Meantime Meadows was the life and soul of the mirthful scene.  He was in a violent excitement that passed with the rustics for gayety natural to the occasion.  They did not notice his anxious glances up the hill that led to Newborough; his eager and repeated looks at his watch, the sigh of relief when the church-bells pealed out, the tremors of impatience, the struggle to appear cool as he sent one to hurry the clerk, another to tell the clergyman the bride was ready; the stamp of the foot when one of the bridesmaids took ten minutes to tie on a bonnet.  He walked arm in arm, with Susan waiting for this girl; at last she was ready.  Then came one running to say that the parson was not come home yet.  What it cost him not to swear at the parson with Susan on his arm and the church in sight!

While he was thus fuming inwardly, a handsome, dark-eyed youth came up and inquired which was the bride.  She was pointed out to him.  “A letter for you, Miss Merton.”

“For me?  Who from?”

She glanced at the handwriting, and Meadows looked keenly in the boy’s face.  “A Jew,” said he to himself.  “Susan, you have got your gloves on.”  And in a moment he took the letter from her, but quietly, and opened it as if to return it to her to read.  He glanced down it, saw “Jefferies, postmaster,” and at the bottom “Isaac Levi.”  With wonderful presence of mind he tore it in pieces.  “An insult, Susan,” he cried.  “A mean, malignant insult to set you against me—­a wife against her husband.”

Ere the words were out of his mouth he seized the young Jew and whirled him like a feather into the hands of his friends.  “Duck him!” cried he.  And in a moment, spite of his remonstrances and attempts at explanation, Nathan was flung into the horse-pond.  He struggled out on the other side, and stood on the bank in a stupor of rage and terror, while the bridegroom menaced him with another dose, should he venture to return.  “I will tell you all about it to-morrow, Susan.”

“Calm yourself,” replied Susan.  “I know you have enemies, but why punish a messenger for the letter he only carries?”

“You are an angel, Susan.  Boys, let him alone, do you hear?” N. B. He had been ducked.

And now a loud hurrah was heard from behind the church.  “The parson, at last,” cried Meadows, exultingly.  Susan lowered her eyes, and hated herself for the shiver that passed through her.  To her the parson was the executioner.

It was not the parson.  The next moment two figures came round in sight.  Meadows turned away with a groan.  “George Fielding!” said he.  The words dropped, as it were, out of his mouth.

Susan misunderstood this.  She thought he read her heart, and ascribed her repugnance to her lingering attachment to George.  She was angry with herself for letting this worthy man see her want of pride.  “Why do you mention that name to me?  What do I care for him who has deceived me?  I wish he stood at the church door, that he might see how I would look at him and pass him leaning on your faithful arm.”