Tea directly, said Vincent to the little maid, who appeared just at this crisis, and who was in her turn alarmed by the brief and peremptory order.
What about Mr. Fordham? he said, helping his mother to take off the cloak and warm wraps in which she had been sitting, in her nervous tremor and agitation, while she waited his return.
Oh, my dear, my dear, cried poor Mrs. Vincent, wringing her hands, if he should not turn out as he ought, how can I ever forgive myself? I had a kind of warning in my mind the first time he came to the house, and I have always dreamt such uncomfortable dreams of him, Arthur. Oh! if you only could have seen him, my dear boy! But he was such a gentleman, and had such ways. I am sure he must have mixed in the very highest society and he seemed so to appreciate Susan not only to be in love with her, you know, my dear, as any young man might, but to really appreciate my sweet girl. Oh, Arthur, Arthur, if he should turn out badly, it will kill me, for my Susan will break her heart.
Mother, you drive me frantic. What has he done? cried poor Vincent.
He has done nothing, my dear, that I know of. It is not him, Arthur, for he has been gone for a month, arranging his affairs, you know, before the wedding, and writes Susan regularly and beautiful letters. It is a dreadful scrawl I got last night. I have it in my pocket-book. It came by the last post when Susan was out, thank heaven. Ill show it you presently, my dear, as soon as I can find it, but I have so many papers in my pocket-book. She saw directly when she came in that something had happened, and oh, Arthur, it was so hard to keep it from her. I dont know when I have kept anything from her before. I cant tell how we got through the night. But this morning I made up the most artful story I could here is the dreadful letter, my dear, at last about being determined to see you, and making sure that you were taking care of yourself; for she knew as well as I did how negligent you always are about wet feet.
Are you sure your feet are dry now, Arthur? Yes, my dear boy, it makes me very uncomfortable. You dont wonder to see your poor mother here, now, after that?
The letter which Vincent got meanwhile, and anxiously read, was as follows the handwriting very mean, with a little tremor in it, which seemed to infer that the writer was an old man:
Madam, Though I am but a poor man, I cant abear to see wrong going on, and do nothink to stop it. Madam, I beg of you to excuse me, as am unknown to you, and as cant sign my honest name to it like a man. This is the only way as I can give you a word of warning. Dont let the young lady marry him as shes agoing to, not if her heart should break first. Dont have nothink to do with Mr. Fordham. Thats not his right name, and he has got a wife living and this I say is true, as sure as I have to answer at the judgment; and I say to you as a friend, Stop it, stop it! Dont let it go on a step, if you vally the young ladys charackter and her life. I dont add no more, because thats all I dare say, being only a servant; but I hope its enough to save the poor young lady out of his clutches, as is a man that goeth about seeking whom he may devour. From a well-wisher, though
A Stranger.
Oh, Arthur dear! dont you think it may be an enemy? dont you think it looks like some cruel trick? You dont believe its true?
Mother, have you an enemy in the world? cried Vincent, with an almost bitter affectionateness. Is there anybody living that would take pleasure in wounding you?
No, dear; but Mr. Fordham might have one, said the widow. He is not like you or your dear father, Arthur. He looks as if he might have been in the army, and had seen a great deal of life. That is what has been a great consolation to me. A man like that, you know, dear, is sure to have enemies; so very different from our quiet way of life, said Mrs. Vincent, holding up the chimney of the lamp, and standing a little higher than her natural five feet, with a simple consciousness of that grandeur of experience: some one that wished him ill might have got some one else to write the letter. Hush, Arthur, here is the maid with the tea.
The maid with the tea pushed in, bearing her tray into a scene which looked very strange to her awakened curiosity. The minister stood before the fire with the letter in his hand, narrowly examining it, seal, post-mark, handwriting, even paper. He did not look like the same man who had come up-stairs three steps at a time, in the glow and exhilaration of hope, scarcely half an hour ago. His teeth were set, and his face pale. On the table the smoky lamp blazed into the dim air, unregulated by the chimney, which Mrs. Vincent was nervously rubbing with her handkerchief before she put it on. The little maid, with her round eyes, set down the tray upon the table with an answering thrill of excitement and curiosity. There was somethink to do with the minister and his unexpected visitor. Vincent himself took no notice of the girl; but his mother, with feminine instinct, proceeded to disarm this possible observer. Mrs. Vincent knew well, by long experience, that when the landlady happens to be one of the flock, it is as well that the pastor should keep the little shocks and crises of his existence studiously to himself.