“She is gone to her aunt Alice,” said Mrs. Vincent, once more looking full in the eyes of the woman who had been left in charge of the house, and who stood shivering with cold and agitation, winding and unwinding round her a thin shawl in which she had wrapped up her arms. “She has gone to her aunt Alice—she was frightened, and thought something had happened. Tomorrow we can go and bring her home.”
“Oh, good Lord! No; she ain’t there,” cried the frightened witness, half inaudible with her chattering teeth.
“Or to Mrs. Hastings at the farm. Susan knows what friends I can trust her to. Arthur, dear, let us go to bed. It’s uncomfortable, but you won’t mind for one night,” said the widow, with a gasp, rising up and sitting down again. She dared not trust herself to hear any explanation, yet all the time fixed with devouring eyes upon the face of the woman whom she would not suffer to speak.
“Mother, for Heaven’s sake let us understand it; let her speak—let us know. Where has Susan gone? Speak out; never mind interruptions. Where is my sister?” cried Vincent, grasping the terrified woman by the arm.
“Oh Lord! If the missis wouldn’t look at me like that! I ain’t to blame!” cried Williams, piteously. “It was the day afore yesterday as the ladies came. I come up to help Mary with the beds. There was the old lady as had on a brown bonnet and the young miss in the blue veil—”
Vincent uttered a sudden exclamation, and looked at his mother; but she would not meet his eyes—would not acknowledge any recognition of that fatal piece of gauze. She gave a little gasp, sitting bolt upright, holding fast by the back of a chair, but kept her eyes steadily and sternly upon the woman’s face.
“We tidied the best room for the lady, and Miss Susan’s little closet; and Mary had out the best sheets, for she says—”
“Mary—where’s Mary?” cried Mrs. Vincent, suddenly.
“I know no more nor a babe,” cried Williams, wringing her hands. “She’s along with Miss Susan—wherever that may be—and the one in the blue veil.”
“Go on, go on!” cried Vincent.
But his mother did not echo his cry. Her strained hand fell upon her lap with a certain relaxation and relief; her gaze grew less rigid; incomprehensible moisture came to her eyes. “Oh, Arthur, there’s comfort in it!” said Mrs. Vincent, looking like herself again. “She’s taken Mary, God bless her! she’s known what she was doing. Now I’m more easy; Williams, you can sit down and tell us the rest.”
“Go on!” cried Vincent, fiercely. “Good heavens! what good can a blundering country girl do here?—go on.”
The women thought otherwise; they exchanged looks of sympathy and thankfulness; they excited the impatient young man beside them, who thought he knew the world, into the wildest exasperation by that pause of theirs. His mother even loosed her bonnet off her aching head, and ventured to lean back under the influence of that visionary consolation; while Vincent, aggravated to the intolerable pitch, sprang up, and, once more seizing Williams by the arm, shook her unawares in the violence of his anxiety. “Answer me!” cried the young man; “you tell us everything but the most important of all. Besides this girl—and Mary—who was with my sister when she went away?”
“Oh Lord! you shake the breath out of me, Mr. Arthur—you do,” cried the woman. “Who? why, who should it be, to be sure, but him as had the best right after yourself to take Miss Susan to her mamma? You’ve crossed her on the road, poor dear,” said the adherent of the house, wringing her hands; “but she was going to her ma—that’s where she was going. Mr. Arthur’s letter gave her a turn; and then, to be sure, when Mr. Fordham came, the very first thing he thought upon was to take her to her mamma.”
Vincent groaned aloud. In his first impulse of fury he seized his hat and rushed to the door to pursue them anyhow, by any means. Then, remembering how vain was the attempt, came back again, dashed down the hat he had put on, and seized upon the railway book in his pocket, to see when he could start upon that desperate mission. Minister as he was, a muttered curse ground through his teeth—villain! coward! destroyer!—curse him! His passion was broken in the strangest way by the composed sounds of his mother’s voice.
“It was very natural,” she said, with dry tones, taking time to form the words as if they choked her; “and of course, as you
