“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.”