“Arthur, the chapel is open—I should like to go in and rest,” she said, with a little gasp; “and oh, my dear boy, take a little pity upon me! To see the state you are in, and not to know anything, is dreadful. You must have a vestry, where one could sit down a little—let us go in.”
“A vestry—yes; it will be a fit place,” cried Vincent, scarcely knowing what he was saying, and indeed worn out with the violence of his own emotions. This little persistent pause of the widow, who was not absorbed by any one passionate feeling, but took all the common cares of life with her into her severest trouble, awoke the young man to himself. He, too, recollected that this enemy who had stolen into his house was not to be reached by one wild rush, and that everything could not be suffered to plunge after Susan’s happiness into an indiscriminate gulf of ruin. All his own duties pricked at his heart with bitter reminders in that moment when he stood by the door of Salem, where two poor women were busy inside, with pails and brushes, preparing for Sunday. The minister, too, had to prepare for Sunday. He could not dart forth, breathing fire and flame at a moment’s notice, upon the serpent who had entered his Eden. Even at this dreadful moment, in all the fever of such a discovery, the touch of his mother’s hand upon his arm brought him back to his lot. He pushed open the mean door, and led her into the scene of his weekly labours with a certain sickening disgust in his heart which would have appalled his companion. She was a dutiful woman, subdued by long experience of that inevitable necessity against which all resistance fails; and he a passionate young man, naturally a rebel against every such bond. They could not understand each other; but the mother’s troubled face, all conscious of Tufton and Tozer, and what the connection would say, brought all the weight of his own particular burden back upon Vincent’s mind. He pushed in past the pails with a certain impatience which grieved Mrs. Vincent. She followed him with a pained and disapproving look, nodding, with a faint little smile, to the women, who no doubt were members of the flock, and might spread an evil report of the pastor, who took no notice of them. As she followed him to the vestry, she could not help thinking, with a certain strange mixture of pain, vexation, and tender pride, how different his dear father would have been. “But Arthur, dear boy, has my quick temper,” sighed the troubled woman. After all, it was her fault rather than her son’s.
“This is a very nice room,” said Mrs. Vincent, sitting down with an air of relief; “but I think it would be better to close the window, as there is no fire. You were always very susceptible to cold, Arthur, from a child. And now, my dear boy, we are undisturbed, and out of those dreadful glaring streets where everybody knows you. I have not troubled you, Arthur, for I saw you were very much troubled; but, oh! don’t keep me anxious now.”
“Keep you anxious! You ask me to make you anxious beyond anything you can think of,” said the young man, closing the window with a hasty and fierce impatience, which she could not understand. “Good heavens, mother! why did you let that man into your innocent house?”
“Who is he, Arthur?” asked Mrs. Vincent, with a blanched face.
“He is—” Vincent stopped with his hand upon the window where he had overheard that conversation, a certain awe coming over him. Even Susan went out of his mind when he thought of the dreadful calmness with which his strange acquaintance had promised to kill her companion of that night. Had she started already on this mission of vengeance? A cold thrill came over him where he stood. “I can’t tell who he is,” he exclaimed, abruptly, throwing himself down upon the little sofa; “but it was to be in safety from him that Mrs. Hilyard sent her daughter to Lonsdale. It was he whom she vowed to kill if he found the child. Ah!—he is,” cried the young man, springing to his feet again with a sudden pang and smothered exclamation as the truth dawned upon him, “Lady Western’s brother. What other worse thing he is I cannot tell. Ruin, misery, and horror at the least—death to Susan—not much less to me.”
“To you? Oh, Arthur, have pity upon me, my heart is breaking,” said Mrs. Vincent. “Oh, my boy, my boy, whom I would die to save from any trouble! don’t tell me I have destroyed you. That cannot be, Arthur—that cannot be!”
The poor minister did not say anything—his heart was bitter within him. He paced up and down the vestry with dreadful thoughts. What was She to him if she had a hundred brothers? Nothing in the world could raise the young Nonconformist to that sweet height which she made beautiful; and far beyond that difference came the cruel recollection of those smiles and tears—pathetic, involuntary confessions. If there was another man in the world whom she could trust “with life—to death!” what did it matter though a thousand frightful combinations involved poor Vincent with her kindred? He tried to remind himself of all this, but did not succeed. In the meantime, the fact glared upon him that it was her brother who had aimed this deadly blow at the honour and peace of
