Salem Chapel Volume II Part 3

The doctor found the officer outside the door, waiting, not without pity, at his post. He heard what was this man's version of the strange tragedy--strange, and yet not unfamiliar to human ears. The young woman had been betrayed and ruined. In wild vengeance and misery she had seized one of her seducer's pistols and shot him through the head--such was the story. And now she had fled from the scene of the murder, tracked step by step by the avenger. The whole house was in a tumult, as may be supposed. The indignant landlady, who was a member of Salem, could scarcely be prevented going into the jealously-closed room and turning out the unhappy criminal. Another lodger, a nervous woman, had already collected her goods to fly from the place. Outside, some mysterious instinct had collected a few people about the door of the hitherto irreproachable house, which imagination magnified into a crowd. Already Tozer had set out from his shop, red with anger, to inquire into this incipient excitement, which n.o.body could explain. And still Arthur had not appeared to stand by the miserable women in this horrible climax of fate.

When the doctor went back to the room where Susan was, he found Mrs.

Vincent in a state of agitated activity. Mary and she were flitting about the room, moving lights before Susan's eyes, making what noises they could with the furniture, keeping a fantastic commotion about the bed. "She stirred, doctor, and we were trying to rouse her," said the widow, who had put everything but Susan's bodily extremity from her eyes at the moment. The doctor, who was desperate, and whose heart was moved, resorted to desperate measures. He gathered them about the bed, set Mrs.

Vincent to support the insensible form, and raising that white marble arm which had developed into such glorious proportion, touched the swollen blue vein with his lancet. The touch acted like magic. In another moment she had struggled up out of her mother's grasp, and thrown out the arm, from which the blood flowed, up above her head: the crimson stream caught her wild eye as she raised her arm in the air. A convulsive shudder shook her frame. She threw herself over on her face with a cry of horror, far more than a match, in her strength of youth and pa.s.sion, for the agitated arms that held her. "Mother, mother, mother! it is his blood! it is his life!" cried that despairing voice.

The confused bed, the convulsed frame, the flowing blood, all pitifully lighted up by Mary's candle, made up of themselves a scene like murder; and Dr. Rider vainly tried to forget the dreadful words which forced upon his mind their untimely testimony. He shuddered at the touch of that white woman's hand as he bound up the wounded arm. He withdrew his eyes from the pallid grandeur of the stricken face. In spite of himself, horror mingled with his pity. A heavier stain was upon her than those crimson traces on her pearly skin. Other words followed in an incoherent stream. Fever of the heart and brain, burning up into consuming frenzy, had seized upon this lost creature, who was no longer a girl or innocent. Ere long they had to send for nurses, to restrain her delirium. She, raving with a wild madness which betrayed in every wandering exclamation the horror upon her soul, lay desperate in the room which had enclosed for so many lingering hours her mother's anguish of suspense and fear. In an adjoining room, the man who had followed her to this refuge still waited, watchful yet pitiful, intent that his prisoner should not escape him. While outside a few gazers lingered, looking up at the lights in the windows, with a strange perception that something unusual had happened, though n.o.body knew what it was. Such was the scene upon which Arthur Vincent, not unwarned, yet incredulous, came suddenly with eyes of horror and wild indignation as he reached his own door.

CHAPTER IV.

WHEN Vincent was set down, in the darkness and silence of the Sunday night, in the Dover railway station, it was some minutes before he could collect himself, and understand where he was. He had fallen into a feverish sleep during the journey, little as he could have supposed himself capable of sleeping at such a moment; but he was young, and unused to the ceaseless fatigue and excitement and total want of rest which had obliterated for him the natural distinction between night and day. While his fellow-pa.s.sengers trooped away with all the bustle and excitement of travellers, who had then only completed the first stage of their journey, to the pier and the night-boat which waited to carry them across the Channel, he, whom various porters and attendants stimulated with adjurations to make haste, and warnings that he would be late, stumbled out into the dark, collecting his faculties, and trying to think what he must do first. He was giddy and feverish with that insufficient s.n.a.t.c.h of sleep which had lost him the time in which he might have been laying his plans. But when he got outside the station into the unknown place, into the gloom of night, and heard the "moanings of the homeless sea" sounding sullen against the unseen sh.o.r.e, recollection and energy came back to him. That very sound, booming through the darkness, inspired Susan's brother. He thought of her forlorn, desolate, succourless, a weary wanderer seeking rest and finding none, shrouded up in darkness and danger, lost in the mysterious gloom--such was the sentiment of the night. The minister went on rapidly to the town, with its restless lights, through which everybody seemed to be pa.s.sing towards the unseen sea. Should he follow with the stream, or should he stop at the hotel of which Mary had told him? He quickened his steps as he reached the open door of the inn, and plunged in to make rapid inquiries. n.o.body knew either Colonel Mildmay or Mr. Fordham, but the party which he described had been there, and had left only an hour before--not for the boat, the attendants thought: but the boat was ringing its bells through the night; and if by chance they had gone there, no time was to be lost. He rushed from the inn as fast as his wearied limbs could carry him to the pier, where the lookers-on stood aside out of his way, recognising his excitement. He went through among all the pa.s.sengers with the rough captain and his lantern, having briefly explained to that functionary what he wanted. But they were not there. When he had satisfied himself, he left the boat, and stood with suspicious reluctance, unwilling to lose sight of it, on the pier, and watched the coloured lamp on the mast of the steamer gradually gliding through the darkness out of the sheltering harbour, till it began to plunge and heave on the unseen sea. Then he took his troubled way back to the inn. It was very late, and all the population seemed to disappear out of the streets, with the little attendant crowd which had been waiting upon the last event of the day, the departure of this night-boat. The inn itself looked half asleep, and was half closed when he returned. No further arrivals, no incidents in the shape of trains or boats, were to be looked for till the morning. It was the first time that Arthur had encountered this compulsory pause of night. He struggled against it for some time, questioning the waiters, and gleaning some particulars which did but increase his anxiety, but the waiters themselves were sleepy, and all the world around had closed itself up in utter quietness and rest.

Vincent went out again, but he could get admittance nowhere, save at the office of the police, where he went in desperation to ask the services of some one skilful in such inquiries. He found this not without difficulty, but nothing was to be done that night. He had to go back to the hotel to consent to the necessary rest for which, notwithstanding the fever of his mind, his worn-out frame craved. Weariness, indeed, had gradually overpowered and absorbed him--stronger than anxiety, more urgent even than his love for his sister, was this present and over-powering exhaustion which began to occupy all his thoughts. Though he struggled with it he could not but feel in his heart, with a certain guilt, how this overwhelming desire to throw himself down somewhere and rest possessed him to the exclusion of more worthy impulses. After he had ordered some refreshment, of which, indeed, he stood as much in need, the young man threw himself upon a sofa, and there fell into a deep sleep of utter weariness. He could do no more. He slept as youth must sleep, were it on the edge of a precipice, were it at the deathbed of its dearest friend. The very waiter who brought in the food he had ordered, took pity upon the worn-out slumberer. The man heaped up the fire, and covered Vincent with his railway wrapper before he withdrew; and it was not till morning that the young minister awoke out of that profound slumber--awoke chilled and aching, and confused, in the dark, with the untouched meal still on the table, the candle flaming in its socket, and he himself totally unaware how long he had been asleep.

In the interval that elapsed before the first sounds of awakening life in the house, he had time to collect himself, and when he went down-stairs to the coffee-room, still in the dark of the winter morning, had regained more command of himself and his powers than at any previous moment since this misery came upon him.

But it was still so early that the fire was scarcely alight, and he had to wait for the cup of coffee he ordered. Vincent went to the window, as was natural--a large window looking into the dark street, faintly lighted with lamps, which somehow burned less bright in the chill of the morning than they did at night. Looking out vaguely, yet with the vigilance of anxiety, without being able to discriminate anything except here and there a dark figure pa.s.sing in the darkness, the young man waited with his face close to the uncurtained panes. There was nothing in that blank undecipherable street to interest him, and yet he gazed out mechanically in the anxious pre-occupation of his mind. When the attendant came into the room with his coffee, his attention was temporarily distracted. He got up to go to the table where breakfast was being arranged for him; but, as he rose, his eye was caught by the gleam of a pa.s.sing face, ghastly white in the darkness, looking in. Before he could draw breath, the apparition was gone. Without saying a word to the astonished waiter, who began to think him mad, Vincent dashed out after this vanished vision. Two female figures were visible a little further on in the gloomy street. He pursued them with breathless, noiseless speed, and grasped at the arm of a terrified woman who, gasping with sudden fright, turned upon him a face he had never seen before. n.o.body else was to be seen in any direction. The minister made an inarticulate apology, and turned back to search for some opening or pa.s.sage through which that face could have disappeared. It was no fancy of his that painted that pale countenance upon the darkness--the same face that he had seen in the railway carriage following Colonel Mildmay--the same, but with a new look of horror and desperation in its eyes. The young man investigated, as he thought, every doorway, every corner which could have given shelter to such a fugitive. He returned, excited and agitated, to the inn, to ask if there was any pa.s.sage through the line of houses which he might have overlooked, but could hear of none. It was on his lips to ask if they had heard of any crime or accident during the night--any--murder; but prudence restrained the incautious utterance. He went out with the wildest agitation in his mind; something had happened. Mrs. Hilyard's face, gleaming in unconscious at the window, betrayed to him much more clearly than any confession, that some new and awful event had been added to that woman's strange experiences of life; and in the darkness he had been aware of some shadowy figure beside her, accompanying her ghostly way. Perhaps her child--perhaps--could it be Susan? The young man went out, not knowing where he went, into the darkness of the winter morning; he hastened to the pier, to the railway, startling the half-awakened people about, but nowhere could either see or hear of her. Could it be a delusion? but the wildest imagination in the world could not have inspired with such a new horror of expression the eyes that gleamed out of that ghastly pale face.

The grey daylight had just got final mastery of the dark, when Vincent met the man whom he had employed the night before to help him in his inquiries. This agent, more skilful than the minister, had found out the cab-driver who conveyed the party from the hotel on the previous evening. Colonel Mildmay seemed to have made the precipitate retreat of a man suddenly startled and frightened out of his plans. The cabman gave a detailed account of the strange conduct of his fare. "We was a-going to the pier to the Ostend steamer, sir," said the driver, "when I was pulled up sharp, and got my directions to turn about sudden and go to the railway. There was a lady as I see keeping her eye on us, a-standing by the pier gates with her bag in her hand; but it was dark, and she couldn't have seen who was in the cab. The same occurred, sir, as we came up to the railway. I don't say as I see the lady there--but sure enough I was pulled up second time, and ordered out along the Folkestone road, a matter o' three mile or so. Then I was turned back again; and the end of all was that I took them to the Swan in Walmer Street, as is a place where there's well-aired beds and chops, and that style o' thing. That ain't the style of thing as is done in the Lord Warden. To take a fare, and partic'lar along with ladies, from the one of them places to the other, looks queer--that's what it does; it looks very queer, sir. It made me take a deal of notice. Gen'leman tall, light-haired, hook nose, awful swell to look at. Ladies, one on 'em pretty tall, one little; pretty creatures, but dreadful skeared as far as I could see. The little one had a blue veil. That's them, sir; thought as I was right."

"And you can take me to the place?" said Vincent.

"Jump into my cab, and I'll have you there, sir, in five minutes," said the man.

The minister sprang into the cab alone. He no longer wanted the aid of a stranger; the darkling streets seemed to glide past him, and not he past them, as he dashed on at last to find his sister, this time there could be no mistake. After they had threaded several obscure streets, the driver came to a sudden pause, got off his box, and touched his hat with an alarmed look. "I can't drive up to the very 'ouse, sir--there's a crowd around the door; they do say as something has happened. I hope it ain't to any of your friends?" said the cabman. Vincent flung the door open as he was speaking, and rushed out. A horrified and excited crowd was besieging the door of the shabby public-house to which he had been brought. Seeing his hasty arrival, and the pa.s.sionate anxiety in his eyes, the crowd gave way before him, recognising his right of entry; the very policeman at the door yielded to him in the force of his pa.s.sion. "What is it?" he cried, aware of putting away some women and babies from the door with mechanical kindness, but unconscious that he had stumbled up the steps like a man in a dream, and was demanding an answer to his question with an almost wild vehemence. The question was answered by a dozen eager voices. It was murder--murder! He could make out nothing but the word in the confusion of many speakers and of his own mind. n.o.body opposed his entrance or asked what business he had there. He sprang up the stairs in two or three steps, pressed forward to a half-open door, within which he saw some people a.s.sembled, and, unawares thrusting aside a man who stopped him, went into that chamber of death. Several people were around the bed--one, a surgeon, occupied with the prostrate figure there. Vincent, over the heads of the spectators, gazed with burning eyes at this horrible spectacle. Susan herself, whom he did not expect to find there, nor could a.s.sociate in any way with such a scene, faded out of his mind as he gazed with haggard face and horror-stricken soul at the shattered head, bound up in b.l.o.o.d.y-bandages, scarce recognisable except by sharp eyes of love or hate, which rested on that mean pillow. He asked no questions for the moment. To him alone the business needed no explanation. He was not even surprised--he stood gazing in a momentary trance of horror at the lamentable sight. It was a wretched room, shabby and meagre, such a place as only terror could have driven Mildmay to. Villain as he was, his punishment had begun before that pistol-shot brought it to a climax--even in his success he had been conscious that she would keep her word.

The policeman at the door touched Vincent on the sleeve, just as he turned from the dreadful spectacle before him. "n.o.body is allowed in here but for a good reason," said this man, gazing suspiciously at the stranger; "unless you knows something about it, or have come to identify the poor gentleman, or are of some use somehow, I can't let you stay here."

"I do not wish to stay here," said Vincent, turning away with a shudder.

"I want to see the ladies who were with him. Yes, I know who he is--but I am not a friend of his; I have nothing to do with the matter. Where are the ladies who were with him? Miss Vincent," said the minister with a pang, "and--and Miss Mildmay. I have come to take them away."

"The ladies as were with him? Oh, it's them as you're awanting; perhaps you'll stop a minute and talk to the inspector," said the policeman.

"The ladies as were with him? Maybe you can tell the inspector something as will help justice? You didn't know the reason as brought out two young women a-travelling with a gen'leman, did you? They'll want all the friends they can collect afore all's done. You come this way with me."

It was a relief to get out of sight of that which horrified yet fascinated his eyes. Vincent followed the man into another room without observing the evident suspicion with which he was regarded. "Where are they?" he asked again. "I have a cab below. This is not a place for women. I have come to take them away. Where are the people of the house?

What do you mean by keeping your hand on me? I want Miss Vincent. Do you hear me? I have nothing to do with Colonel Mildmay. He has plenty of friends to avenge him. I want my sister. Where is she? Call the people of the house."

Vincent threw off the policeman's hand from his arm, and, looking for a bell, rang violently. He was too much horror-stricken, and too secure of finding Susan, weeping and helpless in some corner, to show any of the pa.s.sionate eagerness with which he had started on his search. Little doubt she was there, poor lost soul. He shrank from meeting with her, now that the meeting was so near; and his thoughts went after that other desperate wretched woman, flying--who could tell where?--in despair and darkness. The house was in utter disorder, as was natural; none of its humble occupants being capable, at the present exciting moment, of attending to their usual duties. Vincent rang the bell again, till it pealed and echoed through the place. Then he bethought himself, with a natural shudder, of the death-chamber close by. He turned to the man by his side, with an instinctive involuntary curiosity. "Is any one suspected?" said the minister, feeling his face grow pale with a dreadful consciousness of the secret which he shared. But before he could hear the answer, his second summons had brought up the terrified mistress of the house, attended half way up the stair by a throng of curious women. He went hurriedly to meet her at the door.

"Where are the ladies?" said the minister. "I have just heard that my sister was brought here last night. Tell her I am here. Take me to her.

Don't be alarmed. You know what I mean? The two ladies--young ladies who came here with Colonel Mildmay last night--where are they? Good heavens!

do you not understand what I mean?"

"The young ladies, sir?" faltered the landlady, gasping and looking at the man who still kept by Vincent's side. "Oh, Lord bless us! The young ladies----"

"Make haste and let them know I am here," said Vincent, gradually growing more and more anxious. "I will undertake to produce them if they are wanted as witnesses. Where are they?--where is my sister? I tell you she is my sister. I have come for her. Tell Miss Vincent. Surely I am speaking plain English," said the young man, with a flush of sudden dread. "The elder one, Miss Vincent--you understand me? Let her know that I am here."

"His sister! Oh, Lord bless us; and he don't know no more than the unborn," cried the woman of the house. "Oh, Lord! p'liceman, can't you tell the poor gentleman? His sister! oh, that's worse than ever, that is. Some poor young thing as has been beguiled and led astray. Lord bless us! don't look at me o' that way. I ain't to blame. Oh, gracious me, that I should have to tell the gentleman, and you standing there!

Oh, sir, it's her as has done it. She's gone away from here afore break of day. I don't blame her; oh, I don't blame her; don't look o' that dreadful way at me. He's drove her to it with bad usage. She'll have to suffer for it; but I don't blame her. I don't blame her if it was my last word in life."

Vincent felt his tongue cleave to his mouth. He was stunned; he did not know what he said--what he was hearing. "Blame her? whom? for what?" he said, with a mechanical effort. He seemed to himself to be suddenly engulfed in some horrible cloud, but he did not know what it meant.

"Oh, Lord! don't look o' that dreadful way at me; she's gone off from here as soon as she done it," cried the woman. "She had that much sense left, poor soul. He's drove her mad; he's drove her to it. My man says it can't be brought in no worse than manslaughter----"

"You don't understand me," Vincent broke in; "you are talking of the criminal. Who are you talking of?--but it does not matter. I want Miss Vincent. Do you hear me?--the young lady whom he brought here last night. Where is my sister? Gone away before daybreak! You mean the criminal, but I want my sister. Susan! take me to where she is. She had nothing to do with it. I will give you anything--pay you anything, only take me to where she is."

He moved towards the door as he spoke, half believing that, if he could but hold out and refuse to credit this horror, Susan might still be found. "Lord bless us! the poor young gentleman's gone out of his senses," cried the landlady. "Let him go through all the house if that's what he wants. There ain't nothing to conceal in my house. I'll take you to the room as they were in--she and the other one. This way, sir. They hadn't nothing with them but two little bags, so there wasn't much to leave; but such as it is, being her night-things, is there. She wasn't thinking of bags, nor any of her little comforts, when she went away.

Here, sir; walk in here."

The woman took him to a room up-stairs, where Vincent followed her mechanically. The room had evidently been occupied a very short time before. Upon a chair, open, with the contents only half thrust in, was a travelling-bag, which the minister recognised at once--a piece of family property dreadful to see in such a place. Susan had been putting her things away with the orderly instinct of her mother's daughter when this sudden shock of terror came upon her. "Do you mean to tell me that it is she who has gone away," said Vincent, with a look of incredulous wonder and appeal--"she--Susan Vincent, my sister? Take time to think. It was not she--somebody else. Tell me where she is----"

"Oh, sir, don't say anything as may come against her," cried the landlady. "It's n.o.body but her, poor soul, poor soul. If it was possible to think as it could be another, I would--but there was n.o.body else to do it. As soon as we heard the shot and the groan the master got up. He met her on the stair, sir, if you'll believe me, like a woman as was walking in her sleep. He was that struck he daren't say a word to her.

He let her pa.s.s by him and go out at the door--and when he went into the gentleman's room and found him there a-dying, she was gone clean off, and couldn't be heard of. Folks say as my husband should have stopped her, but it wasn't none of his business. Oh, sir, don't say nothing as'll put them on her track! There's one man gone off after her already--oh, it's dreadful!--if you'll be advised by me, you'll slip out the back way, and don't come across that policeman again. If she did kill him," cried the weeping landlady, "it was to save herself, poor dear. I'll let you out the back way, if you'll be guided by me."

The horror of this accusation had come home to Vincent's mind at last.

He saw, as if by a sudden flash of dreadful enlightenment, not guilt indeed, or its awful punishment, but open shame--the disgrace of publicity--the horrible suspicions which were of themselves more than enough to kill the unhappy girl. He made a great effort to speak, but could not for the moment. He thrust in the white soft garments which were hanging out of it, into that familiar bag, which somehow gave him a pang more acute than all the terrible news he was hearing. He had travelled with it himself on innocent boyish journeys, had seen it in his mother's innocent hands--and now to find it in this shuddering atmosphere of crime and mystery! He too shuddered as he roused himself to speak. "Hush--hush," said Vincent, "you mistake, my sister has nothing to do with it; I--I can prove that--easily," said the minister, getting the words out with difficulty. "Tell me how it all happened--when they came here, what pa.s.sed; for instance----" He paused, and his eye caught another evidence of the reality of his horrible position. It was the blue veil which he had followed and described, and looked for through all these weary hours. He took it up in his hand, crus.h.i.+ng it together with an almost ungovernable impulse of rage, from where it had been thrown down on the shabby carpet. "For instance," said Susan's brother, restraining himself, "where is the girl who wore this?

You said Miss Vincent went away alone--where was the other? was she left behind--is she here?"

The policeman had followed them up into the room in natural curiosity and suspicion. The landlady's husband had sworn that Susan left the house by herself. Then, where was the girl? The fugitive had been tracked to the railway, the policeman said; but she was alone. n.o.body had thought before of her helpless companion. The inspector arrived while they were going over the house trying if it were possible to find any traces of this forlorn creature. Vincent was much too profoundly concerned himself to keep silence about the mysterious movements of the woman whom he had seen on his way to Dover--whom he had seen that very morning in the darkness--whom he knew to be the bitterest enemy of the murdered man. It was only when he described her--when he tried to collect all the information he had ever had about her for the guidance of justice--that he saw how little he knew of her in reality. His very description was tinged with a touch of fancy; and in this frightful emergency he perceived, for the first time, how much his imagination had supplied of the interest he felt in this woman. When he had done all it was possible to do to set the pursuer on her track, and gathered all he could of the supposed proofs against Susan, he left the place where he could do nothing further. He had to describe himself fully--to prove his ident.i.ty by a reference to the Dissenting minister of the place, and explain whence he had come and whither he was going, before the officers in charge of the house, although conscious that they had no grounds for detaining him, would let him go. But he was permitted to leave at last.

While he waited for the next train to Carlingford, he questioned the cabman, who could give but a very faint and indistinct description of the lady whom he had seen at the pier-gates, whose appearance had stopped Colonel Mildmay in the prosecution of his journey. She was standing under a lamp, the man said: the gentleman might see her, but he didn't think as she could see him; but dim as the vision was, this was another little link in the chain of evidence. If it did but vindicate Susan--save her, not from the penalty, but from the very shadow and suspicion of such a horror! It was this which filled the minister's mind with every sort of frightful apprehension. To have Susan's name exposed to such a horrible publicity--to have such a scene, such a crime anyhow connected with his sister--the idea shook Vincent's mind utterly, and almost disabled him from thought at all. And where was she, poor horror-stricken fugitive? He scarcely dared hope that she had gone to her mother. Sudden death, madness, any misery, seemed possible to have overtaken the unhappy girl thus suddenly reft out of the peacefulness of her youth into circ.u.mstances so horrible. When he entered Carlingford, late at night, it was with insupportable pangs of suspense and alarm that he looked into the faces he met on the lighted streets. Were they looking at him already with a consciousness that some frightful shadow enveloped him? Tozer's shop was already shut--earlier than usual, surely--and two or three people stood talking at the open door, clearly visible against the gaslight, which still burned bright within. Farther up, opposite his own house, two or three pa.s.sengers had stopped to look up at the lighted windows. When Vincent thrust aside a lad who happened to be in his way, asking, with uncontrollable irritation, what he wanted there, the door opened suddenly at the sound of his voice. All was excited and confused within--common life, with its quiet summonses and answers, was over there. Wild confusion, agitation, reproach, surrounded the unfortunate minister. His landlady came forward to meet him, to bewail her own misfortune, and upbraid him with the wrong he had done her. "I took in the pastor for a lodger, because he was sure to be steady and respectable, and this is what he has brought to me!" cried the hysterical woman. "What is the meaning of all this?" cried Vincent, looking round him with restrained fury, but he did not wait for an answer. He went up to his rooms to know the worst. As he rushed breathless up-stairs, loud outcries of delirium reached him. In his horror and anguish he could not recognise the voice--was it his mother who had given way under the terrible burden? He dashed open the door of the sitting-room in which he had spent so many quiet hours--neither mother nor sister were there; instead of them a rough-featured man, in a blue travelling-coat, and Tozer, flushed and argumentative, standing by the table. Vincent had not time to ask what the controversy was that was going on between the two. The b.u.t.terman grasped his hand with an almost violent pressure, and took the stranger's arm. "Beg your pardon for being in your room, Mr. Vincent, but me and this gentleman has a little business. I'll be back presently and explain," said the good deacon, with a compa.s.sionate look at the young man, whose weary eyes sought with instinctive suspicion that unknown face. "I'm your friend, Mr.

Vincent--I always was; I'm not one as will desert a friend in trouble,"

said Tozer, with another shake of his hand, lowering his voice. Then he disappeared with his strange companion. The minister was alone with those cries, with this agitation. He threw himself down in momentary despair. The worst, it appeared, had happened--the horror had travelled before him. He gave up everything in the anguish of that moment. There seemed to be no use for any further struggle. To this sensitive, spotless, inexperienced household, suspicion was worse than death.

CHAPTER V.

WHEN Vincent came to himself, and began to see clearly the true horrors of his position, his mind, driven to its last stronghold, rallied convulsively to meet the worst. It was Susan who was raving close by; but her brother, in the sickening despair of his heart, had not the courage to go into that agitated sick-room. He sat waiting for Tozer's return with a sense of helplessness, a sense of irritation, against which he had no strength to contend. In that bitter moment he gave up everything, and felt himself no longer capable of striving against his fate. He felt in his heart that all Carlingford must already be discussing the calamity that had come upon him, and that his innocent honourable name was already sullied by the breath of the crowd; and, with a strange mixture of intolerance and eagerness, he waited the return of the man who had first, as it appeared, thrust himself into the secret--a man whom the minister must not affront, must not defy, on peril of all he had in the world. These few silent moments were more terrible to Vincent than any that had gone before them. Was it any good holding out, attempting to keep a brave face to the world, struggling against this crus.h.i.+ng blow?--or would it not be easiest to give in, to drop the useless arms, to fly from the inevitable downfall? Some corner of the earth there surely remained where he could hide his head and find a shelter for the two poor women who were greater sufferers than he. It was with such feelings that he awaited the return of Tozer--feelings aggravated by the consciousness that somehow the b.u.t.terman was engaged in his service at this very moment, and by a shadowy and unexpressed suspicion in his mind as to the character of the stranger whom Tozer had taken away. The excellent deacon returned at last with looks of conscious importance. He was very sorry and anxious, but he could not help looking confidential, and standing a little higher upon the ground of this mystery, which n.o.body shared but himself. Once more he shook hands with Vincent, sympathetically, and with a grasp full of meaning.

"The thing for us to do is to keep it quiet--to keep it quiet, sir,"

said Tozer, lowering his voice as he spoke. "Nothing must be said about it--no more nor can be helped, Mr. Vincent. As far as it has gone, there's n.o.body as has heard but me. If it could be kept private from the Salem folks," continued the b.u.t.terman, taking a seat at the table, and looking cautiously round him, as if to make sure that no one was within hearing, "it would be for the best. Them women do make such a talk about everything. Not to tell a falsehood, sir, as I wouldn't, not to save my own, if so be as my own could be in such a position--we'll say as your sister's took bad, sir, that's what we'll say. And no lie neither--hear to her, poor soul!--But, Mr. Vincent," said Tozer, drawing closer, and confiding his doubt in a whisper, "what she says is best not to be listened to, if you'll take my advice. It ain't to be built upon what a poor creature says in a fever, but them sort of words and screechings don't come out of nothing but a troubled mind. She was aggravated awful--so the man tells me."

"Who was the man?" asked Vincent, hurriedly.

"The man? oh!--which man was you meaning, sir?" asked Tozer, with a little fright, recurring to his more generous intention of keeping this intruder altogether from the knowledge of the minister; "n.o.body in particular, Mr. Vincent--n.o.body as is worth mentioning. One as was sent to inquire--that's all. I've cleared him away out of the road," said the b.u.t.terman, not without some natural complacency: "there ain't no matter about him. Don't ask me no more, Mr. Vincent, for it's losing time as is precious. If there's anything as can be done, it's best to do it directly. I'd speak to John Brown as is the cleverest attorney in Carlingford, sir, if I was you. She's young, and, as I was saying, she was aggravated awful. She might be got off."

"Hus.h.!.+" said Vincent, who had to put a desperate curb upon himself, lest the restrained rage with which he heard this implication of guilt should burst out; "you think there is something in this horrible business--that my sister has something to do with it. It is all a frightful delusion--an infernal----"

"Mr. Vincent, sir, you mustn't swear. I'm as sorry for you as a man can be; but you're a minister, and you mustn't give way," said Tozer. "If there ain't nothing in it, so much the better; but I'm told as the evidence is clean again' her. Well, I won't say no more; it's no pleasure to me to think of a young creature, and a minister's daughter, with a mother like what she's got, going any ways astray--far the contrary, Mr. Vincent: your own father, if he was living, couldn't be more sorry than me. But my advice is, keep quiet, and don't let anything get out no more nor can be helped. I don't mean to say as it can be altogether kep' quiet--that ain't in the nature of things; nor I don't mean to make you suppose as all is likely to go smooth, and no fault found. There's pretty sure to be some unpleasantness, one way or another; and the only thing as I can see is just to put up with it, and stand your ground, and do your duty all the same. And I for one will stand by you, sir," said Tozer, rising to his feet with a little glow of conscious generosity and valour, and shaking the hand of the poor young minister with cordial kindness--"I'll stand by you, sir, for one, whatever happens; and we'll tide it out, Mr. Vincent, that's what we'll do, sir, if you can but hold on."

"Thank you," said poor Vincent, moved to the heart--"thank you. I dare not think how it is all to end, but thank you all the same; I shall not forget what you say."

"And tell your mother," continued Tozer, swelling to a little triumph in his own magnanimity--"tell your mother as I said so; tell her as I'll stand by you through thick and thin; and we'll pull through, we'll pull through!" said the b.u.t.terman, slowly disappearing, with a face radiant with conscious bounty and patronage, through the open door.

Vincent had followed him with an instinct of civility and grat.i.tude.