Part 10 (1/2)

Mrs. Field moved her head uncertainly. This old woman, with her straight demands for truth or falsehood, was torture to her.

”I suppose you'll come right over with me pretty soon,” the old lady went on. ”I don't want to hurry you in your business with Mr.

Tuxbury, but I suppose my nephew will be home, and--”

”I'm jest as much obliged to you, but I guess I'd better not. I've made some other plans,” said Mrs. Field.

”Oh, we are going to keep Mrs. Maxwell with us to-night,” interposed the lawyer. He had stood by smilingly while the two women talked.

”I'm jest as much obliged, but I guess I'd better not,” repeated Mrs.

Field, looking at both of them.

The old lady straightened herself in her flimsy silk draperies.

”Well, of course, if you've got other plans made, I ain't goin' to urge you, Esther,” said she; ”but any time you feel disposed to come, you'll be welcome. Good-evenin', Esther. Good-evenin', Mr. Tuxbury.”

She turned with a rustling bob, and was out the door.

The lawyer pressed forward hurriedly. ”Why, Mrs. Maxwell, weren't you coming in? Isn't there something I can do for you?” said he.

”No, thank you,” replied the old lady, shortly. ”I've got to go home; it's my tea-time. I was goin' by, and I thought I'd jest look in a minute; that was all. It wa'n't anything. Good-evenin'.” She was half down the walk before she finished speaking. She never looked around.

The lawyer turned to Mrs. Field. ”Mrs. Henry Maxwell was not any too much please to see you sitting here,” he whispered, with a confidential smile. ”She wouldn't say anything; she's as proud as Lucifer; but she was considerably taken aback.”

Mrs. Field nodded. She felt numb. She had not understood who this other woman was. She knew now--the mother of the young woman who was the rightful heir to Thomas Maxwell's property.

”The old lady has been pretty anxious,” Mr. Tuxbury went on. ”She's been in here a good many times--made excuses to come in and see if I had any news. She has been twice as much concerned as her daughter about it. Well, she has had a pretty hard time. That branch of the family lost a good deal of property.”

Mrs. Field rose abruptly. ”I guess I'd better be goin',” said she.

”It must be your tea-time. I'll come in again to-morrow.”

The lawyer put up his hand deprecatingly. ”Mrs. Maxwell, you will, of course, stay and take tea with us, and remain with us to-night.”

”I'm jest as much obliged to you for invitin' me, but I guess I'd better be goin'.”

”My sister is expecting you. You remember my sister, Mrs. Lowe. I've just sent word to her. You had better come right over to the house with me now, and to-morrow morning we can attend to business. You must be fatigued with your journey.”

”I'm real sorry if your sister's put herself out, but I guess I'd better not stay.”

The lawyer turned his ear interrogatively. ”I beg your pardon, but I didn't quite understand. You think you can't stay?”

”I'm--much obliged to your sister an' you for invitin' me, but--I guess--I'd better--not.”

”Why--but--Mrs. Maxwell! Just be seated again for a moment, and let me speak to my sister; perhaps she--”

”I'm jest as much obliged to her, but I feel as if I'd better be goin'.” Mrs. Field stood before him, mildly unyielding. She seemed to waver toward his will, but all the time she abided toughly in her own self like a willow bough. ”But, Mrs. Maxwell, what _can_ you do?”

said the lawyer, his manner full of perplexity, and impatience thinly veiled by courtesy. ”The hotel here is not very desirable, and--”

”Can't I go right up to--the house?”