Salem Chapel

it that the walls of the house stood steady with those throbs palpitating within their dull enclosure? But there was this comfort at least, that nobody fathomed Mrs. Vincent in that speechless martyrdom of hers⁠—nobody guessed the horror in her heart⁠—nobody imagined that there was anything of tragic meaning under that composed aspect. She went to church again in the evening to escape Phoebe’s “nursing,” and sat there choking with the anticipation that meantime her son was bringing Susan home. She walked home with Beecher, devoured by feverish hopes and fears, found still no one there, with an unutterable pang, yet relief, and sat with the young man from ’Omerton for a horrible hour or two, till the strain had all but killed her. But nobody came; nobody came all through the hideous night. Holding with half-frantic hands to the thread of life, which could ill bear this total want of all its usual sustenance, but which must not be sacrificed for her children’s sake⁠—keeping alive, she could not tell how, without food, without rest, without even prayer⁠—nothing but a fever of dumb entreaty coming to her mind when she sought some forlorn comfort from the mere fact of going on her knees⁠—Mrs. Vincent lived through the night and the morning. Another horrible, sunshiny, cheerful day; but no sound in earth or heaven to say they were coming⁠—no arrival, no letter⁠—nothing but hopeless, sickening, intolerable suspense⁠—suspense all the more intolerable because it had to be borne.

XXII

Tomorrow! tomorrow was Monday morning, a new day, a new workweek⁠—cheerful, healthful, and exhilarating⁠—bright with that frosty sunshine, which carried comparative comfort to many a poor house in Carlingford. The widow’s face was sharper, paler, of a wonderful ashy colour. Nature could not go on under such a struggle without showing signs of it. Beecher, who was not to go until a late train, took leave of her as soon as he could, not without a little fright, and betook himself to Tozer’s, where he said she overawed him with her grand manners, and where he was led to admit that Vincent had always been a little “high.” If she could have abandoned herself to her dreadful vigil, perhaps Mrs. Vincent might have found it easier, perhaps harder⁠—she herself thought the former; but she dared not give up to it. She had to set her face like a flint⁠—she was Arthur’s representative, and had still to show a steadfast front of battle for him, and if not discomfit, still confront his enemies. She had to call at Siloam Cottage, at Mrs. Tozer’s, to do what else might be necessary for the propitiation of the flock. She never dreamed of saying to herself that she could not do it; there was no question of that; the flag had to be kept flying for Arthur. No friend of his must be jeopardised, no whisper allowed to rise which his mother could prevent: she had been a minister’s wife for thirty years; well had she learned in that time, like Mrs. Tufton, that a deal of attention was needed to keep all things straight.

Accordingly, in the height of her excitement and anxiety, believing that any moment the poor fugitive might be brought home, the widow, in her unflinching martyrdom, once more put on her bonnet, and drew out her black ribbon into bows of matchless neatness. Though she wrung her poor hands in speechless anguish as she went out of the room, it was with composed, though colourless lips, that she spoke to the little maid in the hall. “Mr. Vincent may come home any time today,” said the widow; “you must have some lunch ready, and tea; perhaps his sister may be with him⁠—or⁠—or she may come alone. Anyone who comes is to be taken upstairs. I will not be long gone; and I am going to Mrs. Tufton’s, if anybody should want me⁠—”

At this moment a knock came to the door⁠—a hurried single knock, always alarming, and sounding like an evil omen. Mrs. Vincent’s voice failed her at that sound⁠—most likely her face went into convulsive twitches, for the maid stood staring at her, too much startled to open the door, until a wild gesture from the speechless woman, who was herself unable to move, her breath almost forsaking her, and coming in sobs, recalled the girl to her senses. The door was opened, and Mrs. Vincent stood with burning eyes gazing out. Ah, not Susan! never Susan!⁠—a little, stout, rustic figure, all weary and dishevelled, looking ashamed, frightened, almost disreputable in utter forlornness and unhappiness. Mrs. Vincent gave a great sob to get breath, and dropped upon the chair, and held out her hand to Mary. She had forgotten Mary⁠—forgotten her momentary comfort in the fact that Susan’s flight was not alone. Now was it life or death the girl was bringing? She drew the frightened creature near, close, and shrieked, as she thought, her question in her ear. “What? what?” said Mrs. Vincent in her own mind; but no sound came to Mary’s ears.

“O missis dear, missis dear!” sobbed the girl. “I’ve been and told Mr. Arthur exact where she is⁠—he’s gone to fetch her home. O missis, don’t take on! they’ll soon be here. Miss Susan’s living, she ain’t dead. O missis, missis, she ain’t dead⁠—it might be worse nor it is.”

At these words Mrs. Vincent roused herself up once more. “My daughter has been ill,” she said in gasps, turning a dreadful look upon the servant of the house. Then she rose, took hold of Mary’s arm, and went upstairs with her, holding her fast. She shut the door with her own hands when they got back to the lonely parlour full of daylight and silence. “Miss Susan has been ill?” she said once more with parched lips, looking again, with that full blank gaze which seemed to deny and defy any other answer, in Mary’s frightened face.

“O missis, don’t take on!” sobbed the terrified girl.

“No,