XII
“What has happened? For heaven’s sake tell me, mother,” cried Vincent, as she sank back, wiping her eyes, and altogether overpowered, half with the trouble which he did not know, half with the joy of seeing him again—“say it out at once, and don’t keep me in this dreadful suspense. Susan? She is not married? What is wrong?”
“Oh, my dear boy!” said Mrs. Vincent, recovering herself, but still trembling in her agitation—“oh, my affectionate boy, always thinking of us in his good heart! No, dear. It’s—it’s nothing particular happened. Let me compose myself a little, Arthur, and take breath.”
“But, Susan?” cried the excited young man.
“Susan, poor dear!—she is very well; and—and very happy up to this moment, my darling boy,” said Mrs. Vincent, “though whether she ought to be happy under the circumstances—or whether it’s only a cruel trick—or whether I haven’t been foolish and precipitate—but, my dear, what could I do but come to you, Arthur? I could not have kept it from her if I had stayed an hour longer at home. And to put such a dreadful suspicion into her head, when it might be all a falsehood, would have only been killing her; and, my dear boy, now I see your face again, I’m not so frightened—and surely it can be cleared up, and all will be well.”
Vincent, whose anxiety conquered his impatience, even while exciting it, kneeled down by his mother’s side and took her hands, which still trembled, into his own. “Mother, think that I am very anxious; that I don’t know what you are referring to; and that the sudden sight of you has filled me with all sort of terrors—for I know you would not lightly take such a journey all by yourself,” said the young man, growing still more anxious as he thought of it—“and try to collect your thoughts and tell me what is wrong.”
His mother drew one of her hands out of his, laid it on his head, and fondly smoothed back his hair. “My dear good son! you were always so sensible—I wish you had never left us,” she said, with a little groan; “and indeed it was a great thought to undertake such a journey; and since I came here, Arthur, I have felt so flurried and strange, that I have not, as you see, even taken off my bonnet; but I think now you’ve come, dear, if you would ring the bell and order up the tea? When I see you, and see you looking so well, Arthur, it seems as if things could never be so bad, you know. My dear,” she said at last, with a little quiver in her voice, stopping and looking at him with a kind of nervous alarm, “it was about Mr. Fordham, you may be sure.”
“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 pocketbook. It came by the last post when Susan was out, thank heaven. I’ll show it you presently, my dear, as soon as I can find it, but I have so many papers in my pocketbook. She saw directly when she came in that something had happened, and oh, Arthur, it was so hard to keep it from her. I don’t know when I have kept anything from her before. I can’t 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,
