Meadows listened to her with respect from another cause; but the ill offices that kept passing between the two men counteracted her transitory influence and fed fat the ancient grudge.

CHAPTER XXXII.

“WILL FIELDING is in the town; I’m to arrest him as agreed last night?”

“Hum! no!”

“Why I have got the judgment in my pocket and the constable at the public hard by.”

“Never mind! he was saucy to me in the market yesterday—­I was angry and—­but anger is a snare.  What shall I gain by locking him up just now? let him go.”

“Well, sir, your will is law,” said Crawley obsequiously but sadly.

“Now to business of more importance.”

“At your service, sir.”

But the business of more importance was interrupted by a sudden knock at the outside door of Mr. Meadows’ study.

“Well!”

A young lady to see you.

“A young lady?” inquired Meadows with no very amiable air, “I am engaged—­do you know who it is?”

“It is Farmer Merton’s daughter, David says.”

“Miss Merton!” cried Meadows, with a marvelous change of manner.  “Show her up directly.  Crawley, run into the passage, quick, man—­and wait for signals.”  He bundled Crawley out, shut the secret door, threw open both the others, and welcomed Susan warmly at the threshold.  “Well, this is good of you, Miss Merton, to come and shine in upon me in my own house.”

“I have brought your book back!” replied Susan, coloring a little; “that was my errand, that is,” said she, “that was partly my errand.”  She hesitated a moment—­“I am going to Mr. Levi.”  Meadows’ countenance fell.  “And I wouldn’t go to him without coming to you; because what I have to say to him I must say to you as well.  Mr. Meadows, do let me persuade you out of this bitter feeling against the poor old man.  Oh!  I know you will say he is worse than you are; so he is, a little; but then consider he has more excuse than you; he has never been taught how wicked it is not to forgive.  You know it—­but don’t practice it.”

Meadows looked at the simple-minded enthusiast, and his cold eye deepened in color as it dwelt on her, and his voice dropped into the low and modulated tone which no other human creature but this ever heard from him.  “Human nature is very revengeful.  Few of us are like you.  It is my misfortune that I have not oftener a lesson from you; perhaps you might charm away this unchristian spirit that makes me unworthy to be your—­your friend.”

“Oh no! no!” cried Susan, “if I thought so should I be here?”

“Your voice and your face do make me at peace with all the world, Susan—­I beg your pardon—­Miss Merton.”

“And why not Susan?” said the young lady kindly.

“Well!  Susan is a very inviting name.”

“La!  Mr. Meadows,” cried Susan, arching her brows, “why, it is a frightful name—­it is so old-fashioned; nobody is christened Susan nowadays.”