“It is scarcely time for the train yet,” said the minister, getting up slowly; “the world does not care, though our hearts are breaking; it keeps its own time. Mother, goodbye. God knows what may have happened before I see you again.”
“Oh, Arthur, say nothing—say nothing! What can happen but my child to come home?” cried his mother, as he clasped her hands and drew her closer to him. She leaned against her son’s breast, which heaved convulsively, for one moment, and no more. She did not look at him as he went slowly out of the room, leaving her to the unspeakable silence and solitude in which every kind of terror started up and crept about. But before Vincent had left the house his mother’s anxiety and hope were once more excited to passion. Someone knocked and entered; there was a sound of voices and steps on the stair audibly approaching this room in which she sat with her fears. But it was not Susan; it was a young man of Arthur’s own age, with his travelling-bag in his hand, and his sermons in his pocket. He had no suspicion that the sight of him brought the chill of despair to her heart as he went up to shake hands with his friend’s mother. “Vincent would not come back to introduce me,” said Mr. Beecher, “but he said I should find you here. I have known him many years, and it is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance. Sometimes he used to show me your letters years ago. Is Miss Vincent with you? It is pleasant to get out of town for a little, even though one has to preach; and they will all be interested in ’Omerton to hear how Vincent is getting on. Made quite a commotion in the world, they say, with these lectures of his. I always knew he would make an ’it if he had fair-play.”
“I am very glad to see you,” said Mrs. Vincent. “I have just come up from Lonsdale, and everything is in a confusion. When people grow old,” said the poor widow, busying herself in collecting the broken pieces of bread which Arthur had crumbled down by way of pretending to eat, “they feel fatigue and being put out of their way more than they ought. What can I get for you? will you have a glass of wine, and dinner as soon as it can be ready? My son had to go away.”
“Preaching somewhere?” asked the lively Mr. Beecher.
“N‑no; he has some—private business to attend to,” said Mrs. Vincent, with a silent groan in her heart.
“Ah!—going to be married, I suppose?” said the man from ’Omerton; “that’s the natural consequence after a man gets a charge. Miss Vincent is not with you, I think you said? I’ll take a glass of wine, thank you; and I hear one of the flock has sent over to ask me to tea—Mr. Tozer, a leading man, I believe, among our people here,” added Mr. Beecher, with a little complacence. “It’s very pleasant when a congregation is hospitable and friendly. When a pastor’s popular, you see, it always reacts upon his brethren. May I ask if you are going to Mr. Tozer’s to tea tonight?”
“Oh, no,” faltered poor Mrs. Vincent, whom prudence kept from adding, “heaven forbid!” “They—did not know I was here,” she continued, faintly, turning away to ring the bell. Mr. Beecher, who flattered himself on his penetration, nodded slightly when her back was turned. “Jealous that they’ve asked me,” said the preacher, with a lively thrill of human satisfaction. How was he to know the blank of misery, the wretched feverish activity of thought, that possessed that mild little woman, as she gave her orders about the removal of the tray, and the dinner which already was being prepared for the stranger? But the lively young man from ’Omerton perceived that there was something wrong. Vincent’s black looks when he met him at the door, and the exceeding promptitude of that invitation to tea, were two and two which he could put together. He concluded directly that the pastor, though he had made “an ’it,” was not found to suit the connection in Carlingford; and that possibly another candidate for Salem might be required ere long. “I would not injure Vincent for the world,” he said to himself, “but if he does not ’it it, I might.” The thought was not unpleasant. Accordingly, while Vincent’s mother kept her place there in the anguish of her heart, thinking that perhaps, even in this dreadful extremity, she might be able to do something for Arthur with his people, and conciliate the authorities, her guest was thinking, if Vincent were to leave Carlingford, what a pleasant distance from town it was, and how very encouraging of the Tozers to ask him to tea. It might come to something more than preaching for a friend; and if Vincent did not “ ’it it,” and a change were desirable, nobody could tell what might happen. All this smiling fabric the stranger built upon the discomposed looks of the Vincents and Phoebe’s invitation to tea.
To sit by him and keep up a little attempt at conversation—to superintend his
