“Poor soul!” said the deacon, compassionately, “it ain’t no wonder, considering all things. Phœbe would have come the very first day to say, Could she be of any use? but her mother wasn’t agreeable. Women has their own ways of managing; but they’ll both come to-day, now all’s cleared up, if you’ll excuse me. And now, ma’am, I’ll go on to the minister, and see if there’s anything as he’d like me to do, for Pigeon and the rest was put out, there’s no denying of it; but if things is set straight directly, what with this news, and what with them sermons yesterday, I don’t think as it’ll do no harm. I said to him, as this Sunday was half the battle,” said the worthy butterman, reflectively; “and he did his best— I wouldn’t say as he didn’t do his best; and I’m not the man as will forsake my pastor when he’s in trouble. Good-morning, ma’am; and my best respects to miss, and I hope as she’ll soon be well again. There ain’t no man as could rejoice more nor me at this news.”
Tozer went on to Vincent’s room, at the door of which the minister had appeared summoning him with some impatience and anxiety. “News? what news?” said Mrs. Vincent, faintly to herself, as she held by the rail and felt the light forsaking her eyes in a new mist of sudden dread. She caught the look of the landlady at that moment, a look of half-pity, curiosity, and knowledge, which startled her back to her defences. With sudden firmness she gathered herself together, and went on to the sick-room, leaving behind her, as she closed the door, the whole troubled world, which seemed to know better about her most intimate affairs than she did; and those newspapers, which somehow mentioned Susan’s name, that sweet maiden name which it was desecration to see so much as named in print. Rather the widow carried that uneasy world in with her to the sick-room which she had left a few minutes before in all the effusion of unhoped-for joy. Everything still was not well though Susan was getting better. She sat down by the bedside where Susan lay languid and pale, showing the change in her by little more than quietness and a faint recognition of her mother, and in her troubled heart began to look the new state of affairs in the face, and to make up her mind that more of the causes of Susan’s illness than she had supposed known, must have become public. And then Arthur and his flock, that flock which he evidently had somehow affronted on the previous day. Mrs. Vincent pondered with all the natural distrust of a woman over Arthur’s imprudence. She almost chafed at her necessary confinement by her daughter’s bedside; if she herself, who had been a minister’s wife for thirty years, and knew the ways of a congregation, and how it must be managed, could only get into the field to bring her son out of the difficult passages which she had no faith in his own power to steer through! So the poor mother experienced how, when absorbing grief is removed, a host of complicated anxieties hasten in to fill up its place. She was no longer bowed down under an overwhelming dread, but she was consumed by restless desires to be doing—cravings to know all—fears for what might at the moment be happening out of her range and influence. What might Arthur, always incautious, be confiding to Tozer even now?—perhaps telling him those “private affairs” which the widow would have defended against exposure with her very life—perhaps chafing at Salem and rejecting that yoke which, being a minister, he must bear. It was all Mrs. Vincent could do to keep herself still on her chair, and to maintain that quietness which was necessary for Susan. If only she could have been there to soften his impatience and make the best of his unnecessary confidences! Many a time before this, the widow had been compelled to submit to that female tribulation—to be shut up apart, and leave the great events outside to be transacted by those incautious masculine hands, in which, at the bottom of her heart, a woman seldom has perfect confidence when her own supervising influence is withdrawn. Mrs. Vincent felt instinctively that Arthur would commit himself as she sat resigned but troubled by Susan’s bed.
Tozer went directly to the door of Vincent’s room, where the minister, only half-dressed, but much alarmed to see the colloquy which was going on between his mother and the butterman, was waiting for him. The deacon squeezed the young man’s hand with a hearty pressure. His aspect was so fatherly and confidential, that it brought back to the mind of the young Nonconformist a certain rueful half-comic recollection of the suppers in the back parlour, and all the old troubles of the pastor of Salem, which heavier shadows had driven out of his mind. Tozer held up triumphantly the paper in his hand.
“You’ve seen it, sir?” said the butterman; “first thing I did this morning was to look up whether there wasn’t nothing about it in the latest intelligence; for the ‘Gazette’ has been very particular, knowing, at Carlingford, folks would be interested—and here it is sure enough, Mr. Vincent; and we nigh gave three cheers, me and the lads in the shop.”
To this Vincent listened with a darkening brow and an impatience which he did not attempt to conceal. He took the paper with again that quick sense of the intolerable which prompted him to tear the innocent broadsheet in pieces and tread it under foot. The ‘Gazette’ contained, with a heading in large characters, the following paragraph:—
“THE DOVER TRAGEDY.
“Our reader will be glad to hear that the unfortunate young lady whose name has been so unhappily mixed up in this mysterious affair, is likely to be fully exonerated from the charge rashly brought against her. In the deposition of the wounded man, which was taken late on Saturday night, by Mr. Everett, the stipendiary magistrate of Dover, he distinctly declares that Miss —— was not the party who fired the pistol, nor in any way connected with it—that she had accompanied his daughter merely as companion on a hasty journey, and that, in short, instead of the romantic connection supposed to subsist between the parties, with all the passions of love and revenge naturally involved, the ties between them were of the simplest and most temporary character. We are grieved to add, that the fright and horror of her awful position had overpowered Miss —— some time before this deposition was made, and brought on a brain-fever, which, of course, made the unfortunate young lady, who is understood to possess great personal attractions, quite unable to explain the suspicious circumstances surrounding her. We have now only to congratulate her respectable family and friends on her exoneration from a very shocking charge, and hope her innocence will soon be confirmed by full legal acquittal. Our readers will find Colonel Mildmay’s deposition on another page. It will be perceived that he obstinately refuses to indicate who was the real perpetrator of the deed. Suspicion has been directed to his groom, who accompanied him, in whom, however, the wounded man seems to repose perfect confidence. He is still in a precarious state, but little doubt is entertained of his ultimate recovery.”
“There, Mr. Vincent, that’s gratifying, that is,” said Tozer, as Vincent laid down the paper; “and I come over directly I see it, to let you know. And I come to say besides,” continued the butterman with some diffidence, “as I think if you and me was to go off to Mr. Brown the solicitor, and give him his orders as he was to put in bail for Miss —— or anything else as might be necessary—not meaning to use no disagreeable words, as there ain’t no occasion now,” said the good deacon; “but only to make it plain, as you and me is responsible for her, if so be as she was ever to be called for again. It would be the thing to do, that would, sir, if you take my advice. It ain’t altogether my own notion, but was put into my head by one as knows. The gentleman as come here from Dover inquiring into the business was the one as suggested it to me. He turned out uncommon obliging, and wasn’t to say no trouble in the house; and when word came as the Colonel wasn’t dead, he went away as civil as could be. I’ll go with you cheerful to Mr. Brown, if you’ll take my advice, afore Mrs. Vincent gets moving about again, or the young lady knows what’s a-going on; that’s what I’d do, sir, if it was me.”
Vincent grasped the exultant butterman’s hand in an overflow of gratitude and compunction. “I shall never forget your kindness,” he said, with a little tremor in his voice. “You have been a true friend. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I will go at once, and accept this other great kindness from you. I shall never forget what I owe to you as long as I live.”
“I never was the man to forsake my pastor in trouble—not to say a young man like you as is a credit to the connection, and the best preacher I may say as I ever heard in Salem,” said Tozer, with effusion, returning the grasp; “but we ain’t a-going a step till you’ve had your breakfast. Your good mother, Mrs. Vincent, as is a real lady, sir, and would never advise you different from what I would myself, being for your own interests, would have little opinion of me if I took you out on a Monday mornin’ after your labours without so much as a bit o’ breakfast to sustain you. I’ll sit by you while you’re a-eating of your bacon. There’s a deal to consider of concerning Salem as I couldn’t well bring before you as long as you were in such trouble. Them were uncommon sermons, sir, yesterday, I don’t know as I ever heard anything as was just to be compared with the mornin’ discourse, and most of the flock was of my opinion; but what is the good of standing up for the pastor—I ask you candid, Mr. Vincent—when he’ll not take no pains to keep things square? I’m speaking plain, for you can’t mistake me as it’s anything but your own interests I am a-thinking of. We was all marching in, deacons and committee and all, to say as we was grateful to you for your instructions, and wishing you well out of your trouble—and I was in great hopes as matters might have been made up—when behold, what we finds was the vestry empty and the pastor gone! Now, I ain’t a-finding fault. Them news would explain anything; but I don’t deny as Pigeon and the rest was put out; and if you’ll be guided by one as wishes you well, Mr. Vincent, when you’ve done our business as is most important of all, you’ll go and make some visits, sir, and make yourself agreeable, if you’ll excuse me. It ain’t with no selfish thoughts as I speak,” said Tozer, energetically. “It’s not like asking of you to come a-visiting to me, nor setting myself forward as the minister’s great friend—though we was remarking as the pastor was unknown in our house this fortnight and more—but it’s for peace and union, Mr. Vincent, and the good of the flock, sir, and to keep—as your good mother well knows ain’t easy in a congregation—all things straight.”