"My dear boy," she pursued, "you're excited. You have worked too hard to-day. You had better go to bed."
"I am not tired, I am not excited, but I hate this hypocritical life—"
She would not allow him to proceed. "I am not listening," and she put both hands over her ears. "Come, now, and sit down again and take your gruel. I've got something interesting to tell you."
Like a sullen child he allowed himself to be once more persuaded into a seat. She put the bowl in his hand, and with tears of pleasure glistening in her sharp little eyes sat down and poured forth a volume of talk.
It was not, as usual, news of the church and congregation, for her mind was running on the Prymmer-Mercer household. Years ago Sylvester Mercer had built this house for his beloved pastor, her husband. It was the smallest house on the street, but it was comfortable; and ever since she had come to it as a bride there had been a constant and friendly communication between the two houses. The clergyman knew all about Justin's journey to California, his return, and the dismay of Mrs. Prymmer at the arrival of the young wife, but he was at all times an absentminded listener, and the little woman, fearing that he had forgotten the story, was telling it to him again.
"Poor Mrs. Prymmer, I'm sorry for her. She tries not to show it too much, but just fancy her state of mind,—a daughter-in-law to walk in on her so suddenly. I wish, I wish, my dear boy, that you would call on her."
She checked her busy tongue for a minute to scrutinise nervously her companion. It was no ordinary favour of an ordinary clergyman that she was asking. This haughty apostle of peace was first of all a preacher of the Word. It was tacitly understood between pastor and people, that there should be as little communication as possible in the way of visiting. Confidential communications were not to his liking, and this idiosyncrasy was pardoned in him only in view of his being the most remarkable brand snatched from the burning that had ever been held aloft in the town of Rossignol.
He knew that only stress of circumstances would induce his housekeeper to ask such a favour of him as a call at a house where there was to be neither a funeral nor a wedding, and, holding this same housekeeper in an affection that was almost filial, he threw her a glance that emboldened her to proceed.
"You see, my dear boy, young men will marry. There's no use in mothers holding out; but if they are smoothed down at first it makes things a lot easier, especially if the daughter-in-law has to live in the same house with them."
"My sympathy is with the daughter-in-law in this case," said the young man, brusquely.