudence and innocence of heart, was, her son well knew, the tenderest, the most indulgent, the most sympathetic of all his friends. Though the little – the very little insight he had obtained into life and the world had made him think himself wiser than she was in some respects, nothing had ever come between them to disturb the boy’s half-adoring, half-protecting love. He bethought himself of providing for her comfort, as she sat looking at him in the easy-chair, with her eyes smiling on him through their tears, patiently sipping the tea, which was a cold and doubtful infusion, nothing like the fragrant lymph of home. He poked the fire till it blazed, and drew her chair towards it, and hunted up a footstool which he had himself kicked out of the way, under the sofa, a month before. When he looked at the dear tender fresh old face opposite to him, in that close white cap which even now, after the long fatiguing journey, looked fresher and purer than other people’s caps and faces look at their best, a thaw came upon the young man’s heart. Nature awoke and yearned in him. A momentary glimpse crossed his vision of a humble happiness long within his reach, which never till now, when it was about to become impossible for ever, had seemed real or practicable, or even desirable before.
“Mother, dear,” said Vincent, with a tremulous smile, “you shall come here, Susan and you, to me; and we shall all be together again – and comfort each other,” he added, with a deeper gravity still, thinking of his own lot.
His mother did not answer in many words. She said, “My own boy!” softly, following him with her eyes. It was hard, even with Susan’s dreadful danger before her, to help being tearfully happy in seeing him again – in being his guest – in realising the full strength of his manhood and independence. She gave herself up to that feeling of maternal pride and consolation as she once more dried the tears which would come, notwithstanding all her efforts. Then he sat down beside her, and resigned himself to that confidential talk which can rarely be but between members of the same family. He had unburdened his mind unconsciously in his letters about Tozer and the deacons; and it cannot be told what a refreshment it was to be able to utter roundly in words his sentiments on all those subjects. The power of saying it out with no greater hindrance than her mild remonstrances, mingled, as they were, with questions which enabled him to complete his sketches, and smiles of amusement at his descriptive powers, put him actually in better humour with Salem. He felt remorseful and charitable after he had said his worst.
“And are you sure, dear,” said Mrs. Vincent, at last resuming the subject nearest her heart, “that you can go away to-morrow without neglecting any duty? You must not neglect a duty, Arthur – not even for Susan’s sake. Whatever happens to us, you must keep right.”
“I have no duty to detain me,” said Vincent, hastily. Then a sudden glow came over the young man, a flush of happiness which stole upon him like a thief, and brightened his own personal firmament with a secret unacknowledgable delight; “but I must return early,” he added, with a momentary hesitation – “for if you won’t think it unkind to leave you, mother, I am engaged to dinner. I should scarcely like to miss it,” he concluded, after another pause, tying knots in his handkerchief, and taking care not to look at her as he spoke.
“To dinner, Arthur? I thought your people only gave teas,” said Mrs. Vincent, with a smile.
“The Salem people do; but this – is not one of the Salem people,” said the minister, still hesitating. “In fact, it would be ungracious of me not to go, and cowardly, too – for that curate, I believe, is to meet me – and Lady Western would naturally think – ”
“Lady Western!” said Mrs. Vincent, with irrestrainable pleasure; “is that one of the great people in Carlingford?” The good woman wiped her eyes again with the very tenderest and purest demonstration of that adoration of rank which is said to be an English instinct. “I don’t mean to be foolish, dear,” she said, apologetically; “I know these distinctions of society are not worth your caring about; but to see my Arthur appreciated as he should be, is – ” She could not find words to say what it was – she wound up with a little sob. What with trouble and anxiety, and pride and delight, and bodily fatigue added to all, tears came easiest that night.
Vincent did not say whether or not these distinctions of society were worth caring about. He sat abstractedly, untying the knots in his handkerchief, with a faint smile on his face. Then, while that pleasurable glow remained, he escorted his mother to his own sleeping-room, which he had given up to her, and saw that her fire burned brightly, and that all was comfortable. When he returned to poke his solitary fire, it was some time before he took out the letter which had disturbed his peace. The smile died away first by imperceptible degrees from his face. He gradually erected himself out of the meditative lounge into which he had fallen; then, with a little start, as if throwing dreams away, he took out and examined the letter. The more he looked at it, the graver and deeper became the anxiety in his face. It had every appearance of being genuine in its bad writing and doubtful spelling. And Vincent started again with an unexplainable thrill of alarm when he thought how utterly unprotected his mother’s sudden journey had left that little house in Lonsdale. Susan had no warning, no safeguard. He started up in momentary fright, but as suddenly sat down again with a certain indignation at his own thoughts. Nobody could carry her off, or do any act of violence; and as for taking advantage of her solitude, Susan, a straightforward, simple-minded English girl, was safe in her own pure sense of right.
CHAPTER XIII
”NEXT morning Mr. Vincent got up early, with an indescribable commotion in all his thoughts. He was to institute inquiries which might be life or death to his sister, but yet could not keep his mind to the contemplation of that grave necessity. A flicker of private hope and expectation kept gleaming with uncertain light over the dark weight of anxiety in his heart. He could not help, in the very deepest of his thoughts about Susan, breaking off now and then into a momentary digression, which suddenly carried him into Lady Western’s drawing-room, and startled his heart with a thrill of conscious delight, secret and exquisite, which he could neither banish nor deny. In and out, and round about that grievous doubt which had suddenly disturbed the quiet history of his family, this capricious fairy played, touching all his anxious thoughts with thrills of sweetness. It seemed an action involuntary to himself, and over which he had no power; but it gave the young man an equally involuntary and causeless cheer and comfort. It did not seem possible that any dreadful discovery could be made that day, in face of the fact that he was to meet Her that night.
When he met his mother at breakfast, the recollection of Mrs. Hilyard and the charge she had committed to him, came to his mind again. No doubt Susan would take the wanderers in – no doubt they were as safe in the cottage as it was possible to be in a humble inviolable English home, surrounded by all the strength of neighbours and friends, and the protection of a spotless life which everybody knew; but yet – That was not what his strange acquaintance had expected or bargained for. He felt as if he had broken faith with her when he realised his mother’s absence from her own house. Yet somehow he felt a certain hesitation in broaching the subject, and unconsciously prepared himself for doubts and reluctance. The certainty of this gave a forced character to the assumed easiness with which he spoke.
“You will go to see Mrs. Hilyard,” he said; “I owe it to her to explain that you were absent before her child went there. They will be safe enough at home, no doubt, with Susan; but still, you know, it would have been different had you been there.”
“Yes, Arthur,” said Mrs. Vincent, with an indescribable dryness in her voice.
“You will find her a very interesting woman,” said her son, instinctively contending against that unexpressed doubt – “the strangest contrast to her surroundings. The very sound of her voice carries one a thousand miles from Salem. Had I seen her in a palace, I doubt whether I should have been equally impressed by her. You will be interested in spite of yourself.”
“It is, as you say, very strange, Arthur,” said Mrs. Vincent – the dryness in her voice increasing to the extent of a short cough; “when does your train start?”
“Not till eleven,” said Vincent, looking at his watch; but you must please me, and go to see her, mother.”
“That reminds me, dear,” said Mrs. Vincent, hurriedly, “that now I am here, little as it suits my feelings, you must take me to see some of your people, Arthur. Mrs. Tufton, and perhaps the Tozers, you know. They might not like to hear that your mother had been in Carlingford, and had not gone to see them. It will be hard work visiting strangers while I am in this dreadful anxiety, but I must not be the means of bringing you into any trouble with your flock.”
“Oh, never mind my flock,” said Vincent, with some impatience; “put on your bonnet, and come and see her, mother.”
“Arthur, you are going by the first train,” said his mother.
“There is abundant time, and it is not too early for her,” persisted the minister.
But it was not so easy to conquer that meek little woman. “I feel very much fatigued to-day,” she said, turning her eyes, mild but invincible, with the most distinct contradiction of her words to her son’s face; “if it had not been my anxiety to have all I could of you, Arthur, I should not have got up to-day. A journey is a very serious matter, dear, for an old woman. One does not feel it so much at first,” continued this plausible defendant, still with her mild eyes on her son’s face, secure in the perfect reasonableness of her plea, yet not unwilling that he should perceive it was a pretence; “it is the next day one feels it. I shall lie down on the sofa, and rest when you are gone.”
And, looking into his mother’s soft eyes, the young Nonconformist retreated, and made no more attempts to shake her. Not the invulnerability of the fortress alone discouraged him – though that was mildly obdurate, and proof to argument – but a certain uneasiness in the thought of that meeting, an inclination to postpone it, and stave off the thought of all that might follow, surprised himself in his own mind. Why he should be afraid of the encounter, or how any complication could arise out of it, he could not by any means imagine, but such was the instinctive sentiment in his heart.
Accordingly he went up to London by the train, leaving Mrs. Hilyard unwarned, and his mother reposing on the sofa, from which, it is sad to say, she rose a few minutes after he was gone, to refresh herself by tidying his bookcase and looking over all his linen and stockings, in which last she found a very wholesome subject of contemplation, which relieved the pressure of her thoughts much more effectually than could have been done by the rest which she originally proposed. Arthur, for his part, went up to London with a certain nervous thrill of anxiety rising in his breast as he approached the scene and the moment of his inquiries; though it was still only by intervals that he realised the momentous nature of those inquiries, on the result of which poor Susan’s harmless girlish life, all unconscious of the danger that threatened it, hung in the balance. Poor Susan! just then going on with a bride’s preparations for the approaching climax of her youthful existence. Was she, indeed, really a bride, with nothing but truth and sweet honour in the contract that bound her, or was she the sport of a villanous pastime that would break her heart, and might have shipwrecked her fair fame and innocent existence? Her brother set his teeth hard as he asked himself that question. Minister as he was, it might have been a dangerous chance for Fordham, had he come at that moment without ample proofs of guiltlessness in the Nonconformist’s way.
When he got to town, he whirled, as fast as it was possible to go, to the address where Susan’s guileless letters were sent almost daily. It was in a street off Piccadilly, full of lodging-houses, and all manner of hangers-on and ministrants to the world of fashion. He found the house directly, and was somewhat comforted to find it really an actual house, and not a myth or Doubtful Castle, or a post-office window. He knocked with the real knocker, and heard the bell peal through the comparative silence in the street, and insensibly cheered up, and began to look forward to the appearance of a real Mr. Fordham, with unquestionable private history and troops of friends. A quiet house, scrupulously clean, entirely respectable, yet distinct in all its features of lodging-house; a groom in the area below, talking to an invisible somebody, also a man, who seemed to be cleaning somebody else’s boots; up-stairs, at the first-floor balcony, a smart little tiger making a fashion of watering plants, and actually doing his best to sprinkle the conversational groom below; altogether a superabundance of male attendants, quite incompatible with the integrity of the small dwelling-place as a private house. Another man, who evidently belonged to the place, opened the door, interrupting Vincent suddenly in his observations – an elderly man, half servant, half master, in reality the proprietor of the place, ready either to wait or be waited on as occasion might require. Turning with a little start from his inspection of the attendant circumstances, Vincent asked, did Mr. Fordham live there?
The man made a momentary but visible pause; whatever it might betoken, it was not ignorance. He did not answer with the alacrity of frank knowledge or simple non-information. He paused, then said, “Mr. Fordham, sir?” looking intently at Vincent, and taking in every particular of his appearance, dress, and professional looks, with one rapid glance.
“Mr. Fordham,” repeated Vincent, “does he live here?”
Once more the man perused him, swiftly and cautiously. “No, sir, he does not live here,” was the second response.
“I was told this was his address,” said Vincent. “I perceive you are not ignorant of him; where does he live? I know his letters come here.”
“There are a many gentlemen in the house in the course of the season,” answered the man, still on the alert to find out Vincent’s meaning by his looks – “sometimes letters keep on coming months after they are gone. When we knows their home address, sir, we sends them; when we don’t, we keeps them by us till we see if any owner turns up. Gen’leman of the name of Fordham? – do you happen to know, sir, what part o’ the country he comes from? There’s the Lincolnshire Fordhams, as you know, sir, and the Northumberland Fordhams; but there’s no gen’leman of that name lives here.”
“I am sure you know perfectly whom I mean,” said Vincent, in his heat and impatience. “I don’t mean Mr. Fordham any harm – I only want to see him, or to get some information about him, if he is not to be seen. Tell me where he does live, or tell me which of his friends is in town, that I may ask them. I tell you I don’t mean Mr. Fordham any harm.”
“No, sir? – nor I don’t know as anybody means any harm,” said the man, once more examining Vincent’s appearance. “What was it as you were wishing to know? Though I ain’t acquainted with the gen’leman myself, the missis or some of the people may be. We have a many coming and going, and I might confuse a name. – What was it as you were wishful to know?”
“I wish to see Mr. Fordham,” said Vincent, impatiently.
“I have told you, sir, he don’t live here,” said the guardian of the house.
“Then, look here; you don’t deceive me, remember. I can see you know all about him,” said Vincent; “and, as I tell you, I mean him no harm; answer me one or two simple questions, and I will either thank or reward you as you like best. In the first place, Is this Mr. Fordham a married man? and, Has he ever gone by another name?”
As he asked these questions the man grinned in his face. “Lord bless you, sir, we don’t ask no such questions here. A gen’leman comes and has his rooms, and pays, and goes away, and gives such name as he pleases. I don’t ask a certificate of baptism, not if all’s right in the pay department. We don’t take ladies in, being troublesome; but if a man was to have a dozen wives, what could we know about it? Sorry to disoblige a clergyman, sir; but as I don’t know nothing about Mr. Fordham, perhaps you’ll excuse me, as it’s the busiest time of the day.”
“Well, then, my good man,” said Vincent, taking out his purse, “tell me what friend he has that I can apply to; you will do me the greatest service, and I – ”
“Sorry to disoblige a clergyman, as I say,” said the man, angrily; “but, begging your pardon, I can’t stand jabbering here. I never was a spy on a gen’leman, and never will be. If you want to know, you’ll have to find out. Time’s money to me.”
With which the landlord of No. 10 Nameless Street, Piccadilly, shut the door abruptly in Vincent’s face. A postman was audibly approaching at the moment. Could that have anything to do with the sudden breaking off of the conference? The minister, exasperated, yet, becoming more anxious, stood for a moment in doubt, facing the blank closed door. Then, desperate, turned round suddenly, and faced the advancing Mercury. He had no letters for No. 10; he was hastening past, altogether regardless of Vincent’s look of inquiry. When he was addressed, however, the postman responded with immediate directness. “Fordham, sir – yes – a gentleman of that name lives at No. 10 – leastways he has his letters there – No. 10 – where you have just been, sir.”
“But they say he doesn’t live there,” said Vincent.
“Can’t tell, sir – has his letters there,” said the public servant, decidedly.
More than ever perplexed, Vincent followed the postman to pursue his inquiries. “What sort of a house is it?” he asked.
“Highly respectable house, sir,” answered the terse and decisive functionary, performing an astounding rap next door.
In an agony of impatience and uncertainty, the young man lingered opposite the house, conscious of a helplessness and impotence which made him furious with himself. That he ought to be able to get to the bottom of it was clear; but that he was as far as possible from knowing how to do that same, or where to pursue his inquiries, was indisputable. One thing was certain, that Mr. Fordham did not choose to be visible at this address to which his letters were sent, and that it was hopeless to attempt to extract any information on the subject by such frank inquiries as the minister had already made. He took a half-hour’s walk, and thought it over with no great enlightenment on the subject. Then, coming back, applied once more at the highly respectable uncommunicative door. He had entertained hopes that another and more manageable adherent of the house might possibly appear this time – a maid, or impressionable servitor of some description, and had a little piece of gold ready for the propitiatory tip in his hand. His hopes were, however, put to flight by the appearance of the same face, increased in respectability and composure by the fact that the owner had thrown off the jacket in which he had formerly been invested, and now appeared in a solemn black coat, the essence of respectable and dignified servitude. He fixed his eyes severely upon Vincent as soon as he opened the door. He was evidently disgusted by this return to the charge.
“Look here,” said Vincent, somewhat startled and annoyed to find himself confronted by the same face which had formerly defied him; “could you get a note conveyed from me to Mr. Fordham? – the postman says he has his letters here.”
“If he gets his letters here they come by the post,” said the man, insolently. “There’s a post-office round the corner, but I don’t keep one here. If one reaches him, another will. It ain’t nothing to me.”
“But it is a great deal to me,” said Vincent, with involuntary earnestness. “You have preserved his secret faithfully, whatever it may be; but it surely can’t be any harm to convey a note to Mr. Fordham. Most likely, when he hears my name,” said the young man, with a little consciousness that what he said was more than he believed, “he will see me; and I have to leave town this evening. You will do me a great service if you will save me the delay of the post, and get it delivered at once. And you may do Mr. Fordham a service too.”
The man looked with less certainty in Vincent’s face. – “Seems to me some people don’t know what ‘No’ means, when it’s said,” he replied, with a certain relenting in his voice. “There’s things as a gen’leman ought to know, sure enough – something happened in the family or so; but you see, he don’t live here; and since you stand it out so, I don’t mind saying that he’s a gen’leman as can’t be seen in town to-day, seeing he’s in the country, as I’m informed, on urgent private affairs. It’s uncommon kind of a clergyman, and a stranger, to take such an interest in my house,” continued the fellow, grinning spitefully; “but what I say first I say last – he don’t live here.”
“And he is not in town?” asked Vincent eagerly, without noticing the insolence of the speech. The man gradually closed the door upon himself till he had shut it, and stood outside, facing his persistent visitor.
“In town or out of town,” he said, folding his arms upon his chest, and surveying Vincent with all the insolence of a lackey who knows he has to deal with a man debarred by public opinion from the gratifying privilege of knocking him down, “there ain’t no more information to be got here.”
Such was the conclusion of Vincent’s attempted investigation. He went away at once, scarcely pausing to hear this speech out, to take the only means that presented themselves now; and going into the first stationer’s shop in his way, wrote a note entreating Mr. Fordham to meet him, and giving a friend’s address in London, as well as his own in Carlingford, that he might be communicated with instantly. When he had written and posted this note, Vincent proceeded to investigate the Directory and all the red and blue books he could lay his hands upon, for the name of Fordham. It was not a plentiful name, but still it occurred sufficiently often to perplex and confuse him utterly. When he had looked over the list of Fordhams in London, sufficiently long to give himself an intense headache, and to feel his under-taking entirely hopeless, he came to a standstill. What was to be done? He had no clue, nor the hope of any, to guide him through this labyrinth; but he had no longer any trust in the honour of the man whom his mother had so rashly received, and to whom Susan had given her heart. By way of the only precaution which occurred to him, he wrote a short note to Susan, begging her not to send any more letters to Mr. Fordham until her mother’s return; and desiring her not to be alarmed by this prohibition, but to be very careful of herself, and wait for an explanation when Mrs. Vincent should return. He thought he himself would accompany his mother home. The note was written, as Vincent thought, in the most guarded terms; but in reality was such an abrupt, alarming performance, as was sure to drive a sensitive girl into the wildest fright and uncertainty. Having eased his conscience by this, he went back to the railway, and returned to Carlingford. Night had fallen before he reached home. Under any other circumstances, he would have encountered his mother after such an ineffectual enterprise, conscious as he was of carrying back nothing but heightened suspicion, with very uncomfortable feelings, and would have been in his own person too profoundly concerned about this dreadful danger which menaced his only sister, to be able to rest or occupy himself about other things. But the fact was, that whenever he relapsed into the solitary carriage in which he travelled to Carlingford, and when utterly quiet and alone, wrapped in the haze of din and smoke and speed which abstracts railway travellers from all the world, – gave himself up to thought, the rosy hue of his own hopes came stealing over him unawares. Now and then he woke up, as men wake up from a doze, and made a passing snatch at his fears. But again and again they eluded his grasp, and the indefinite brightness which had no foundation in reason, swallowed up everything which interfered with its power. The effect of this was to make the young man preternaturally solemn when he entered the room where his mother awaited him. He felt the reality of the fear so much less than he ought to do, that it was necessary to put on twice the appearance. Had he really been as deeply anxious and alarmed as he should have been, he would naturally have tried to ease and lighten the burden of the discovery to his mother; feeling it so hazily as he did, no such precautions occurred to him. She rose up when he came in, with a face which gradually paled out of all its colour as he approached. When he was near enough to hold out his hand to her, Mrs. Vincent was nearly fainting. “Arthur,” she cried, in a scarcely audible voice, “God have pity upon us; it is true: I can see it in your face.”
“Mother, compose yourself. I have no evidence that it is true. I have discovered nothing,” cried Vincent, in alarm.
The widow dropped heavily into her chair, and sobbed aloud. “I can read it in your face,” she said. “Oh! my dear boy, have you seen that – that villain? Does he confess it? Oh, my Susan, my Susan! I will never forgive myself; I have killed my child.”
From this passion it was difficult to recover her, and Vincent had to represent so strongly the fact that he had ascertained nothing certain, and that, for anything he could tell, Fordham might still prove himself innocent, that he almost persuaded his own mind in persuading hers.
“His letters might be taken in at a place where he did not live, for convenience sake,” said Vincent. “The man might think me a dun, or something disagreeable. Fordham himself, for anything we can tell, may be very angry about it. Cheer up, mother; things are no worse than they were last night. I give you my word I have made no discovery, and perhaps to-morrow may bring us a letter clearing it all up.”
“Ah! Arthur, you are so young and hopeful. It is different with me, who have seen so many terrors come true,” said the mother, who notwithstanding was comforted. As for Vincent, he felt neither the danger nor the suspense. His whole soul was engrossed with the fact that it was time to dress; and it was with a little conscious sophistry that he himself made the best of it, and excused himself for his indifference.
“I can’t bear to leave you, mother, in such suspense and distress,” he said, looking at his watch; “but – I have to be at Lady Western’s at half-past six.”
Mrs. Vincent looked up with an expression of stupified surprise and pain for a moment, then brightened all at once. “My dear, I have laid out all your things,” she said, with animation. “Do you think I would let you miss it, Arthur? Never mind talking to me. I shall hear all about it when you come home to-night. Now go, dear, or you will be late. I will come and talk to you when you are dressing, if you don’t mind your mother? Well, perhaps not. I will stay here, and you can call me when you are ready, and I will bring you a cup of tea. I am sure you are tired, what with the fatigue and what with the anxiety. But you must try to put it off your mind, and enjoy yourself to-night.”
“Yes, mother,” said Vincent, hastening away; the tears were in her gentle eyes when she gave him that unnecessary advice. She pressed his hands fast in hers when he left her at last, repeating it, afraid in her own heart that this trouble had spoilt all the brightness of the opening hopes which she perceived with so much pride and joy. When he was gone, she sat down by the solitary fire, and cried over her Susan in an utter forlornness and helplessness, which only a woman, so gentle, timid, and unable to struggle for herself, could feel. Her son, in the mean time, walked down Grange Lane, first with a momentary shame at his own want of feeling, but soon, with an entire forgetfulness both of the shame and the subject of it, absorbed in thoughts of his reception there. With a palpitating heart he entered the dark garden, now noiseless and chill in winterly decay, and gazed at the lighted windows which had looked like distant planets to him the last time he saw them. He lingered looking at them, now that the moment approached so near. A remembrance of his former disappointment went to his heart with a momentary pang as he hesitated on the edge of his present happiness. Another moment and he had thrown himself again, with a degree of suppressed excitement wonderful to think of, upon the chances of his fate.
