“Mr. Vincent ain’t at home—but oh, look year!—here’s his mother as can tell you better nor me,” cried the half-frightened maid at the door.
“His mother?” said the beautiful creature in the carriage; she had alighted in a moment, and was by Mrs. Vincent’s side—“Oh, I am so glad to see Mr. Vincent’s mother! I am Lady Western—he has told you of me?” she said, taking the widow’s hand; “take us in, please, and let us talk to you—we will not tease you—we have something important to say.”
“Important to us—not to Mrs. Vincent,” said the gentleman who followed her, a remarkable figure, in his loose light-coloured morning dress; and his eyes fell with a remorseful pity upon the widow, standing, drawn-back, and self-restrained, upon the ground of her conscious misery, not knowing whether to hope that they brought her news, or to steel herself into a commonplace aspect of civility. This man had a heart; he looked from the brilliant creature before him, all flushed and radiant with her own happiness, to the little woman by her side, in her pitiful widow’s dress, in her visible paleness and desperation of self-control. It was he who had brought Lady Western here to put his own innocence beyond doubt, but the cruelty of that selfish impulse struck him now as he saw them stand together. “Important to us—not to Mrs. Vincent,” he said again, taking off his hat to her with devout respect.
“Ah, yes! to us,” said Lady Western, looking up to him with a momentary gleam of love and happiness. Then the pretty tenderhearted creature changed her look, and composed her countenance into sympathy. “I am so sorry for you, dear Mrs. Vincent!” she said, with the saddest voice. At this the widow on her part started, and was recalled to herself.
“I am a stranger in Carlingford,” said the mild little woman, drawing up her tiny figure. “I do not know what has procured me this pleasure—but all my son’s friends are welcome to me. I will show you the way upstairs,” she continued, going up before them with the air of dignity which, after the hard battles and encounters and bitter wounds of this day, became the heroic little figure. She sent Mary, who started up in dismay at her entrance, into another room, and gave Lady Western a chair, but herself continued standing, always the conservator of Arthur’s honour. If Arthur loved her, who was this man? why did such glances pass between them? Mrs. Vincent stood erect before Lady Western, and did not yield even to the winning looks for which poor Arthur would have given his life.
“Oh, dear Mrs. Vincent, I am so sorry for you!” said Lady Western again; “I know it all, and it makes my heart bleed to think of it. I will be your friend and your daughter’s friend as long as I live, if you will let me. Oh, don’t shut your heart against me! Mr. Vincent trusts me, and so must you; and I am heartbroken to think all that you must have gone through—”
“Stop!” said Mrs. Vincent, with a gasp. “I—I cannot tell—what you mean,” she articulated, with difficulty, holding by the table to support herself, but looking with unflinching eyes in her new persecutor’s face.
“Oh, don’t shut your heart against me!” cried the young dowager, with genuine tears in her lovely eyes. “This gentleman was with Mr. Vincent yesterday—he came up here this morning. He is—Mr. Fordham.” She broke off abruptly with a terrified cry. But Mrs. Vincent had not died or fainted standing rigid there before her, as the soft creature thought. Her eyes had only taken that blank lustreless gaze, because the force of emotion beneath was too much for them, and inexpressible. Even in that extremity, it was in the widow’s heart, wrung to desperation, to keep her standing-ground of assumed ignorance, and not to know what this sudden offer of sympathy could mean.
“I do not know—the gentleman,” she said, slowly, trying to make the shadow of a curtsy to him. “I am sorry to seem uncivil; but I am tired and anxious. What—what did you want of me?” she asked, in a little outburst of uncontrollable petulance, which comforted Lady Western. It was a very natural question. Surely, in this forlorn room, where she had passed so many wretched hours, her privacy might have been sacred; and she was jealous and angry at the sight of Fordham for Arthur’s sake. It was another touch in the universal misery. She looked at Lady Western’s beauty with an angry heart. For these two, who ventured to come to her in their happiness, affronting her anguish, was Arthur’s heart to be broken too?
“We wanted—our own ends,” said Fordham, coming forward. “I was so cruel as to think of myself, and that you would
