“Why, what’s the matter?” cried Tozer: “the pastor’s gone off in a huff, and Phoebe crying. What’s wrong? You’ve been saying somethin’—you women with your sharp tongues.”
“It’s Phoebe and Mr. Vincent have had some words. Be quiet, Tozer—don’t you see the child’s hurt in her feelings?” said his wife.
Mr. and Mrs. Pigeon exchanged looks. “I’ll tell you what it is,” said the latter lady, solemnly. “It’s turned his head. I never approved of the Music Hall myself. It’s a deal of money to throw away, and it’s not like as if it was mercy to poor souls. And such a crush, and the cheering, and my Lady Western to shake hands with him, has turned the minister’s head. Now, just you mark my words. He hasn’t been here three month yet, and he’s a-getting high already. You men’ll have your own adoes with him. Afore a year’s over our heads, he’ll be a deal too high for Salem. His head’s turned—that’s what it is.”
“Oh, Mrs. Pigeon, how unkind of you!” cried Phoebe, “when he’s as good as good—and not a bit proud, nor ever was—and always such a gentleman!—and never neglects the very poorest whenever he’s sent for—oh, it’s so unkind of you.”
“I can’t see as his head isn’t straight enough on his shoulders,” said Tozer himself, with authority. “He’s tired, that’s what it is—and excited a bit, I shouldn’t wonder: a man can’t study like he does, and make hisself agreeable at the same time—no, no—by a year’s time he’ll be settling down, and we’ll know where we are; and as for Salem and our connection, they never had a chance, I can tell you, like what they’re a-going to have now.”
But Mrs. Pigeon shook her head. It was the first cloud that had risen on the firmament of Salem Chapel, so far as Mr. Vincent was concerned.
IX
It was a January night on which Vincent emerged abruptly from Tozer’s door, the evening of that lecture—a winter night, not very cold, but very dark, the skies looking not blue, but black overhead, and the light of the lamps gleaming dismally on the pavement, which had received a certain squalid power of reflection from the recent rain; for a sharp, sudden shower had fallen while Vincent had been seated at the hospitable table of the butterman, which had chased everybody from the darkling streets. All the shops were closed, a policeman marched along with heavy tread, and the wet pavement glimmered round his solitary figure. Nothing more uncomfortable could be supposed after the warmth and light of a snug interior, however humble; and the minister turned his face hastily in the direction of his lodging. But the next moment he turned back again, and looked wistfully in the other direction. It was not to gaze along the dark length of street to where the garden-walls of Grange Lane, undiscernible in the darkness, added a far-withdrawing perspective of gentility and aristocratic seclusion to the vulgar pretensions of George Street; it was to look at a female figure which came slowly up, dimming out the reflection on the wet stones as it crossed one streak of lamplight after another. Vincent was excited and curious, and had enough in his own mind to make him wistful for sympathy, if it were to be had from any understanding heart. He recognised Mrs. Hilyard instinctively as she came forward, not conscious of him, walking, strange woman as she was, with the air of a person walking by choice at that melancholy hour in that dismal night. She was evidently not going anywhere: her step was firm and distinct, like the step of a person thoroughly self-possessed and afraid of nothing—but it lingered with a certain meditative sound in the steady firm footfall. Vincent felt a kind of conviction that she had come out here to think over some problem of that mysterious life into which he could not penetrate, and he connected this strange walk involuntarily with the appearance of Lady Western and her careless companion. To his roused fancy, some incomprehensible link existed between himself and the equally incomprehensible woman before him. He turned back almost in spite of himself, and went to meet her. Mrs. Hilyard looked up when she heard his step. She recognised him also on the spot. They approached each other much as if they had arranged a meeting at eleven o’clock of that wet January night in the gleaming, deserted streets.
“It is you, Mr. Vincent!” she said. “I wonder why I happen to meet you, of all persons in the world, tonight. It is very odd. What, I wonder, can have brought us both together at such an hour and in such a place? You never came to see me that Monday—nor any Monday. You went to see my beauty instead, and you were so lucky as to be affronted with the syren at the first glance. Had you been less fortunate, I think I might have partly taken you into my confidence tonight.”
“Perhaps I am less fortunate, if that is all that hinders,” said Vincent; “but it is strange to see you out here so late in such a dismal night. Let me go with you, and see you safe home.”
“Thank you. I am perfectly safe—nobody can possibly be safer than such a woman as I am, in poverty and middle age,” said his strange acquaintance. “It is an immunity that women don’t often prize, Mr. Vincent, but it is very valuable in its way. If anybody saw you talking to an equivocal female figure at eleven o’clock in George Street, think what the butterman would say; but a single glimpse of my face would explain matters better than a volume. I am going down towards Grange Lane, principally because I am restless tonight, and don’t know what to do with myself. I shall tell you what I thought of your lecture if you will walk with me to the end of
