Mrs. Mildmay was still seated by the table. She had regained command of herself. She looked up to him with gleaming eyes when he approached her. “Mr. Vincent, I keep my parole—I am waiting your pleasure,” she said, never removing her eyes from his face. It was at this moment that Mrs. Vincent, who had from the window of Susan’s chamber seen the cab arrive and go away with some curiosity, came into the room. The widow wanted to know who her son’s visitors were, and what had brought them. She came in with a little eagerness, but was brought to a sudden standstill by the appearance of Mrs. Mildmay. Why was this woman here? what had she to do with the minister? Mrs. Vincent put on her little air of simple dignity. She said, “I beg your pardon; I did not know my son was engaged,” with a curtsy of disapproving politeness to the unwelcome visitor. With a troubled look at Arthur, who looked excited and gloomy enough to justify any uncomfortable imaginations about him, his mother turned away somewhat reluctantly. She did not feel that it was quite right to leave him exposed to the wiles of this “designing woman;” but the widow’s own dignity was partly at stake. All along she had disapproved of this strange friendship, and she could not countenance it now.
“Your mother is going away,” said Mrs. Mildmay, with a restrained outcry of despair: “is no one to be permitted to mediate between us? You are a man and cruel; you are in trouble, and you think you will avenge yourself. No, no—I don’t mean what I say. Your son is a—a true knight, Mrs. Vincent; I told you so before. He will never be hard upon a woman: if I had not known that, why should I have trusted him? I came back, as he knows, of my own will. Don’t go away; I am willing you should know—the whole,” said the excited woman, with a sudden pause, turning upon Vincent, her face blanching into deadly whiteness—“the whole—I consent; let her be the judge. Women are more cruel than men; but I saved her daughter—I am willing that she should hear it all.”
She sat down again on the seat from which she had risen. A certain comfort and relief stole over her face. She was appealing to the general heart of humanity against this one man who knew her secret. It might be hard to hear the story of her own sin—but it was harder to be under the stifling sway of one who knew it, and who had it in his power to denounce her. She ceased to tremble as she looked at the widow’s troubled face. It was a new tribunal before which she stood; perhaps here her provocations might be acknowledged—her soul acquitted of the burden from which it could never escape. As the slow moments passed on, and the minister did not speak, she grew impatient of the silence. “Tell her,” she said, faintly—it was a new hope which thus awoke in her heart.
But while Mrs. Mildmay sat waiting, and while the widow drew near, not without some judicial state in the poise of her little figure, to hear the explanation which she felt she was entitled to, Tozer’s honest troubled face looked in at the door. It put a climax upon the confusion of the morning. The good butterman looked on in some surprise at this strange assemblage, recognising dimly the haze of an excitement of which he knew nothing. He was acquainted, to some extent, with the needlewoman of Back Grove Street. He had gone to call on her once at the solicitation of the anxious Brown, who had charge of her district but did not feel himself competent to deal with the spiritual necessities of such a penitent; and Tozer remembered well that her state of mind had not been satisfactory—“not what was to be looked for in a person as had the means of grace close at hand, and attended regular at Salem.” He thought she must have come at this unlucky moment to get assistance of some kind from the minister—“as if he had not troubles enough of his own,” Tozer said to himself; but the deacon was not disposed to let his pastor be victimised in any such fashion. This, at least, was a matter in which he felt fully entitled to interfere.
“Good mornin’, ma’am,” said the worthy butterman; “good mornin’, Mr. Vincent—it’s cold, but it’s seasonable for the time of year. What I wanted was a word or two with the pastor, ma’am, if he’s disengaged. It ain’t what I approve,” continued Tozer, fixing his eyes with some sternness upon the visitor, “to take up a minister’s time in the morning when he has the work of a flock on his hands. My business, being such as can’t wait, is different; but them as are in want of assistance, one way or another, which is a thing as belongs to the deacons, have no excuse, not as I can see, for disturbing the pastor. It ain’t a thing as I would put up with,” continued Tozer, with increasing severity; “the charities of the flock ain’t in Mr. Vincent’s hands; it’s a swindling of his time to come in upon him of a morning if there ain’t a good reason; and, as far as I am concerned, it would be enough to shut my heart up again’ giving help—that’s how it would work on me.”
Mrs. Mildmay was entirely inattentive to the first few words of this address, but the pointed application given by the speaker’s eyes called her attention presently. She gazed at him, as he proceeded, with a gradual lightening of her worn and anxious face. While Mrs. Vincent did all she could, with anxious looks and little deprecatory gestures, to stop the butterman, the countenance
