for Arthur? – and could Arthur have ventured to love that lovely creature in her radiance of wealth and rank? With a mother’s involuntary self-delusion Mrs. Vincent looked at the beautiful vision as at Arthur’s possible bride, and was proud and displeased at the same moment; proud, that anything so lovely and splendid was to fall to her son’s lot – disapproving, that Arthur’s chosen should offer a mark of favour even to Arthur, so much more decided than accorded with the widow’s old-fashioned notion of what became a woman. Mrs. Vincent did not think of the other figure by Lady Western’s side – a man of great height, very slight, and rapid in his movements, with a long brown beard, and thoughtful eyes – eyes which lightened up and became as keen as they were dreamy, whenever occasion arose. Why should the widow look at him? She had nothing to do with him. This once in their life they were to come into momentary contact – never more.
“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 tender-hearted 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 up-stairs,” 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 prove it was another who had assumed my name. Forgive me – it was I who brought Lady Western here; and if either of us can serve you, or your daughter – or your son – ” added Fordham, turning red, and looking round at his beautiful companion —
Mrs. Vincent could bear it no longer. She made a hasty gesture of impatience, and pointed to the door. “I am not well enough, nor happy enough, to be civil,” cried Arthur’s mother; “we want nothing – nothing.” Her voice failed her in this unlooked-for exasperation. A few bitter tears came welling up hot to her eyes. It was very different from the stupor of agony – it was a blaze of short-lived passion, which almost relieved, by its sense of resentment and indignation, a heart worn out with other emotions. Fordham himself, filled with compunction, led Lady Western to the door; but it was not in the kind, foolish heart of the young beauty to leave this poor woman in peace. She came back and seized Mrs. Vincent’s trembling hands in her own; she begged to be allowed to stay to comfort her; she would have kissed the widow, who drew back, and, half fainting with fatigue and excitement, still kept her erect position by the table. Finally, she went away in tears, no other means of showing her sympathy being practicable. Mrs. Vincent dropped down on her knees beside the table as soon as she was alone, and leaned her aching, throbbing head upon it. Oh, dreadful lingering day, which was not yet half gone! Unconsciously groans of suffering, low but repeated, came out of her heart. The sound brought Mary, with whom no concealment was possible, and who gave what attendance and what sympathy she might to her mistress’s grievous trouble. Perhaps the work of this dreadful day was less hard than the vigil to which the mother had now to nerve her heart.
CHAPTER III
WAS it possible that she had slept? A moment ago and it was daylight – a red sunset afternoon: now the pale half-light, struggling with the black darkness, filled the apartment. She was lying on the sofa where Mary had laid her, and by her side, upon a chair within her reach, was some tea untasted, which Mary must have brought after she had fallen into that momentary slumber. The fire burned brightly, with occasional little outbreaks of flame. Such a silence seemed in the house – silence that crept and shuddered – and to think she should have slept!
The night had found covert in all the corners, so dark they were; but one pale line of light came from the window, and the room had a little ruddy centre in the fire. Mrs. Vincent, in the poignant anguish of her awakening, grew superstitious; some other breath – some other presence – seemed in the room besides her own. She called “Mary,” but there was no answer. In her excited condition anything was possible – the bounds of the living world and the possible seemed gone for ever. She might see anything – hear anything – in the calm of her desperation. She got up, and hastily lighted the candle which stood on the table. As she looked over the little light a great cry escaped her. What was it? rising darkly, rising slowly, out of the shadows in which it had been crouching, a huddled indistinct figure. Oh God! not Susan! not her child! As it rose slowly facing her, the widow cried aloud once more, and put her hand over her eyes to shut out the dreadful vision. Ghastly