Mr. Morgan was constant in his attentions to Foker. “And yet I don’t like him somehow,” said the candid young man to Mrs. Lightfoot. “He always seems as if he was measuring me for my coffin somehow. Pa-in-law’s afraid of him; pa-in-law’s, ahem! never mind, but ma-in-law’s a trump, Mrs. Lightfoot.”
“Indeed my Lady was,” and Mrs. Lightfoot owned, with a sigh, that perhaps it had been better for her had she never left her mistress.
“No, I do not like thee, Dr. Fell; the reason why I cannot tell,” continued Mr. Foker; “and he wants to be taken as my head man. Blanche wants me to take him. Why does Miss Amory like him so?”
“Did Miss Blanche like him so?” The notion seemed to disturb Mrs. Lightfoot very much; and there came to this worthy landlady another cause for disturbance. A letter, bearing the Boulogne postmark, was brought to her one morning, and she and her husband were quarrelling over it as Foker passed down the stairs by the bar, on his way to the Park. His custom was to breakfast there, and bask a while in the presence of Armida; then, as the company of Clavering tired him exceedingly, and he did not care for sporting, he would return for an hour or two to billiards and the society of the Clavering Arms; then it would be time to ride with Miss Amory, and, after dining with her, he left her and returned modestly to his inn.
Lightfoot and his wife were quarrelling over the letter. What was that letter from abroad? Why was she always having letters from abroad? Who wrote ’em?—he would know. He didn’t believe it was her brother. It was no business of his? It was a business of his; and, with a curse, he seized hold of his wife, and dashed at her pocket for the letter.
The poor woman gave a scream; and said, “Well, take it.” Just as her husband seized on the letter, and Mr. Foker entered at the door, she gave another scream at seeing him, and once more tried to seize the paper. Lightfoot opened it, shaking her away, and an enclosure dropped down on the breakfast-table.
“Hands off, man alive!” cried little Harry, springing in. “Don’t lay hands on a woman, sir. The man that lays his hand upon a woman, save in the way of kindness, is a—hallo! it’s a letter for Miss Amory. What’s this, Mrs. Lightfoot?”
Mrs. Lightfoot began, in piteous tones of reproach to her husband,—“You unmanly! to treat a woman so who took you off the street. Oh, you coward, to lay your hand upon your wife! Why did I marry you? Why did I leave my Lady for you? Why did I spend eight hundred pound in fitting up this house that you might drink and guzzle?”
“She gets letters, and she won’t tell me who writes letters,” said Mr. Lightfoot, with a muzzy voice; “it’s a family affair, sir. Will you take anything, sir?”
“I will take this letter to Miss Amory, as I am going to the Park,” said Foker, turning very pale; and taking it up from the table, which was arranged for the poor landlady’s breakfast, he went away.