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pF to him it might appear that his tenderness had encouraged
er.
Sitting there thus, with her hand in his,—with her hand in his
during the first portion of the tale—she told him all that she wished
to tell. Something more she told now to him than she had done to
Sir Peregrine. ‘I learned from her,’ she said, speaking about
Mrs. Dockwrath and her husband, ‘ that he had found out something
about dates which the lawyers did not find out before.’
wegen cp
MR. FURNIVAL’S CHAMBERS. 93
* Something about dates,’ said Mr. Furnival, looking with all his
eyes into the fire. ‘ You do not know what about dates ?”
‘No; only this; that he said that the lawyers in Bedford
Row——’
‘ Round and Crook.’
‘Yes; he said that they were idiots not to have found it out
before; and then he went off to Groby Park. He came back last
night; but of course I have not seen her since.’
’ By this time Mr. Furnival had dropped the hand, and was sitting
still, meditating, looking earnestly at the fire while Lady Mason was
looking earnestly at him. She was trying to gather from his face
whether he had seen signs of danger, and he was trying to gather
from her words whether there might really be cause to apprehend
danger. How was he to know what was really inside her mind;
what were her actual thoughts and inward reasonings on this
subject; what private knowledge she might have which was still
kept back from him? In the ordinary intercourse of the world
when one man seeks advice from another, he who is consulted
demands in the first place that he shall be put in possession of all
the circumstances of the case. How else will it be possible that he
should give advice? But in matters of law it is different. If I,
having committed a crime, were to confess my criminality to the
gentleman engaged to defend me, might he not be called on to say:
‘Then, O my friend, confess it also to the judge; and so let justice
be done. Ruat coelum, and the rest of it? But who would pay a
lawyer for counsel such as that?
In this case there was no question of payment. The advice to be
given was to a widowed woman from an experienced man of the
world ; but, nevertheless, he could only make his calculations as
to her peculiar case in the way in which he ordinarily calculated.
Could it be possible that anything had been kept back from him?
Were there facts unknown to him, but known to her, which would
be terrible, fatal, damning to his sweet friend if proved before all
the world? He could not bring himself to ask her, but yet it was
so material that he’ should know! ‘Twenty years ago, at the time
of the trial, he had at one time thought,—it hardly matters to tell
what, but those thoughts had not been favourable to her cause. Then
his mind had altered, and he had learned,—as lawyers do learn—to
believe in his own case. And when the day of triumph had come,
he had triumphed loudly, commiserating his dear friend for the
unjust suffering to which she had been subjected, and speaking in
no low or modified tone as to the grasping, greedy cruelty of that
man of Groby Park. Nevertheless, through it all, he had felt that
Round and Crook had not made the most of their case.
And now he sat, thinking, not so much whether or no she had
heen in any way guilty with reference to that will, as whether the
94 ORLEY FARM.
counsel he should give her ought in any way to be based -on the
possibility of her having been thus guilty. Nothing might be so
damning to her cause as that he should make sure of her innocence,
if she were not innocent; and yet he would not ask her the question,
If innocent, why was it that she was now so much moved, after
twenty years of quiet possession ?
‘It was a pity,’ he said, at last, ‘that Lucius should have dis-
turbed that fellow in the possession of his fields.’
«It was; it was!’ she said. ‘But I did not think it possible that
Miriam’s husband should turn against me. Would it be wise, do
you think, to let him have the land again ?’
‘No, I do not think that. It would be telling him, and telling
others also, that you are afraid of him. If he have obtained any
information that may be considered of value by Joseph Mason, he
can sell it at a higher price than the holding of these fields is worth.’
‘Would it be well ?? She was asking a question and then
checked herself.
« Would what be well ? ;
‘Tam so harassed that I hardly know what I am saying. Would
it be wise, do you think, if I were tc pay him anything, so as to
keep him quiet ?’
‘ What; buy him off, you mean ?’
‘ Well, yes ;—if you call it so. Give him some sum of money in
compensation for his land; and on the understanding, you know
——,’ and then she paused.
‘ That depends on what he may have to sell,’ said Mr, Furnival,
hardly daring to look at her.
‘Ah; yes,’ said the widow. And then there was another
pause.
‘I do not think fink that would be at all discreet,’ said Mr.
Furnival, ‘ After all, the chances are that it is all moonshine.’
‘You think so ?”
‘Yes; I cannot but think so. What can that man possibly have
found among the old attorney’s papers that may be injurious to your
interests ?’
‘ Ah! Ido not know; I understand so little of these things. At
the time they told me,—you told me that the law might possibly go
against my boy’s rights. It would have been bad then, but it
would be ten times more dreadful now.’
‘But there were many questions capable of doubt then, which
were definitively settled at the trial. As to your husband’s intellect
on that day, for instance.’
‘ There could be no doubt as to that.’
‘No; so it has been proved; and they will not raise that point
again. Could he possibly have made a later will ?’
‘No; Iam sure ho did not, Had he done so it could not havo
MR. FURNIVAL’S CHAMBERS. 95
been found among Mr. Usbech’s papers; for, as far as I remember,
the poor man never attended to any business after that day.’
« What day ?’
‘ The 14th of July, ‘the day on which he was with Sir J oseph. ‘
Té was singular, thought the barrister, with how much precision
she remembered the dates and circumstances. That the circum-
stances of the trial should be fresh on her memory was not wonder-
ful; but how was it that she knew so accurately things which had
occurred before the trial—_when no trial could have been ex-
pected? But as to this he said nothing.
‘ And you are sure he went to Groby Park?’
‘Oh, yes; I have no doubt of it. Iam quite sure.’
‘Ido not know that we can do anything but wait. Have you
mentioned this to Sir Peregrine? It immediately occurred to
Lady Mason’s mind that it would be by no means expedient, even
if it were possible, to keep Mr. Furnival in ignorance of anything
that she really did; and she therefore explained that she had seen
Sir Peregrine. ‘I was so troubled at the first moment that I hardly
knew where to turn,’ she said.
‘You were quite right to go to Sir Peregrine.’
‘Tam so glad you are not angry with me as to that.’
‘ And did he say anything—anything particular ?”
‘He promised that he would not desert me, should there be any
new difficulty.’
‘That is well. Itis always good to have the countenance of such
a neighhour as he is.’
‘ And the advice of such a friend as you are.’ And she again put
out her hand to him.
‘Well; yés. It is my trade, you know, to give advice,’ and he
smiled as he took it.
‘ How should I live through such troubles without you ?’
‘We lawyers are very much abused now-a-days,’ said Mr. Fur-
nival, thinking of what was going on down at Birmingham at that
very moment; ‘ but I hardly know how the world would get on
without us.’
‘ Ah! but all lawyers are not like you.’
‘Some perhaps worse, and a great many much better. But, as I
was saying, I do not think I would take any steps at present. The
man Dockwrath is a vulgar, low-minded, revengeful fellow; and
I would endeavour to forget him.’
‘ Ah, if I could !’
‘And why not? What can he possibly have learned to your
injury?’ And then as it seemed to Lady Mason that Mr. Furnival
expected some reply to this question, she forced herself to give him
one. ‘I suppose that he cannot know anything.’
‘I tell you what I might do,’ said Mr. Furnival, who was still
96 ORLEY FARM.
musing. ‘ Round himself is not a bad fellow, and I am acquainted
with him. He was the junior partner in that house at the time of
the trial, and I know that he persuaded Joseph Mason not to appeal
to the Lords, I will contrive, if possible, to see him. I shall be
able to learn from him at any rate whether anything is being done.’
‘ And then if I hear that there is not, I shall be comforted.’
‘ Of course ; of course.
‘ But if there is——’
‘I think there will be nothing of the sort,’ said Mr. Furnival,
leaving his seat as he spoke.
‘ But if there is—— I shall have your aid?’ and she slowly rose
from her chair as she spoke.
Mr. Furnival gave her a promise of this, as Sir Peregrine had
done before; and then with her handkerchief to her eyes she
thanked him. Her tears were not false as Mr. Furnival well saw;
and seeing that she wept, and seeing that she was beautiful, and
feeling that in her grief and in her beauty she had come to him for
aid, his heart was softened towards her, and he put out his arms as
though he would take her to his heart—as a daughter. ‘ Dearest
friend,’ he said, ‘ trust me that no harm shall come to you.’
‘I will trust you,’ she said, gently stopping the motion of his
arm. ‘I will trust you, altogether. And when you have seen Mr.
Round, shall I hear from you ?”
At this moment, as they were standing close together, the door
opened, and Mr. Crabwitz introduced another lady—who indeed
had advanced so quickly towards the door of Mr. Furnival’s room,
that the clerk had been hardly able to reach it before her.
* Mrs. Furnival, if you please, sir,’ said Mr. Crabwitz.
CHAPTER XIII.
GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY.
UnrortunaTety for Mr. Furnival, the intruder was Mrs. Furnival
—whether he pleased or whether he did not please. There she
was in his law chamber, present in the flesh, a sight pleasing neither
to her husband nor to her husband’s client. She had knocked at the
outside door, which, in the absence of the fag, had been opened by
Mr. Crabwitz, and had immediately walked across the passage towards
her husband’s room, expressing her knowledge that Mr. Furnival
was within, Mr. Crabwitz had all the will in the world to stop
her progress, but he found that he lacked the power to stay it for
a moment.
The advantages of matrimony are many and great—so many and
so great, that all men, doubtless, ought: to marry. But,even matri-
mony may have its drawbacks; among which unconcealed and
undeserved jealousy on the part of the wife is perhaps as dis-
agreeable as any. What is a man to do when he is accused before
the world,—before any small fraction of the world, of making love to
some lady of his acquaintance ? What is he to say? What way is he
to look? ‘ My love, I didn’t. I never did, and wouldn’t think of
it for worlds. I say it with my hand on my heart. There is
Mrs. Jones herself, and I appeal to her.’ He is reduced to that!
But should any innocent man be so reduced by the wife of his
bosom ?
I am speaking of undeserved jealousy, and it may therefore
be thought that my remarks do not apply to Mrs. Furnival. They
do apply to her as much as to any woman. That general idea as
to the strange goddesses was on her part no more than a suspicion ;
and all women who so torment themselves and their husbands may
plead as much as she could. And for this peculiar idea as to Lady
Mason she had no ground whatever. ‘Lady Mason may have had her
faults, but a propensity to rob Mrs. Furnival of her husband’s affec-
tions had not hitherto been one of them. Mr. Furnival was a
clever lawyer, and she had great need of his assistance; therefore
she had come to his chambers, and therefore she had placed her
hand in his. That Mr. Furnival liked his client because she was
good looking may be true. I like my horse, my picture. ihe view
VOL, Is H
98 ORLEY FARM.
from my study window for the same reason. I am inclined to
think that there was nothing more in it than that.
‘My dear!’ said Mr. Furnival, stepping a little back, and letting
his hands fall to his sides. Lady Mason also took a step backwards,
and then with considerable presence of mind recovered herself and
put out her hand to greet Mrs. Furnival.
‘ How do you do, Lady Mason” said Mrs. Furnival, without any
presence of mind at all. ‘I hope I have the pleasure of seeing you
very well. I did hear that you were to be in town—shopping ; but
I did not for a moment expect the—gratification of finding you
here. And every word that the dear, good, heart-sore woman
spoke, told the tale of her jealousy as plainly as though she had
flown at Lady Mason’s cap with all the bold demonstrative energy
of Spitalfields or St. Giles.
‘I came up on purpose to see Mr. Furnival about some unfor-
tunate law business,’ said Lady Mason.
‘Oh, indeed! Your son Lucius did say—shopping.’
“Yes; I told him so. When a lady is unfortunate enough to be
driven to a lawyer for advice, she does not wish to make it known,
I should be very sorry if my dear boy were to guess that I had this
new trouble; or, indeed, if any one were to knowit. I am sure
that I shall be as safe with you, dear Mrs. Furnival, as I am with
your husband.’ And she stepped up to the angry matron, looking
earnestly into her face.
To a true tale of woman’s sorrow Mrs. Furnival’s heart could be
as soft as snow under the noonday sun. Had Lady Mason gone to
her and told her all her fears and all her troubles, sought counsel
and aid from her, and appealed to her motherly feelings, Mrs.
Furnival would have been urgent night and day in persuading her
husband to take up the widow’s case. She would have bade
him work his very best without fee or reward, and would herself
have shown Lady Mason the way to Old Square, Lincoln’s Inn.
She would have been discreet too, speaking no word of idle gossip
to any one. When he, in their happy days, had told his legal
secrets to her, she had never gossiped,—had never spoken an idle
word concerning them. And she would have been constant to her
friend, giving great consolation in the time of trouble, as one woman
can console another. The thought that all this might be so did
come across her for a moment, for there was innocence written in
Lady Mason’s eyes. But then she looked at her husband's face;
and as she found no innocence there, her heart was again hardened.
The woman's face could lie ;—‘ the faces of such women are all lies,’
Mrs. Furnival said to herself;—but in her presence his face had
been compelled to speak the truth.
‘Qh dear, no; I shall say nothing of course,’ she said. ‘I am
guito sorry that intruded. Mr. Furnival, as I happened to be in
“YOUR SON LUCIUS DID SAY—SHOPPING.”
GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY. 99
Holborn—at Mudie’s for some books—I thought I would come down
and ask whether you intend to dine at home to-day. You said
nothing about it either last night or this ‘morning ; and nowadays
one really does not know how to manage in such matters.’
‘I told you that I should return to Birmingham this afternoon ;
I shall dine there,’ said Mr. Furnival, very sulkily.
‘Qh, very well. I certainly knew that you were going out of
town. I did not at all expect that you would remain at home ; but
I thought that you might, perhaps, like to have your dinner before
you went. Good morning, Lady Mason; I hope you may be suc-
cessful in your—lawsuit.’ And then, curtsying to her husband’s
client, she prepared to withdraw.
‘I believe I have said all that I need say, Mr. Furnival,’ said
Lady Mason; ‘so that if Mrs. Furnival wishes—,’ and she also
gathered herself up as though she were ready to leave the room.
‘Thardly know what Mrs. Furnival wishes,’ said the husband.
‘ My wishes are nothing,’ said the wife, ‘and I really am quite
sorry that I came in.’ And then she did go, leaving her husband
and the woman of whom she was jealous once more alone together.
Upon the whole I think that Mr. Furnival was right in not going
home that day to his dinner.
As the door closed somewhat loudly behind the angry lady—
Mr. Crabwitz having rushed out hardly in time to moderate the
‘violence of the slam—Lady Mason and her imputed lover were left
looking at each other. It was certainly hard upon Lady Mason,
and so she felt it, Mr. Furnival was fifty-five, and endowed with a
bluish nose ; and she was over forty, and had lived for twenty years
as a widow without incurring a breath of scandal.
"I hope I have not been to blame,’ said Lady Mason in a soft,
sad voice; ‘ but perhaps Mrs. Furniyal specially wished to find you
alone.’
“No, no; not at all’
‘Ishall be so unhappy if I think that I have been in the way.
If Mrs. Furnival wished to speak to you on business I am not sur-
prised that she should be angry, for I know that barristers do not
usually allow themselves to be troubled by their clients in their own
chambers.’ ;
‘Nor by their wives,’ Mr. Furnival might have added, but he
did not.
‘Do not mind it,’ he said; ‘it is nothing. She is the best-tem-
pered woman in the world; but at times it is impossible to answer
even for the best tempered.’
‘I will trust you to make my peace with her.’
“Yes, of course; she will not think of it after to-day ; nor must
you, Lady Mason.’
‘Oh, no; except that I would not for the world be the cause of
H 2
100 ORLEY FARM.
annoyance to my friends. Sometimes I am almost inclined to think
that I will never trouble any one again with my sorrows, but let
things come and go as they may. Were it not for poor Lucius I
should do so.’
Mr. Furnival, looking into her face, perceived that her eyes were
full of tears. There could be no doubt as to their reality. Her
eyes were full of genuine tears, brimming over and running down;
and the lawyer’s heart was melted. ‘I do not know why you
should say so,’ he said. ‘ Ido not think your friends begrudge any
little trouble they may take for you. I am sure at least that I may
so say for myself.’
* You are too kind to me; but I do not on that account the less
know how much it is I ask of -you.’
«« The labour we delight in physics pain,”’ said Mr. Furnival
gallantly. ‘ But, to tell the truth, Lady Mason, I cannot un-
derstand why you should be so much out of heart. I remember
well how brave and constant you were twenty years ago, when
there really was cause for trembling.’
‘ Ah, I was younger then.’
©8o the almanac tells us; but if the almanac did not tell us I
should never know it. We are all older, of course. Twenty years
does not go by without leaving its marks, as I can feel myself.’
‘Men do not grow old as women do, who live alone and gather
rust as they feed on their own thoughts.’
‘I know no one whom time has touched so lightly as yourself,
Lady Mason; but if I may speak to you as a friend——’
‘If you may not, Mr. Furnival, who may ?’
“I should tell you that you are weak to be so despondent, or
xather so unhappy.’
‘ Another lawsuit would kill me, I think. You say that I was
brave and constant before, but you cannot understand what I
suffered. I nerved myself to bear it, telling myself that it was the
first duty that I owed to the babe that was lying on my bosom. And
when standing there in the Court, with that terrible array around
me, with the eyes of all men on me, the eyes of men who thought
that I had been guilty of so terrible a crime, for the sake of that
child who was so weak I could be brave. But it nearly killed me.
Mr. Furnival, I could not go through that again; no, not even for
his sake. If you can save me from that, even though it be by the
buying off of that ungrateful man——’
‘ You must not think of that.’
* Must I not? ah mo!’
* Will you tell Lucius all this, and let him come to me”
‘No; not for worlds. He would defy every one, and glory in the
fight; but aftor all it is I that must bear the brunt. No; he shall
not know it ;—unless it becomes so public that he must know it.’
993
GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY. 103
And then, with some further pressing of the hand, and further
words of encouragement which were partly tender as from the man,
and partly foretisic as from the lawyer, Mr. Furnival permitted her
to go, and she found her son at the chemist’s shop in Holborn as she
had appointed. There were no traces of tears or of sorrow in her
face as she smiled on Lucius while giving him her hand, and then
when they were in a cab together she asked him as tc his success at
Liverpool.
«I am very glad that I went,’ said he, ‘ very glad indeed. I
saw the merchants there who are the real importers of the article,
and I have made arrangements with them.’
‘ Will it be cheaper so, Lucius”
‘Cheaper! not what women generally call cheaper. If there be
anything on earth that I hate, it is a bargain. A man who looks
for bargains must be a dupe or a cheat, and is probably both,’
‘Both, Lucius. Then he is doubly unfortunate.’
* He isa cheat because he wants things for less than their value;
and a dupe because, as a matter of course, he does not get what he
wants. I made no bargain at Liverpool,—at least, no cheap bargain ;
but I have made arrangements for a sufficient supply of a first-rate
unadulterated article at its proper market price, and I do not fear
but the results will be remunerative.’ And then, as they went
home in the railway carriage the mother talked to her son about his
farming as though she had forgotten her other trouble, and she ex-
plained to him how he was to dine with Sir Peregrine.
‘I shall be delighted to dine with Sir Peregrine,’ said Lucius,
‘and very well pleased to have an opportunity of talking to him
about his own way of managing his land; but, mother, I will not
promise to be guided by so very old-fashioned a professor.’
Mr. Furnival, when he was left alone, sat thinking over the
interview that had passed. At first, as was most natural, he be-
thought himself of his wife; and I regret to say that the love
which he bore to her, and the gratitude which he owed to her, and
the memory of all that they had suffered and enjoyed together, did
not fill his heart with thoughts towards her as tender as they should
have done. A black frown came across his brow as he meditated
on her late intrusion, and he made some sort of resolve that that
kind of thing should be prevented for the future. He did not
make up his mind how he would prevent it,—a point which hus-
bands sometimes overlook in their marital resolutions. And then,
instead of counting up her virtues, he counted up his own. Had
he not given her everything; a house such as she had not dreamed
of in her younger days? servants, carriages, money, comforts, and
luxuries of all sorts? He had begrudged her nothing, had let her
have her full sharé of all his hard-earned gains; and yet she could
be ungrateful for all this, and allow her head to be filled with
Luz ORLEY FARAL
whims and. fancies as though she were a young girl —to his great
annoyance and confusion. He would let her know that his cham-
bers, his law chambers, should be private even from her. He
would not allow himself to become a laughing-stock to his own
clerks and his own brethren through the impertinent folly of a
woman who owed to him everything ;—and so on! I regret to say
that he never once thought of those lonely evenings in Harley
Street, of those long days which the poor woman was doomed to
pass without the only companionship which was valuable to her.
He never thought of that vow which they had both made at the
altar, which she had kept so loyally, and which required of him a
cherishing, comforting, enduring love. It never occurred to him
that in denying her this he as much broke his promise to her as
though he had taken to himself in very truth some strange goddess,
leaving his wedded wife with a cold ceremony of alimony or such-like,
He had been open-handed to her as regards money, and therefore
she ought not to be troublesome! He had done his duty by her, and
therefore he would not permit her to be troublesome! Such, I
regret to say,.were his thoughts and resolutions as he sat thinking
and resolving about Mrs. Furnival.
And then, by degrees, his mind turned away to that other lady,
and they became much more tender. Lady Mason was certainly
both interesting and comely in her grief. Her colour could still
come and go, her hand was still soft and small, her hair was still
brown and smooth. There were no wrinkles in her brow though
care had passed over it; her step could still fall lightly, though it
had borne a heavy weight of sorrow. I fear that he made a wicked
comparison—a comparison that was wicked although it was made
unconsciously.
But by degrees he ceased to think of the woman and began to
think of the client, as he was in duty bound to do. What was the
' real truth of all this? Was it possible that she should be alarmed
in that way because a small country attorney had told his wife
that he had found some old paper, and because the man had then
gone off to Yorkshire: Nothing could be more natural than her
anxiety, supposing her to be aware of some secret which would
condemn her if discovered ;—but nothing more unnatural if there
were no such secret. And she must know! In her bosom, if in no
other, must exist the knowledge whethor or no that will were just.
If that will were just, was it possible that she should now tremble
so violently, seeing that its justice had been substantially proved in
various courts of law? But if it were not just—if it were a forgery,
a forgery made by hor, or with her cognizance—and that now this
truth was to be made known! How terrible would that be! But
terrible is not the word which best describes the idea as it entered
Mr, Furnival’s mind. How wonderful would it be; how wonderful
GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY, 103
would it all have been! By whose hand in such case had those
signatures been traced? Could it be possible that she, soft, beautiful,
graceful as she was now, all but a girl as she had then been, could
have done it, unaided,—by herself ?—that she could have sat down
in the still hour of the night, with that old man on one side and her
baby in his cradle on the other, and forged that will, signatures and
all, in such a manner as to have carried her point for twenty years,
—so skilfully as to have bafiled lawyers and jurymen and resisted the
eager greed of her cheated kinsman ? If so, was it not all wonderful!
Had not she been a woman worthy of wonder!
And then Mr. Furnival’s mind, keen and almost unerring at
seizing legal points, went eagerly to work, considering what new
evidence might now be forthcoming. He remembered at once the
circumstances of those two chief witnesses, the clerk who had been so
muddle-headed, and the servant-girl who had been so clear. They
had certainly witnessed some deed, and they had done so on that
special day. If there had been a fraud, if there had been a forgery,
it had been so clever as almost to merit protection! But if there
had been such fraud, the nature of the means by which it might be
detected became plain to the mind of the barrister,—plainer to
him without knowledge of any circumstances than it had done to
Mr. Mason after many of such circumstances had been explained
to him.
But it was impossible. So said Mr. Furnival to himself, out
loud ;—speaking out loud in order that he might convince himself.
it was impossible, he said again; but he did not convince himself.
Should he ask her? No; it was not on the cards that he should do
that. And perhaps, if a further trial were forthcoming, it might be
better for her sake that he should be ignorant. And then, having
declared again that it was impossible, he rang his bell. ‘ Crabwitz,’
said he, without looking at the man, ‘ just step. over to Bedford
Row, with my compliments, and learn what is Mr. Round’s present
address ;—old Mr. Round, you know.’
Mr. Crabwitz stood for.a moment or two with the door in his
hand, and Mr. Furnival, going back to his own thoughts, was ex-
pecting the man’s departure. ‘ Well,’ he said, looking up and seeing
that his myrmidon still stood there.
Mr. Crabwitz was not in a very good humour, and had almost
made up his mind to let his master know that such was the case.
Looking at his own general importance in the legal world, and the
inestimable services which he had rendered to Mr. Furnival, he did
not think that that gentleman was treating him well. He had been
summoned back to his dingy chamber almost without an excuse,
and now that he was in London was not permitted to join even
for a day the other wise men of the law who were assembled at the
great congress. For the last four days his heart had been yearning,
104 ORLEY FARM.
to go to Birmingham, but had yearned in vain; and now his
master was sending him about town as though he were an errand-
lad.
‘Shall I step across to the lodge and send the porter’s boy to
Round and Crook’s? asked Mr. Crabwitz.
‘The porter’s boy! no; go yourself; you are not busy. Why
should I send the porter’s boy on my business?” The fact probably
was, that Mr. Furnival forgot his clerk’s age and standing. Crab-
witz had been ready to run anywhere when his employer had first
known him, and Mr. Furnival did not perceive the change.
‘Very well, sir; certainly I will go if you wish it;—on this
occasion that is. But I hope, sir, you will excuse my saying——’
‘ Saying what?’
‘ That I am not exactly a messenger, sir. Of course I’ll go now,
as the other clerk is not in.’
‘ Oh, you’re too great a man to walk across to Bedford Row, are
you? Give me my hat, and J’ll go.’
‘Oh, no, Mr. Furnival, I did not mean that. I'll step over to
Bedford Row, of course :—only I did think ——’
‘ Think what?
‘That perhaps I was entitled to a little more respect, Mr, Fur
nival. It’s for your sake as much as my own that I speak, sir; but
if the gentlemen in the Lane see me sent about like a lad of twenty,
sir, they'll think——’
‘ What will they think ?’
‘IT hardly know what they'll think, but I know it will be very
disagreeable, sir ;—very disagreeable to my feelings. I did think,
sir, that perhaps——’
‘ I'll tell you what it is, Crabwitz, if your situation here does not
suit you, you may leave it to-morrow. I shall have no difficulty
in finding another man to take your place.’
‘Iam sorry to hear you speak in that way, Mr. Furival, very
sorry—after fifteen years, sir——.’
* You find yourself too grand to walk to Bedford Row !’
‘Oh, no. I'll go now, of course, Mr. Furnival.’ And then
Mr. Crabwitz did go, meditating as he went many things to himself.
He knew his own value, or thought that he knew it; and might it
not be possible to find some patron who would appreciate his services
more justly than did Mr. Furnival ?
CHAPTER XIV,
DINNER AT THE CLEEVE.
Lapy Mason on her return from London found a note from Mrs,
Orme asking both her and her son to dine at The Cleeve on tho
following day. As it had been already settled between her and
Sir Peregrine that Lucius should dine there in order that he might
be talked to respecting his mania for guano, the invitation could not
he refused ; but, as for Lady Mason herself, she would much have
preferred to remain at home.
Indeed, her uneasiness on that guano matter had been so out-
weighed by worse uneasiness from another source, that she had
become, if not indifferent, at any rate tranquil on the subject. It
might be well that Sir Peregrine should preach his sermon, and well
that Lucius should hear it; but for herself it would, she thought,
have been more comfortable for her to eat her dinner alone. She
felt, however, that she could not do so. Any amount of tedium
would. be better than the danger of offering a slight to Sir Peregrine,
and therefore she wrote a pretty little note to say that both of
them would be at The Cleeve at seven.
‘ Lucius, my dear, I want you to do me a great favour,’ she said
as she sat by her son in the Hamworth fly.
‘A great favour, mother! of course I will do anything for you
that I can.’ :
‘ It is that you will bear with Sir Peregrine to-night.’
‘Bear with him! I do not know exactly what you mean. Of
course I will remember that he is an old man, and not answer him
as I would one of my own age.’
‘Tam sure of that, Lucius, because you are a gentleman. As
much forbearance as that a young man, if he be a gentleman, will
always show to an old man. But what I ask is something more
that that, Sir Peregrine has been farming all his life.’
‘Yes; and see what are the results! He has three or four hun-
. dred acres of uncultivated land on his estate, all of which would
grow wheat,’
‘I know nothing about that,’ said Lady Mason.
* Ah, but that’s the question. My trade is to be that of a farmer,
106 ORLEY FAR.
and you are sending me to school. Then comes the question, Of
what sort is the schoolmaster ”
‘Tam not talking about farming now, Lucius.’
‘ But he will talk of it.’
‘And cannot you listen to him without contradicting him—for
my sake? It is of the greatest consequence to me,—of the very
greatest, Lucius, that I should have the benefit of Sir Peregrine’s
friendship.’
‘If he would quarrel with you because I chanced to disagree
with him about the management of land, his friendship would not
be worth having.’
‘I do not say that he will do so; put Iam sure you can under-
stand that an old man may be tender on such points. At any rate
Task it from you as a favour. You cannot guess how important it
is to me to be on good terms with such a neighbour.’
«It is always so in England,’ said Lucius, after pausing for a
while. ‘ Sir Peregrine is a man of family, and a baronet; of course
all the world, the world of Hamworth that is, should bow down at
his feet. And I too must worship the golden image which Nebu-
chadnezzar, the King of Fashion, has set up?
« Lucius, you are unkind to me.’
“No, mother, not unkind; but like all men, I would fain act in
such matters as my own judgment may direct me.’
‘My friendship with Sir Peregrine Orme has nothing to do with
his rank; but it is of importance to me that both you and I should
stand well in his sight.’ There was nothing more said on the
matter; and then they got down at the front door, and were
ushered through the low wide hall into the drawing-room.
The three generations of the family were there,—Sir Peregrine,
his daughter-in-law, and the heir. Lucius Mason had been at The
Cleeve two or three times since his return from Germany, and on
going there had always declared to himself that it was the same to
him as though he were going into the house of Mrs. Arkwright, the
doctor’s widow at Hamworth,—or even into the kitchen of Farmer
Greenwood. He rejoiced to call himself a democrat, and would
boast that rank could have no effect on him. But his boast was
an untrue boast, and he could not carry himself at The Cleeve as he
would have done and did in Mrs. Arkwright’s little drawing-room.
There was a majesty in the manner of Sir Peregrine which did awe
him ; there were tokens of birth and a certain grace of manner about
Mrs. Orme which kept down his assumption; and even with young
Peregrine he found that though he might be equal he could by no
means be more than equal. He had learned more than Peregrine
Orme, had ten times more knowledge in his head, had read books
of which Peregrine did not even know the names and probably
nover would know them; but on his side also young Orme possessed
DINNER AT THE CLEEVE. 107
something which the other wanted. What that something might be
Lucius Mason did not at all understand.
Mrs, Orme got up from her corner on the sofa to greet her friend,
and with a soft smile and two or three all but whispered words
led her forward to the fire... Mrs. Orme was not a woman given to
auch speech, or endowed with outward warmth of manners, but she
could make her few words go very far; and then the pressure of
her hand, when it was given, told more than a whole embrace from
scme other women. There are ladies who always kiss their female
friends, and always call them ‘ dear.’. In such cases one cannot but
pity her who is so bekissed. Mrs. Orme did not kiss Lady Mason,
nor did she call her dear; but she smiled sweetly as she uttered
her greeting, and looked kindness out.of her marvellously blue eyes ;
and Lucius Mason, looking on over his mother’s shoulders, thought
that he would like to bave her for his friend in spite of her rank.
1f Mrs. Orme would give him a lecture on farming it might be
possible to listen to it without contradiction; but there was no
chance for him in that respect. Mrs, Orme never gave lectures to
any one on any subject. i
‘ So, Master Lucius, you have been to Liverpool, I hear,’ said Sir
Peregrine.
“Yes, sir—I returned yesterday.’
‘ And what is the world doing at Liverpool ?”
‘ The world is wide awake there, sir.’
‘Oh, no doubt; when the world has to make money it is always
wide awake. But men sometimes may be wide awake and yet
make no money ;—may be wide awake, or at any rate think that
they are so,’
‘ Better that, Sir Peregrine, than wilfully go to sleep when there
is so much work to be done.’
‘ A man when he’s asleep does no harm,’ said Sir Peregrine.
‘ What a comfortable doctrine to think of when the servant comes
with the hot water at eight o’clock in the morning!’ said his
grandson.
‘It is one that you study very constantly, I fear,’ said the old
man, who at this time was on excellent terms with his heir. There
had been no apparent hankering after rats since that last compact
had been made, and Peregrine had been doing great things with
the H. H.; winning golden opinions from all sorts of sportsmen,
and earning a great reputation for a certain young mare which had
been bred by Sir Peregrine himself. Foxes are vermin as well
as rats, as Perry in his wickedness had remarked; but a young man
who can break an old one’s heart by a predilection for rat-catching
may win it as absolutely and irretrievably by prowess after a fox.
Sir Peregrine had told to four different neighbours how a fox had
been run into, in the open, near Alston, after twelve desperate miles,
108 ORLEY FARM.
and how on that occasion Peregrine had been in at the death
with the huntsman and only one other. ‘And the mare, you know,
is only four years old and hardly half trained,’ said Sir Peregrine,
with great exultation. ‘The young scamp, to have ridden her in
that way!’ It may be doubted whether he would have been a
prouder man or said more about it if his grandson had taken
honours.
And then the gong sounded, and Sir Peregrine led Lady Mason
into the dining-room. Lucius, who as we know thought no more
of the Ormes than of the Joneses and Smiths, paused in his awe
before he gave his arm to Mrs. Orme; and when he did so he led
her away in perfect silence, though he would have given anything to
be able to talk to her as he went. But he bethought himself that
unfortunately he could find nothing to say. And when he sat down
it was not much better. He had not dined at The Cleeve before,
and I am not sure whether the butler in plain clothes and the two
men in livery did not help to create his confusion,—in spite of his
well-digested democratic ideas.
The conversation during dinner was not very bright.. Sir Pere-
grine said a few words now and again to Lady Mason, and she
replied with a few others. On subjects which did not absolutely
appertain to the dinner, she perhaps was the greatest talker; but
even she did not say much. Mrs. Orme as a rule never spoke
unless she were spoken to in any company consisting of more than
herself and one other; and young Peregrine seemed to imagine that
carving at the top of the table, asking people if they would take
stewed beef, and eating his own dinner, were occupations quite suffi-
cient for his energies. ‘ Have a bit more beef, Mason; do. If you
will, I will.’ So far he went in conversation, but no farther while
his work was still before him.
When the servants were gone it was a little better, but sot
much. ‘Mason, do you mean to hunt this season?” Peregritie
asked.
‘No,’ said the other,
‘Well, I would if I were you. You will never know the fellows
about here unless you do.’
‘In the first place I can’t afford the time,’ said Lucius, ‘ and in
the next place I can’t afford the money.’ This was plucky on his
part, and it was felt to be so by everybody in the room ; but perhaps
had he spoken all the truth, he would have said also that he was not
accustomed to horsemanship.
‘ To a fellow who has a place of his own as you have, it costs
nothing,’ said Peregrine.
‘Oh, does it not” said the baronet ; ‘I used to think differently.’
‘Well; not so much, I mean, as if you had everything to buy.
Besides, I look upon Mason asa sort of a Croesus. What on earth
DINNER AT THE CLEEVE. 109
has he got to do with his money? And then as to time ;—upon my
word I don’t understand what a man means when he says he has
not got time for hunting.’
‘ Lucius intends to be a farmer,’ said his mother.
8 do I,’ said Peregrine. ‘ By Jove, I should think so. If I
had two hundred acres of land in my own hand I should not want
anything else in the world, and would never ask any one fora
shilling.’
‘If that be so, I might make the best bargain at once that ever
a man made,’ said the baronet. ‘If I might take you at your word,
Master Perry —.’
‘ Pray don’t talk of it, sir,’ said Mrs. Orme.
‘You may be quite sure of this, my dear—that I shall not do more
than talk of it.’ Then Sir Peregrine asked Lady Mason if she
would take any more wine; after which the ladics withdrew, and
the lecture commenced.
. But we will in the first place accompany the ladies into the
drawing-room for a few minutes. It was hinted in one of the first
chapters of this story that Lady Mason might have become more
intimate than she had done with Mrs. Orme, had she so pleased it;
and by this it will of course be presumed that she had not so pleased.
All this is perfectly true. Mrs. Orme had now been living at The
Cleeve the greater portion of her life, and had never while there
made one really well-loved friend. She had a sister of her own,
and dear old friends of her childhood, who lived far away from her
in the northern counties. Occasionally she did see them, and was
then very happy; but this was not frequent with her. Her sister,
who was married to a peer, might stay at The Cleeve for a fortnight,
perhaps once in the year; but Mrs. Orme herself seldom left her
own home. She thought, and certainly not without cause, that Sir
Peregrine was not happy in her absence, and therefore she uever
left him. Then, living there so much alone, was it not natural that
her heart should desire a friend ?
But Lady Mason had been living much more alone. She had no
sister to come to her, even though it were but once a year. She
had no intimate female friend, none to whom she could really speak
-with the full freedom of friendship, and it would have been de-
lightful to have bound to her by ties of love so sweet a creature as
Mrs. Orme, a widow like herself,—and like herself a widow with
one only son., But she, warily picking her steps through life, had
learned the necessity of being cautious in all things. The coun-
tenance of Sir Peregrine had been invaluable to her, and might it
not be possible that she should lose that countenance? A word or
two spoken now and then again, a look not intended to be noticed,
an altered tone, or perhaps a change in the pressure of the old
man’s hand, had taught Lady Mason to think that he might dis-
110 ONLEY FAR,
approve such intimacy. Probably at the moment she was right,
for she was quick at reading such small signs. It behoved her to
be very careful, and to indulge in no pleasure which might be
costly ; and therefore she had denied herself in this matter,—as in
80 many others.
But now it had occurred to her that it might be well to change her
conduct. Either she felt that Sir Peregrine’s friendship for her was
too confirmed to be shaken, or perhaps she fancied that she might
strengthen it by means of his daughter-in-law. At any rate she
resolved to accept the offer which had once been tacitly made to
her, if it were still open to her to do so.
‘How little changed your boy is!’ she said when they were seated
near to each other, with their coffee-cups between them.
‘No; he does not change quickly ; and, as you say, he is a boy
still in many things. Ido not know whether it may not be better
that it should be so.’
‘I did not mean to call him a boy in that sense,’ said Lady
Mason.
‘ But you might; now your son is quite a man.’
‘ Poor Lucius! yes; in his position it is necessary. His little bit
of property is already his own; and then he has no one like Sir
Peregrine to look out forhim. Necessity makes him manly.’
‘He will be marrying soon, I dare say,’ suggested Mrs. Orme.
‘Oh, I hope not. Do you think that early marriages are good for
young men?”
‘Yes, Ithinkso. Why not? said Mrs. Orme, thinking of her own
year of married happiness. ‘ Would you not wish to see Lucius
marry ?”
‘I fancy not. Ishould be afraid lest I should become as nothing
to him. And yet I would not have you think that I am selfish.’
‘I am sure that you are not that. Iam sure that you love him
better than all the world besides. I can feel what that is myself.’
‘But you are not alone with your boy as Iam. If he were to
send me from him, there would be nothing left for me in this
world.’
‘Send you from him! Ah, because Orley Farm belongs to him.
But he would not do that; I amsure he would not.’
‘Be would do nothing unkind; but how could he help it if his
wife wishedit? But nevertheless I would not keep him single for
that reason ;~-no, nor for any reason if I knew that he wished to
marry. But it would be a blow to me.’
‘1 sincerely trust that Peregrine may marry early,’ said Mrs.
Orme, perhaps thinking that babies were preferable either to rate
or foxes.
‘Yes, it would be well Iam sure, because you have ample means,
and the house is large’; and you would have his wife to love.’
OVER THEIR WINK,
DINNER AT THE CLEEVE. lll
‘If she were nice it would be so sweet to have her for a daugh-
ter. Ialso am very much alone, though perhaps not so much ag
you are, Lady Mason.’ ;
‘I hope not—for I am sometimes very lonely.’
‘LT have often thought that.’
«But I should be wicked beyond everything if I were to com-
plain, seeing that Providence has given me so much that I had no
right to expect. What should 1 have done in my loneliness if Sir
Peregrine’s hand and door had never been opened to me? And
then for the next half-hour the two ladies held sweet converse
together, during which we will go back to the gentlemen over
their wine.
‘ Are you drinking claret?’ said Sir Peregrine, arranging himeelf
and his bottles in the way that was usual to him. He had ever
been a moderate man himself, but nevertheless he had a business-
like way of going to work after dinner, as though there was a good
deal to be done before the drawing-room could be visited.
‘No more wine for me, sir,’ said Lucius.
‘No wine!’ said Sir Peregrine the elder.
‘Why, Mason, you'll never get on if that’s the way with you,’
said Peregrine the younger.
‘Tl try at any rate,’ said the other. :
‘ Water-drinker, moody thinker,’ and Peregrine sang a word or
two from an old drinking-song.
‘Tam not quite sure of that. We Englishmen I suppose are the
moodiest thinkers in all the world, and yet we are not so. much
given to water-drinking as our lively neighbours. across the
Channel,’.” °°.
Sir Peregrine said nothing more on the subject, but he probably
thought that his young friend would not be a very comfortable
neighbour. His-present task, however, was by no means that of
teaching him to drink, and he struck off at once upon the business
he had undertaken, ‘So your mother tells me that you are going
to.devote all your energies to farming.’ ”
‘Hardly that, I hope. There is the land, and I mean to see what
Ican do with it. It is not much, and I intend to combine some
other.oceupation with it.’ '
‘You will find that two hundred acres of land will give you a
good deal to do ;—that is if you mean to make mouey by it.’
‘T certainly hope to do that,—in the long run.’
‘It seems to me the easiest thing in the world,’ said Peregrine.
‘You'll find out your mistake some day; but with Lucius Mason
it is very important that he should make no mistake at the com-
Mencement, For a country gentleman I know no prettier amuse-
ment than experimental farming ;—but then a man must give up
all idea of making his rent out of the land.’
112 ORLEY FARM.
‘I can’t afford that,’ said Lucius.
‘No; and that is why I take the liberty of speaking to you. I
hope that the great friendship which I feel for your mother will be
allowed to stand as my excuse.’
‘Tam very much obliged by your kindness, sir; I am indeed,’
‘The truth is, I think you are beginning wrong.. You have now
been to Liverpool, to buy guano, I believe.’
‘Yes, that and some few other things. There is a man there who
has taken out a patent——’
‘My dear fellow, if you lay out your money in that way, you will
never see it back again. Have you considered in the first place
what your journey to Liverpool has cost you ?’
‘Exactly nine and sixpence per cent. on the money that I laid
out there. Now that is not much more than a penny in the pound
on the sum expended, and is not fora moment to be taken: into
consideration in comparison with the advantage of an improved
market.’
There was more in this than Sir Peregrine had expected to cn-
counter. He did not for a moment doubt the truth of his own
experience or the folly and danger of the young man’s proceedings;
but he did doubt his own power of proving either the one or the
other to one who so accurately computed his expenses by per-
centages on his outlay. Peregrine opened his eyes and sat by,
wondering in silence. What on earth did Mason mean by an im-
proved market ?
‘I am afraid then,’ said the baronet, ‘ that you must have laid
out a large sum of money.’ Mi
‘Aman can’t do any good, Sir Peregrine, by hoarding his capital.
I don’t think very much of capital myself—
‘Don't you?’
‘Not of the theory of capital ;—not so much as some people do;
but if a man has got it, of course it should be expended on the trade
to which it is to be applied.’
‘But some little knowledge—some experience is perhaps desirable
before any great outlay is made.’
“Yes; some little knowledge is necessary,— and some great
knowledge would be desirable if it were accessible ;—but it is not,
as I take it.’
‘ Long years, perhaps, devoted to such pursuits——’
‘Yes, Sir Peregrine; I know what you are going to say. Expe-
rience no doubt will teach something. A man who has walked
thirty miles a day for thirty years will probably know what sort of
shoes will best suit his feet, and perhaps also the kind of food that
will best support him through such exertion ; but there is very little
chance of his inventing any quicker mode of travelling.’
‘ But he will have earned his wages honestly,’ said Sir Peregrine,
A MORNING CALL AT MOUNT PLEASANT VILMA. 1i3
almost angrily. In his heart he was very angry, for he did not lovo
to be interrupted.
‘Oh, yes; and if that were sufficient we might all walk our
thirty miles a day. But some of us must earn wages for other
people, or the world will make no progress. Civilization, as I take
it, consists in efforts made not for oneself but for others.’
‘If you won’t take any more wine we will join the ladies,’ said
the baronet.
‘He has not taken any at all,’ said Peregrine, filling his own
glass for the last time and emptying it.
‘That young man is the most conceited puppy it was ever my
misfortune to meet,’ said Sir Peregrine to Mrs. Orme, when she
came to kiss him and to take his blessing as she always did before
leaving him for the night.
‘I am sorry for that,’ said she, ‘ for I like his mother so much.’
‘T also like her,’ said Sir Peregrine ; ‘ but Icannot say that I shall
ever be very fond of her son.’
‘Tl tell you what, mamma,’ said young Peregrine; the same
evening in his mother’s dressing-room. ‘ Lucius Mason was too
many for the governor this evening.’
‘L hope he did not tease your grandfather.’
‘He talked him down regularly, and it was plain enough that
the governor did not like it.’
And then the day was over.
CHAPTER XV.
A MORNING CALL AT MOUNT PLEASANT VILLA.
Ox the following day Lady Mason made two visits, using her new
vehicle for the first time. She would fain have walked had she
dared ; but she would have given terrible offence to her son by doing
so. He had explained to her, and with some truth, that as their
joint income was now a thousand a year, she was quite entitled to
such a luxury; and then he went on to say that as he had bought
it for her, he should be much hurt if she would not use it. She had
put it off from day to day, and now she could put it off no longer.
Her first visit was by appointment at The Cleeve. She had pro-
mised Mrs. Orme that she would come up, some special purpose
having been named ;—but with the real idea, at any rate on the part
of the latter, that they might both be more comfortable together
than alone. The walk across from Orley Farm to The Cleeve had
always been very dear to Lady Mason. Ivery step of it was over
beantiful ground, and a delight in scenery was one of the few p'es
VOL, 1. I
114 ORLEY FARM.
sures which her lot in life had permitted her to enjoy. But to-day
she could not allow herself the walk. Her pleasure and delight
must be postponed to her son’s wishes! But then she was used to
that.
She found Mrs. Orme alone, and sat with her for an hour. I do
not-know that anything was said between them which deserves to
be specially chronicled. Mrs. Orme, though she told her many
things, did not tell her what Sir Peregrine had said as he was going
up to his bedroom on the preceding evening, nor did Lady Mason
say much about her son’s farming. She had managed to gather
from Lucius that he had not been deeply impressed by anything
that had fallen from Sir Peregrine on the subject, and therefore
thought it as well to hold her tongue. She soon perceived also,
from the fact of Mrs. Orme saying nothing about Lucius, that he
had not left behind him any very favourable impression, This was
to her cause of additional sorrow, but she knew that it must be
borne. Nothing that she could say would induce Lucius to make
himself acceptable to Sir Peregrine.
When the hour was over she went down again to her little car-
riage, Mrs. Orme coming with her to look at it, and in the hall they
met Sir Peregrine.
‘Why does not Lady Mason stop forlunch ?’ said he, ‘ It is past
half-past one. I never knew anything so inhospitable as turning
her out at this moment.’
‘I did ask her to stay,’ said Mrs. Orme.
‘ But I command her to stay,’ said Sir Peregrine, knocking his
stick upon the stone floor of the hall. ‘And let me see who will
dare to disobey me. John, let Lady Mason’s carriage and pony
stand in the open coach-house till she is ready.’ So Lady Mason
went back and did remain for lunch. She was painfully anxious to
maintain the best-possible footing in that house, but still more
anxious not to have it thought that she was intruding. She had
feared that Lucius by his offence might have estranged Sir Peregrine
against herself; but that at any rate was not the case.
After lunch she drove herself to Hamworth and made her second
visit. On this occasion shé called on one Mrs. Arkwright, who was
a very old acquaintance, though hardly to be called an intimate
friend, The late Mr. Arkwright—Dr. Arkwright as he used to be
styled in Hamworth—had been Sir Joseph’s medical attendant for
many years, and therefore there had been room for an intimacy.
No real friendship, that is no friendship of confidence, had sprung
up; but nevertheless.the doctor's wife had known enough of Lady
Mason in her younger days to justify her in speaking of things
which would not‘have been mentioned between merely ordinary
acquaintance. ‘I am glad to see you have got promotion,’ said the
old lady, looking out at Lady Mason’s little phaeton on the gravel
A MORNING CALL AT MOUNT PLEASANT VILLA. 115
sweep which divided Mrs. Arkwright’s house from the street. For
Mrs. Arkwright's house was Mount Pleasant Villa, and therefore was
entitled to a sweep.
‘It wasa present from Lucius,’ said the other, ‘ and as such must bo
used. But I shall never feel myself at home in my own carriage.’
‘It is quite proper, my dear Lady Mason, quite proper. With his
income and with yours I do not wonder that he insists upon it. It
ig quite proper, and just at the present moment peculiarly so.’ ‘
Lady Mason did not understand this; but she would probably
have passed it by without understanding it, had she not thought
that there was some expression more than ordinary in Mrs. Ark-
wright’s face. ‘Why peculiarly so at the present moment?’ sho
said.
‘Because it shows that this foolish report which is going about
has no foundation. People won’t believe it fora moment when they
see you out and about, and happy-like.’
‘What rumour, Mrs. Arkwright?’ And Lady Mason’s heart sunk
within her as she asked the question. She felt at once to what it
must allude, though she had conceived no idea as yet that there was
any rumour on the subject. Indeed, during the last forty-eight hours,
since she had left the chambers of Mr. Furnival, she had been
more at ease within herself than during the previous days which
had elapsed subsequent to the ill-omened visit made to her by
Miriam Dockwrath. Ithad seemed to her that Mr. Furnival anti-
cipated no danger, and his manner and words had almost given her
confidence. But now,—now that a public rumour was spoken of,
her heart was as low again as ever.
‘Sure, haven’t you heard?” said Mrs. Arkwright. <‘ Well, I
wouldn’t be the first to tell you, only that I know that there is no
trath in it.’
‘You might as well tell me now, as I shall be apt to believe
worse than the truth after what you have said.’
And then Mrs. Arkwright told her. ‘People have been saying
that Mr. Mason is again going to begin those law proceedings about
the farm; but I for one don’t believe it.’
‘People have said so!’ Lady Mason repeated. She meant
nothing ; it was nothing to her who the people were. If one said
it now, all would soon be saying it. But she uttered the words
because sho felt herself forced to say something, and the power of
thinking what she might best say was almost taken away from
her,
‘Iam sure I don’t know where it came from,’ said Mrs. Ark-
wright; ‘ but I would not have alluded to it if I had not thought
that of course you had heard it, Iam very sorry if my saying it
has vexed you.’
‘ Oh, no,’ said Lady Mason, trying to smile.
12
116 ORLEY FARM.
‘ Ag I said before, we all know that there is nothing in it; and
your having the pony chaise just at this time will make everybody
see that you are quite comfortable yourself.’
‘Thank you, yes; good-bye, Mrs. Arkwright.’ And then she
made a great effort, feeling aware that she was betraying herself,
and that it behoved her to say something which might remove the
suspicion which her emotion must have created. ‘The very name
of that lawsuit is so dreadful to me that I can hardly bear it. Thé
memory of it is so terrible to me, that even my enemies would
hardly wish that it should commence again.’
‘Of course it is merely a report,’ said Mrs. Arkwright, almost
trembling at what she had done.
‘ That is all—at least I believe so. I had heard myself that some
such threat had been made, but I did not think that any tidings
of it had got abroad.’
‘It was Mrs. Whiting told me. She is a great busybody, you
know.’ Mrs. Whiting was the wife of the present doctor.
‘ Dear Mrs. Arkwright, it does not matter in the least. Of course
JT do uot expect that people should hold their tongue on my account.
Good-bye, Mrs. Arkwright.’ And then she got into the little car-
riage, and did contrive to drive herself home to Orley Farm.
* Dear, dear, dear, dear!’ said Mrs. Arkwright to herself when
she was left alone. ‘ Only to think of that; that she should be
knocked in a heap by a few words—in a moment, as we may say.’
And then she began to consider of the matter. ‘I wonder what
there is in it! There must be something, or she would never have
looked so like a ghost. What will they do if Orley Farm is taken
away from them after all!’ And then Mrs. Arkwright hurried out
on her daily little toddle through the town, that she might talk
about this and be talked to on the same subject. She was by no
means an ill-natured woman, nor was she at all inclined to direct:
against Lady Mason any slight amount of venom which might alloy
her disposition. But then the matter was of such importance!
The people of Hamworth had hardly yet ceased to talk of the
last Orley Farm trial; and would it not be necessary that they
should talk much more if a new trial were really pending? Look-
ing at the matter in that light, would not such a trial be a godsend tw
the people of Hamworth? Therefore I beg that it may not be im-
puted to Mrs. Arkwright as a fault that she toddled out and sought
eagerly for her gossips.
Lady Mason did manage to drive herself home; but her success
im the matter was more owing to the good faith and propriety ‘of her’
pony, than to any skilful workmanship on her own part. Her first
desire had been to get away from Mrs. Arkwright, and having
made that effort she was for a time hardly able to make any other.
It was fast coming upon her now. Let Sir Peregrine say what
A MORNING CALL AT MOUNT PLEASANT VILLA. 117
comforting words he might, let Mr. Furnival assure her that she
was safe with ever so much confidence, nevertheless she could not
but believe, could not but feel inwardly convinced, that that which”
she so dreaded was to happen. It was written in the book of her
destiny that there should be a new trial.
And now, from this very moment, the misery would again begin,
People would point at her, and talk of her. Her success in obtain-
ing Orley Farm for her own child would again be canvassed at
every house in Hamworth; and not only her success, but the
means also by which that success had been obtained. The old
people would remember and the young people would inquire ; and,
for her, tranquillity, repose, and that retirement of life which had
been so valuable to her, were all gone.
There could be no doubt that Dockwrath had spread the report
immediately on his return from Yorkshire; and had she well
thought of the matter she might have taken some comfort from this.
Of course he would tell the story which he did tell. His confidence
in being able again to drag the case before the Courts would by no
means argue that others believed as he believed. In fact the
enemies now arraigned against her were only those whom she
already knew to be so arraigned. But she had not sufficient command
of her thoughts to be able at first to take comfort from such a reflec-
tion as this. She felt, as she was being carried home, that the
world was going from her, and that it would be well for her, were
it possible, that she should die. :
But she was stronger when she reached her own door than she
had been at Mrs. Arkwright’s. There was still within her a great
power of self-maintenance, if only time were allowed to her to look
about and consider how best she might support herself. Many
women are in this respect as she was. With forethought and
summoned patience they can endure great agonies; but a sudden
pang, unexpected, overwhelms them. She got out of the pony
carriage with her ordinary placid face, and walked up to her own:
room without having given any sign that she was uneasy; and
then she had to determine how she should bear herself before her
son. It had been with her a great object that both Sir Peregrine
and Mr. Furnival should first hear of the tidings from her, and
that they should both promise her their aid when they had heard
the story as she would tell it. In this she had been successful;
and it now seemed to her that prudence would require her to act
in the same way towards Lucius. Had it leen possible to keep
this matter from him altogether, she would have given much to do
so; but now it would not be possible. It was clear that Mr. Dock-
wrath had chosen to make the matter public, acting no doubt with
forethought in doing so; and Lucius would be sure to hear woras
which would become common in Hamworth. Difficult as the task
118 ORLEY FARM.
would be to her, it would be best that she should prepare him. So
she sat alono till dinner-time planning how she would do this.
She had sat alone for hours in the same way planning how she
would tell her story to Sir Peregrine; and again as to her second
story for Mr. Furnival. Those whose withers are unwrung can
hardly guess how absolutely a sore under tho collar will embitter
every hour for the poor jade who is so tormented !
But she met him at dinner with a smiling face. He loved to see
her smile, and often told her so, almost upbraiding her when she
would look sad. Why should she be sad, seeing that she had every-
thing that a woman could desire? Her mind was burdened with no
heavy thoughts as to feeding coming multitudes. She had no con-
tests to wage with the desultory chemists of the age. His purpose
was to work hard during the hours of the day,—hard also during
many hours of the night; and it was becoming that his mother
should greet him softly during his few intervals of idleness. Ho
told her so, in some words not badly chosen for such telling; and
she, loving mother that she was, strove valiantly to obey him.
During dinner she could not speak to him, nor immediately after
dinner. The evil moment she put off from half-hour to half-hour,
still looking as though all were quiet within her bosom as she sat
beside him with her book in her hand. He was again at work
before she began her story: he thought at least that he was at
work, for he had before him on the table both Prichard and Latham,
and was occupied in making copies from some drawings of skulls
which purposed to represent the cerebral development of certain of
our more distant Asiatic brethren.
‘Is it not singular,’ said he, ‘ that the jaws of men born and
bred in a hunter state should be differently formed from those of the
agricultural tribes ?
‘ Are they? said Lady Mason.
‘Oh yes; the maxillary profile is quite different. You will see
this especially with the Mongolians, among the Tartar tribes. It
seems to me to be very much the same difference as that between a
man and a sheep, but Prichard makes no such remark. Look here
at this fellow; he must have been intended to eat nothing but flesh ;
and that raw, and without any knife or fork.’
« I don’t suppose they had many knives or forks.’
‘ By close observation I do not doubt that one could tell froma
single tooth not only what food the owner of it had been accustomed
to eat, but what language he had spoken. I say close observation,
you know. It could not be done in a day.’
‘I suppose not.’ And then the student again bent over his
drawing. ‘ You see it would have been impossible for the owner of
such a jaw as that to have ground a grain of corn between his teeth,
or to have masticated even a cabbage.’
A MORNING CALL AT MOUNT PLEASANT VILLA. 119
‘ Lucius,’ said Lady Mason, becoming courageous on the spur of
the moment, ‘I want you to leave that for a moment and speak
to me.”
* Well,’ said he, putting down his pencil and turning round.
‘ Here I am.’
“You have heard of the lawsuit which I had with your brother
when you were an infant?
¢ Of course I have heard of it; but I wish you would not call that
man my brother. He would not own me as such, and I most cer-
tainly would not own him. As far as I can learn he is one of the
most detestable human beings that ever existed.’
‘You have heard of him from an unfavourable side, Lucius ; you
should remember that. He isa hard man, I believe; but I do not
know that he would do anything which he thought to be unjust.’
* Why then did he try to rob me of my property ”
‘ Because he thought that it should have been hisown. I cannot
see into his breast, but I presume that it was so.’
‘I do not presume.anything of the kind, and never shall. I was
an infant and you were a woman,—a woman at that time without
many friends, and he thought that he could rob us under cover of
the law. Had he been commonly honest it would have been enough
for him to know what had been my father’s wishes, even if the will
had not been rigidly formal. I look upon him as a robber and a
thief.’
‘Iam sorry for that, Lucius, because I differ from you. What
I wish to tell you now is this,—that he is thinking of trying the
question again.’
‘ What !—thinking of another trial now? and Lucius Mason
pushed his drawings and books from him with a vengeance.
‘So I am told.’
‘ And who told you? I cannot believe it. If he intended any-
thing of the kind I must have been the first person to hear of it.
-It would be my business now, and you may be sure that he would
have taken care to let me know his purpose.’
‘ And then by.degrees she explained to him that the man himself,
Mr. Mason of Groby, had as yet declared no such purpose. She had
intended to omit all mention of the name of Mr. Dockwrath, but
she was unable to do so without seeming to make a mystery with
‘her son. When she came to explain how the rumour had arisen and
‘why she had thought it necessary to tell him this, she was obliged
to say that it had all arisen from the wrath of the attorney. ‘ He
has been to Groby Park,’ she said, ‘ and now that he has returned
he is spreading this report.’
‘T shall go to him to-morrow, said lucius, very sternly.
‘No, no; you must not do that. You must promise me that you
will not do that.’
120 ORLEY FARM,
‘But I shall. Yor vannot suppose that I shall allow such a man
as that to tamper with my name without noticing it! It is my
business now.’
‘No, Lucius. The attack will bo against me rather than you ;—
that is, if an attack be made. I have told you because I do not like
to have a secret from you,’
‘ Of course you have told me. If you are attacked who should
defend you, if I do not?’
‘The best defence, indeed the only defence till they take some
active step, will be silence. Most probably they will not do any-
thing, and then we can afford to live down such reports as these.
You can understand, Lucius, that the matter is grievous enough to
me; and I am sure that for my sake you will not make it worse by
a personal quarrel with such a man as that.’
‘I shall go to Mr. Furnival,’ said he, ‘ and ask his advice.’
‘T have done that already, Lucius. I thought it best to do so,
when first I heard that Mr. Dockwrath was moving in the matter,
It was for that that I went up to town.’
‘ And why did you not tell me?’
‘I then thought that you might be spared the pain of knowing
anything of the matter. I tell you now because I hear to-day in
Hamworth that people are talking on the subject. You might
be annoyed, as I was just now, if the first tidings had reached you
from some stranger.’
He sat silent for a while, turning his pencil in his hand, and
looking as though he were going to settle the matter off hand by
his own thoughts. ‘I tell you what it is, mother; I shall not let
the burden of this fall on your shoulders. You carried on the battle
before, but I must doso now. IfI can trace any word of scandal
to that fellow Dockwrath, I shall indict him for a libel.’
‘ Oh, Lucius!”
‘TI shall, and no mistake !’
What would he have said had he known that his mother had
absolutely proposed to Mr. Furnival to buy off Mr. Dockwrath’s
animosity, almost at any price?
CHAPTER XVI.
MR. DOCKWRATH IN BEDFORD ROW.
Mr. DockwratH, as he left Leeds and proceeded to join the bosom
of his family, was not discontented with what he had done. It
might not improbably have been the case that Mr. Mason would
altogether refuse to see him, and having seen him, Mr. Mason
might altogether have declined his assistance. He might have
been forced as a witness to disclose his secret, of which he could
make so much better a profit as a legal adviser. As it was, Mr.
Mason had promised to pay him for his services, and would no doubt
be induced to go so far as to give him a legal claim for payment.
Mr. Mason had promised to come up to town, and had. instructed
the Hamworth attorney to meet him there; and under such cir-
cumstances the Hamworth attorney had but little doubt that time
would produce a considerable bill of costs in his favour.
And then he thought that he saw his way to a great success. I
should be painting the Devil too black were I to say that revenge
was his chief incentive in that which he was doing. All our
motives are mixed ; and his wicked desire to do evil to Lady Mason
in return for the evil which she had done to him was mingled with
professional energy, and an ambition to win a cause that ought to
be won—especially a cause which others had failed to win. He
said to himself, on finding those names and dates among old
Mr. Usbech’s papers, that there was still an opportunity of doing
something considerable in this Orley Farm Case, and he had made
up his mind to do it. Professional energy, revenge, and money
considerations would work hand in hand in this matter; and there-
fore, as he left Leeds in the second-class railway carriage for
London, he thought over the result of his visit with considerable
satisfaction.
He had left Leeds at ten, and Mr. Moulder had come down in
the same omnibus to the station, and was travelling in the same
train in a first-class carriage. Mr. Moulder was a man who despised
the second-class, and was not slow to say so before other com-
mercials who travelled at a cheaper rate than he did. ‘ Hubbles
and Grease,’ he said, ‘allowed him respectably, in order that he
might go about their business respectable; and he wasn’t going to
122 ORLEY FARM.
give the firm a bad name by being seen in a second-class carriage,
although the difference would go into his own pocket. That
wasn’t the way he had begun, and that wasn’t the way he was
going to end.’ He said nothing to Mr. Dockwrath in the morning,
merely bowing in answer .to that gentleman’s salutation. ‘ Hopo
you were comfortable last night in the back drawing-room,’ said
Mr. Dockwrath ; but Mr. Moulder in reply only looked at him.
At the Mansfield station, Mr. Kantwise, with his huge wooden
boxes, appeared on the platform, and he got into the same carriage
with Mr. Dockwrath. He had come on by a night train, and had
been doing a stroke of business that morning. ‘ Well, Kantwise,’
Moulder holloaed out from his warm, well-padded seat, ‘ doing it
cheap and nasty, eh ?’
‘Not at all nasty, Mr. Moulder,’ said the other. ‘And I find
myself among as respectable a class of society in the second-class
as you do in the first; quite so;—and perhaps a little better,’
Mr. Kantwise added, as he took his seat immediately opposite to
Mr. Dockwrath. ‘I hope I have the pleasure of seeing you preity
bobbish this morning, sir.’ And he shook hands cordially with the
attomey.
‘Tidy, thank you,’ said Dockwrath. ‘My company last night
did not do me any harm; you may swear to that.’
‘Ha! ba! ha! I was so delighted that you got the better of
Moulder; a domineering party, isn’t he? quite terrible! For
myself, I can’t put up with him sometimes.’
‘J didn’t have to put up with him last night.’
‘No, no; it was very good, wasn’t it now? very capital, indeed.
All the same I wish you'd heard Busby give us “ Beautiful Venice,
City of Song!” A charming voice has Busby; quite charming.’
And there was a pause for a minute or so, after which Mr. Kantwise
resumed the conversation. ‘ You'll allow me to put you up ono
of those drawing-room sets? he said.
‘ Well, I am afraid not. I don’t think they are strong enough
where there are children.’
‘ Dear, dear; dear, dear; to hear you say so, Mr. Dockwrath!
Why, they are made for strength. They are the very things for
children, because they don’t break, you know,’
‘ But they’d bend terribly.’
‘By no means. They’re so elastic that they always recovers
themselves. I didn’t show you that; but you might turn the backs
of them chairs nearly down to the ground, and they will come
straight again. You let me send you a set for your wife to look at.
If she’s not charmed with them V’1I—T11—I’ll eat them.’
‘Women are charmed with anything,’ said Mr. Dockwrath. ‘A
new bonnet does that.’
‘They know what they are about pretty well, as I dare say you
MR. DOCKWRATH IN BEDFORD ROW. 123
have found out. I'll send express to Sheffield and have a com-
pletely new set put up for you.’
‘ For twelve seventeen six, of course ”’
‘Oh! dear no, Mr. Dockwrath. The lowest figure for ready
money, delivered free, is fifteen ten.’
“I couldn’t think of paying more than Mrs. Mason.’
‘Ah! but that was a damaged set; it was, indecd. And ghe
merely wanted it as a present for the curate’s wife. The table was
quite sprung, and the music-stool wouldn't twist.’
‘ But you'll send them to me new?” ;
‘ New from the manufactory ; upon my word we will.’
‘ A table that you have never acted upon—have never shown off
on; standing in the middle, you know ?’
‘Yes; upon my honour. You shall have them direct from the
workshop, and sent at once; you shall find them in your dvawing-
room on Tuesday next.’
‘ We'll say thirteen ten.’
‘T couldn't do it, Mr. Dockwrath—’ And so they went on, bar-
gaining half the way up to town, till at last they came to terms for
fourteen eleven. ‘Anda very superior article your lady will find
them,’ Mr. Kantwise said as he shook hands with his new friend
at parting.
One day Mr. Dockwrath remained at home in the bosom of his
family, saying all manner of spiteful things against Lady Mason,
and on the next day he went up to town and called on Round and
Crook. That one day he waited in order that Mr. Mason might
have time to write; but Mr. Mason had written on the very day
of the visit to Groby Park, and Mr. Round junior was quite ready
for Mr. Dockwrath when that gentleman ealled.
Mr. Dockwrath when at home had again cautioned his wife to
have no intercourse whatever ‘with that swindler at Orley Farm,’
wishing thereby the more thoroughly to imbue poor Miriam with
@ conviction that Lady Mason had committed some fraud with
reference to the will. ‘You had better say nothing about the
matter anywhere; d’ you hear? People will talk; all the world
will be talking about it before long. But that is nothing to you.
If people ask you, say that you believe that I am engaged in the
case professionally, but that you know nothing further.’ As to all
which Miriam of course promised the most exact obedience. . But
Mr. Dockwrath, though he only remained one day in Hamworth
before he went to London, took care that the curiosity of his
neighbours should be sufficiently excited.
Mr. Dockwrath felt some little trepidation at the heart as he
walked into the office of Messrs. Round and Crook in Bedford Row.
Messrs. Round and Crook stood high in the profession, and were
men who in the ordinary way of business would have had no
124 ORLEY FARM,
personal dealings with such a man as Mr. Dockwrath. Had any
such intercourse become necessary on commonplace subjects Messrs.
Round and Crook’s confidential clerk might have seen Mr. Dock-
wrath, but even he would have looked down upon the Hamworth
attorney as from a great moral height. But now, in the matter
of the Orley Farm Case, Mr. Dockwrath had determined that he
would transact business only on equal terms with the Bedford Row
people. The secret was his—of his finding; he knew the strength
of his own position, and he would use it. But nevertheless he
did tremble inwardly as he asked whether Mr. Round was within ;—
or if not Mr. Round, then Mr. Crook.
There were at present three members in the firm, though the old
name remained unaltered. The Mr. Round and the Mr. Crook
of former days were still working partners ;—the very Round and
the very Crook who had carried on the battle on the part of
Mr. Mason of Groby twenty years ago; but to them had been added
another Mr. Round, a son of old Round, who, though his name did
not absolutely appear in the nomenclature of the firm, was, as a
working man, the most important person in it. Old Mr. Round
might now be said to be ornamental and communicative. He wasa
hale man of nearly seventy, who thought a great deal of his peaches
up at Isleworth, who came to the office five times a week—not
doing very much hard work, and who took the largest share in the
profits. Mr. Round senior had enjoyed the reputation of being a
sound, honourable man, but was now considered by some to be not
quite sharp enough for the practice of the present day.
Mr. Crook had usually done the dirty work of the firm, having.
been originally a managing clerk; and he still did the same—in a
small way. He had been the man to exact penalties, look after
costs, and attend to any criminal business, or business partly crimi-
nal in its nature, which might chance find its way to them. But
latterly in all great matters Mr. Round junior, Mr. Matthew Round
—his father was Richard—was the member of the firm on whom
the world in general placed the greatest dependence, Mr. Mason's
ietter had in the ordinary way of business come to him, although it
had been addressed to his father, and he had resolved on acting on
it himself,
When Mr. Dockwrath called Mr. Round senior was at Birming-
ham, Mr. Crook was taking his annual holiday, and Mr. Round
junior was reigning alone in Bedford Row. Instructions had been
given to the clerks that if Mr. Dockwrath called he was tu be
shown in, and therefore he found himself seated, with much less
trouble than he had expected, in the private room of Mr. Round
junior. He had expected to see an old man, and was therefore
somewhat confused, not feeling quite sure that he was in company
with one of the principals; but nevertheless, looking at the room,
MR. DOCKWRATH IN BEDFORD how. 125
and especially at the arm-chair and carpet, he was aware that the
legal gentleman who motioned him to a seat could be no ordinary
clerk.
The manner of this legal gentleman was not, as Mr. Dockwrath
thought, quite so ceremoniously civil as it might be, considering
the important nature of the business to be transacted between
them. Mr. Dockwrath intended io treat on equal terms, and so
intending would have been glad to have shaken hands with his
new ally at the commencement of their joint operations. But
the man before him—a man younger than himself too—did not
even rise from his chair. ‘Ah! Mr. Dockwrath,’ he said, taking
up a letter from the table, ‘will you have the goodness to sit
down? And Mr. Matthew Round wheeled his own arm-chair
towards the fire, stretching out his legs comfortably, and pointing
to a somewhat distant seat as that intended for the accommodation
of his visitor. Mr. Dgckwrath seated himself in the somewhat
distant seat, and deposited his hat upon the floor, not being as yet
quite at home in his position; but he made up his mind as he did
so that he would be at home before he left the room.
‘I find that you have been down in Yorkshire with a client
of ours, Mr. Dockwrath,’ said Mr. Matthew Nound.
« Yes, I have,’ said he of Hamworth.
‘Ah! well—; you are in the profession yourself, I believe”
‘Yes; I am an attorney.’
‘ Would it not have been well to have come to us first ?”
‘No, I think not. I have not the pleasure of knowing your
name, sir.’
‘ My name is Round—Matthew Round.’
' €I beg your pardon, sir; I did not know,’ said Mr. Dockwrath,
bowing. It was a satisfaction to him to learn that he was closeted
with a Mr. Round, even if it were not the Mr. Round. ‘ No,
Mr. Round, I can’t say that I should have thought of that. In the
first place I didn’t know whether Mr. Mason employed any lawyer,
and in the next. ;
‘Well, well; it does not matter. It is usual among the pro-
fession ; but it does not in the least signify. Mr. Mason has written
to us, and he says that you have found out something about that
Orley Farm business.’
‘Yes; I have found out something. At least, I rather think so.’
‘ Well, what is it, Mr. Dockwrath ”
‘Ah! that’s the question. It’s rather a ticklish business,
Mr. Round; a family affair, as I may say.’
‘ Whose family ?”
‘To a certain extent my family, and to a certain extent
Mr. Mason’s family. I don’t know how far I should be justified
in laying all the facts before you—wonderful facts they are too—
126 ORLEY FARM.
in an off-hand way like that. These matters have to be considered
a great deal. It is not only the extent of the property. There is
much more than that in it, Mr. Round.’
‘ If you don’t tell me what there is in it, I don’t see what we are
to do, Iam sure you did not give yourself the trouble of coming
up here from Hamworth merely with the object of telling us that
you are going to hold your tongue.’
‘Certainly not, Mr. Round.’
‘Then what did you come to say ?” ;
‘May I ask you, Mr. Round, what Mr. Mason has told you with
reference to my interview with him?
‘Yes; I will read you a part of his letter—‘‘ Mr. Dockwrath is of
opinion that the will under which the estate is now enjoyed is
absolutely a forgery.” I presume you mean the codicil, Mr. Dock-
wrath ?
‘Ob yes! the codicil of course.’ *
*« And he has in his possession documents which I have not seen,
but which seem to me, as described, to go far to prove that this
certainly must have been the case.” And then he goes on with a
description of dates, although it is clear that he does not understand
the matter himself—indeed he saysasmuch. Now of course we must
see these documents before we can give our client any advice.’ A
certain small portion of Mr. Mason’s letter Mr. Round did. then
read, but he did not read those portions in which Mr. Mason
expressed his firm determination to reopen the case against Lady
Mason, and even to prosecute her for forgery if it were found that
he had anything like a fair chance of success in doing so. ‘I know
that you were convinced,’ he had said, addressing himself personally
to Mr. Round senior, ‘that Lady Mason was acting in good faith.
I was always convinced of the contrary, and am more sure of it now
than ever.’ This last paragraph, Mr. Round junior had not thought
it necessary to read to Mr. Dockwrath.
‘The documents to which I allude are in reference to my confi-
dential family matters; and I certainly shall not produce them
without knowing on what ground I am standing.’
‘Of course you are aware, Mr. Dockwrath, that we could compel
you.’
‘There, Mr. Round, I must be allowed to differ.’
‘It won’t come to that, of course. If you have anything worth
showing, you'll show it; and if we make use of you as a witness, it
must be as a willing witness.’
‘I don’t think it probable that I shall be a witness in the matter
at all.’
‘Ah, well; perhaps not. My own impression is that no case
will be made out; that there will be nothing to take before a jury.’
‘There again, I must differ from you, Mr. Round?
MR. DOCKWRATH IN BEDFORD ROW. 127
‘Qh, of course! T suppose the real fact is, that it is a matter of
money. You want to be paid for what information you have got.
That is about the long and the short of it; eh, Mr. Dockwrath?
‘I dont know what you call the long and the short of it, Mr.
Round; or what may be your way of doing business. As a profes-
sional man, of course I expect to be paid for my work ;—and I have
no doubt that you expect the same.’
‘No doubt, Mr. Dockwrath; but—as you have made the com-
parison, I hope you will excuse me for saying so—we always wait
till our clients come to us.’
Mr. Dockwrath drew himself up with some intention of becoming
angry; but he hardly knew how to carry it out; and then it might
be a question whether anger would serve his turn. ‘Do you mean
to say, Mr. Round, if you had found documents such as these, you
would have done nothing about them—that you would have passed
them by as worthless ” :
‘T can’t say that till I know what the documents are. If I found
papers concerning the client of another firm, I should go to that
firm if I thought that they demanded attention.’
‘T didn’t know anything about the firm ;—how was I to know?”
‘Well! you know now, Mr. Dockwrath. As I understand it, our
client has referred you to us. If you have any anything to say,
we are ready to hear it. If you have anything to show, we are
ready to look at it. If you have nothing to say, and nothing to
show— ,
‘ Ah, but I have; only—’
‘Only you want us to make it worth your while. We might as
avell have the truth at once. Is not that about it?”
‘I want to see my way, of course.’
‘Exactly. And now, Mr. Dockwrath, I must make you under-
stand that we don’t do business in that way.’
‘Then I shall see Mr. Mason again myself.’
‘That you can do. He will be in town next week, and, as I
believe, wishes to see you. As regards your expenses, if you can
show us that you have any communication to make that is worth
our client’s attention, we will see that you are paid what you are
ont of pocket, and some fair remuneration for the time you may have
lost ;—not as an attorney, remember, for in that light we cannot
regard you.’
‘I am every bit as much an attorney as you are.’
‘No doubt; but you are not Mr. Mason’s attorney; and as long
as it suits him to honour us with his custom, you cannot be so
regarded.’
‘ That’s as he pleases.’
‘No; it is not, Mr. Dockwrath. It is as he pleases whether he
employs you or us; but it is not as he pleases whether he employs
128 ORLEY FARM.
both on business of the same class. He may give us his confidence,
or he may withdraw it.’
‘Looking at the way the matter was managed before, perhaps the
latter may bo the better for him.’
‘Excuse me, Mr. Dockwrath, for saying that that is a question I
shall not discuss with you.’
Upon this Mr. Dockwrath jumped from his chair, and took up
his hat. ‘Good morning to you, sir,’ said Mr. Round, without
moving from his chair ; ‘1 will tell Mr. Mason that you have declined
making any communication to us. He will probably know your
address—if he should want it.’
Mr. Dockwrath paused. Was he not about to sacrifice substantial
advantage to momentary anger? Would it not be better that he
should carry this impudent young London lawyer with him if it
were possible? ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘Iam quite willing to tell you all
that I know of this matter at present, if you will have the patience
hear it.’ ;
‘Patience, Mr. Dockwrath! Why I am made of patience. Sit
down again, Mr. Dockwrath, and think of it.’
Mr. Dockwrath did sit down again, and did think of it; and it
ended in his telling to Mr. Round all that he had told to Mr. Mason.
As he did so, he looked closely at Mr. Round’s face, but there he
could read nothing. ‘ Exactly,’ said Mr. Round. ‘The fourteenth
of July is the date of both. I have taken a memorandum of that.
A final deed for closing partnership, was it? I have got that down.
John Kenneby and Bridget Bolster. I remember the names,—wit-
nesses to both deeds, were they? Iunderstand; nothing about this
other deed was brought up at the trial? I see the point—such as it is.
John Kennedy and Bridget Bolster ;—both believed to be living.
Oh, you can give their address, can you? Decline to do so now?
Very well; it does not matter. I think I understand it all now,
Mr. Dockwrath ; and when we want you again, you shall hear from
us. Samuel Dockwrath, is it? Thank you. Good morning. If
Mr. Mason wishes to see you, he will write, of course. Good day,
Mr. Dockwrath.’
And so Mr. Dockwrath went home, not quite contented with his
day’s work.
CHAPTER XVIL
VON BAUHR.
Ir will be remembered that Mr. Crabwitz was sent across fium
Lincoln’s Inn to Bedford Row to ascertain the present address of old
Mr. Round. ‘ Mr. Round is at Birmingham,’ he said, coming back.
‘Eyery one connected with the profession is at Birmingham,
except——
“‘I'Le more fools they,’ said Mr. Fumival.
‘Iam thinking of going down myself this evening,’ said Mr.
Crabwitz. ‘As you will be out of town, sir, I suppose I can be
spared 7”
* You too!’
* And why not me, Mr. Furnival? When all the profession is
meeting together, why should not I be there as well as another ?
T hope you do not deny me my right to feel an interest in the great
subjects which are being discussed.’
* Not in the least, Mr. Crabwitz. Ido not deny you your right
to be Lord Chief Justice, if you can accomplish it. But you can-
not be Lord Chief Justice and my clerk at the same time. Nor can
you be in my chambers if you. are at Birmingham. I rather think
{ must trouble you to remain here, as I cannot tell at what moment
I may be in town again,’
‘ Then, sir, I’m afraid. Mr. Crabwitz began his speech and
then faltered. He was going to tell Mr. Furnival that he must
suit himself with another clerk, when he remembered his fees, and
paused. It would be very pleasant to him to quit Mr. Furnival,
but where could he get such another place? He knew that he
himself was invaluable, but then he was invaluable only to Mr. Fur-
nival. Mr. Furnival would be mad to part with him, Mr. Crabwitz
thought; but then would he not be almost more mad to part with
Mr. Fumival ?
‘Eh; well” said Mr. Furnival.
‘Oh! of course; if you desire it, Mr. Furnival, I will remain.
But I must say I think it is rather hard.’
‘ Look here, Mr. Crabwitz; if you think my service is too hard
upon you, you had better leave it. But if you take upon yourself
to tell me so again, you must leave it. Remember that.’ Mr. Fur-
VOL, I. K
>
130 ORLEY FARM.
nival possessed the master mind of the two; and Mr. Crabwitz felt
this as he slunk back to his own room.
So Mr. Round also was at Birmingham, and could be seen there,
This was so far well; and Mr. Furnival, having again with ruthless
malice sent Mr. Crabwitz for a cab, at once started for the Euston
Square Station. He could master Mr. Crabwitz, and felt a certain
pleasure in having done so; but could he master Mrs. F.? That
lady had on one or two late occasions shown her anger at the
existing state of her domestic affairs, and had once previously gone
so far as to make her lord understand that she was jealous of his
proceedings with reference to other goddesses. But she had never
before done this in the presence of other people ;—she had never
allowed any special goddess to see that she was the special object
of such jealousy. Now she had not only committed herself in this
way, but had also committed him, making him feel himself to be
ridiculous; and it was highly necessary that some steps should be
taken ;—if he only knew what step! All which kept his mind
active as he journeyed in the cab.
At the station he found three or four other lawyers, all bound for
Birmingham. Indeed, during this fortnight the whole line had
been alive with learned gentlemen going to and fro, discussing
weighty points as they rattled along the iron road, and shaking
their ponderous heads at the new ideas which were being venti-
lated. Mr. Furnival, with many others—indeed, with most of those
who were so far advanced in the world as to be making bread by
their profession—was of opinion that all this palaver that was
going on in the various tongues of Babel would end as it began—in
words. ‘ Vox et preterea nihil.” ‘To practical Englishmen most of
these international congresses seom to arrive at nothing else. Men
will not be talked out of the convictions of their lives, No living
orator would convince a grocer that coffee should be sold without
shicory ; and no amount.of eloquence will make an English lawyer
think that loyalty to truth should come before loyalty to his client.
And therefore our own pundits, though on this occasion they wert
to Birmingham, summoned by the greatness of the occasion, by the
dignity of foreign names, by interest in the question, and by the
influence of such men as Lord Boanerges, went there without any
doubt on their minds as to the rectitude of their own practice, and
fortified with strong resolves to resist all idea of change.
And indeed one cannot understand how the bent of any man’s
mind should be altered by the sayings and doings of such a congress.
‘Well, Johnson, what have you all been doing to-day? asked
Mr. Furnival of a special friend whom he chanced to meet at the
club which had, been extemporized at Birmingham.
‘We have had a paper read bv Von Bauhr. It lasted three
hours.’
VON BAUHR. 131
¢ Three hours! heavens! Von Bauhr is, I think, from Berlin,’
‘Yes; he and Dr. Slotacher. Slotacher is to read his paper the
day after to-morrow.’
‘ Then I think I shall go to London again. But what did Von
Bauhr say to you during those three hours ?”
“Of course it was all in German, and I don’t suppose that any
.one understood him,—unless it was Boanerges. ButI believe it was
the old story, going to show that the same man might be judge,
advocate, and jury.’
‘No doubt ;—if men were machines, and if you could find suoh
machines perfect at all points in their machinery.’
‘ And if the machines had no hearts ?”
‘Machines don’t have hearts,’ said Mr. Furnival; + especially
those in Germany. And what did Boanerges say? His answer
did not take three hours more, I hope.’
‘ About twenty minutes; but what he did say was lost on Von
Bauhr, who understands as much English as I do German. He
said that the practice of the Prussian courts had always been to him
a subject of intense interest, and that the general justice of their
verdicts could not be impugned.’
‘Nor ought it, seeing that a single trial for murder will occupy
a court for three weeks. He should have asked Von Bauhr how
much work he usually got through in the course of a sessions. I
don’t seem to have lost much by being away. By-the-by, do you
happen to know whether Round is here?”
‘ What, old Round? Isaw him in the hall to-day yawning as
though he would burst.” And then Mr. Furnival strolled off to look
for the attorney among the various purlieus frequented by the
learned strangers.
‘ Furnival,’ said another barrister, accosting him—an elderly man,
small, with sharp eyes and bushy eyebrows, dirty in his attire and
poor in his general appearance, ‘have you seen Judge Staveley”
This was Mr. Chaffanbrass, great at the Old Bailey, a man well able
to hold his own in spite of the meanness of his appearance. At
such a meeting as this the English bar generally could have had no
better representative than Mr. Chaffanbrass.
‘No; is he here?’
‘He must be here. He is the only man they could find who
knows enough Italian to understand what that fat fellow from
Florence will say to-morrow.’
‘ We're to have the Italian to-morrow, are we?’
‘Yes; and Staveley afterwards. It’s as goodas a play; only, like
all plays, it’s three times toolong. Iwonder whether anybody here
believes in it?”
* Yes, Felix Graham does.’
‘ He believes everything—unless it is the Bible. a is one’ of
K
182 ORLEY FARM,
those young men who look for an instant millennium, and who regard
themselves not only as the prophets who foretell it, but as the
preachers who will produce it. For myself, I am too old for a new
gospel, with Felix Graham as an apostle.’
‘ They say that Boanerges thinks a great deal of him.’
‘That can’t be true, for Boanerges never thought much of any
one but himself. Well, I’m off to bed, for I find a day here ten
times more fatiguing than the Old Bailey in July.’ c
On the whole the meeting was rather dull, as such meetings
usually are. It must not be supposed that any lawyer could get up
at will, as the spirit moved him, and utter his own ideas ; or that all
members of the congress could speak if only they could catch the
speaker’s eye. Had this been so, a man might have been sup-
ported by the hope of having some finger in the pie, sooner or
later. But in such case the congress would have lasted for ever,
As it was, the names of those who were invited to address the
meeting were arranged, and of course men from each country were
selected who were best known in their own special walks of their
profession. But then these best-known men took an unfair advan-
tage of their position, and were ruthless in the lengthy cruelty
of their addresses. Von Bauhr at Berlin was no doubt a great
lawyer, but he should not have felt so confident that the legal pro-
ceedings of England and of the civilized world in general could be
reformed by his reading that book of his from the rostrum in the
hall at Birmingham! The civilized world in general, as there
represented, had been disgusted, and it was surmised that poor
Dr. Slotacher would find but a meagre audierice when his turn came.
At last Mr. Furnival succeeded in hunting up Mr. Round, and
found him recruiting outraged nature with a glass of brandy and
water andacigar. ‘Looking for me, have you? Well, here I am;
that is to say, what is left of me. Were you in the hall to-day?’
“No; I was up in town.’ ;
‘ Ah! that accounts for your being so fresh. I wish I had been
there. Do you ever do anything in this way?” and Mr. Round
touched the outside of his glass of toddy with his spoon. Mr. Fur
nival said that he never did do anything in that way, which was
true. Port wine was his way, and it may be doubted whether on
tke whole it is not the more dangerous way of the two. But
Mr. Furnival, though he would not drink brandy and water or
stnoke cigars, sat down opposite to Mr. Round, and had soon
broached the subject which was on his mind.
‘Yes,’ said the attorney, ‘it is quite true that I had a letter on
the subject from Mr. Mason. The lady is not wrong in supposing
that some one is moving in the matter.’
‘ And your client wishes you to take up the case again ?”
‘No doubt he does He was not a man that I ever greatly liked,
VON BAUHR. 133
Mr. Furnival, though I believe he means well. He thinks that he
has been ill used; and perhaps he was ill used—by his father,’
« But that can bo no possible reason for badgering the life out.
of his father’s widow twenty years after his father’s death!’
« Of course he thinks that he has some new evidence. I can’t say
I looked into the matter much myself. I did read the letter; but
that was all, and then I handed it to my son. As far as I remem-
ber, Mr. Mason said that some attorney at Hamworth had been to
him.’
‘ Exactly ; a low fellow whom you would be ashamed to see in
your office! He fancies that young Mason has injured him; and
though he has received numberless benefits from Lady Mason, this
is the way in which he chooses to be revenged on her son.’
. ‘We should have nothing to do with such a matter as that, you
know. It’s not our line.’
‘No, of course it is not; Iam well aware of that. AndI am
equally well aware that nothing Mr. Mason can do can shake Lady
Mason’s title, or rather her son’s title, to the property. But, Mr.
Round, if he be encouraged to gratify his malice ;
‘If who be encouraged
‘Your client, Mr. Mason of Groby ;—there can be no doubt that
‘he might harass this unfortunate lady till he brought her nearly to
the grave.’
' ©That would be a pity, for I believe she’s still an uncommon
pretty woman.’ And the attorney indulged in a little fat inward
chuckle; for in these days Mr. Furnival’s taste with reference to
strange goddesses was beginning to be understood by the profession.
‘She is a very old friend of mine,’ said Mr. Furnival, gravely, ‘a
very old friend indeed; and if I were to desert her now, she would
have no one to whom she could look.’
‘Oh, ah, yes; I’m sure you're very kind ;’ and Mr. Round altered
his face and tone, so that they might be in conformity with those
of his companion. ‘Anything I can do, of course I shall be very
happy. Ishould be slow, myself, to advise my client to try the
‘matter again, but to tell the truth anything of this kind would go
to my son now. I did read Mr. Mason’s letter, but I immediately
handed it to Matthew.’
_ ‘I will tell you how you can oblige me, Mr. Round.’
' ¢Do tell me; I am sure I shall be very happy.’
‘Look into this matter yourself, and talk it over with Mr. Mason
before you allow anything to be done. It is not that I doubt your
son’s discretion. Indeed we all know what an exceedingly good
man of business he is.’
‘Matthew is sharp enough,’ said the prosperous father.
‘But then young men are apt to be too sharp. I don’t know
whether you remember the case about that Orley Farm, Mr. Round.’
1384 ORLEY FARM.
‘ As well as ifit were yesterday,’ said the attorney.
‘Then you must recollect how thoroughly you were convinced
that your client had not a leg to stand upon.’
“It was I that insisted that he should not carry it before the
Chancellor. Crook had the gencral management of those cases
then, and would have gone on ; but I said, no, I would not see my
client’s money wasted in such a wild-goose chase. In the first
place the property was not worth it; and i in the next place there
was nothing to impugn the will. If i remember right it all turned
on whether : an old man who had signed as witness was well enough
to write his name.’
‘ That was the point.’
‘ And I think it was shown that he had himself signed a receipt
on that very day—or the day after, or the day before. It was some-
thing of that kind.’
‘ Exactly ; those were the facts. As regards the result of a new
trial, no sane man, I fancy, could have any doubt. You Imow as
well as any one living how great is the strength of twenty years of
possession,
‘It would be very strong on her side, certainly.’
‘He would not have a chance; of course not. But, Mr. Round,
he might make that poor woman so wretched that death would be
avelief to her. Now it may be possible that something looking
like fresh evidence may have been discovered ; something of this
kind probably has been found, or this man would not be moving;
he would not have gone to the expense of a journey to Yorkshire
had he not got hold of some new story.’
‘He has something in his head; you may be sure of that.’
‘Don’t let your son be run away with by this, or advise your
client to incur the terrible expense of a new trial, without knowing
what you are about. I tell you fairly that I do dread such a trial
on this poor lady’s account. Reflect what it would be, Mr. Round,
to any lady of your own family.’
‘T don’t think Mrs. Round would mind it much; that is, if she
were sure of her case.’
‘She is a strong-minded woman; but poor Lady Mason ——.’
‘She was strong-minded enough too, if I remember right, at the
last trial. I shall never forget. how composed she was when old
Bennett tried to shake her evidence. Do you remember how
bothered he was?” 7
‘He was an excellent lawyer,—was Bonnett. There are few
better men at the bar now-a-days.’
‘You wouldn’t havefound him down here, Mr. Furnival, listening
to a German lecture three hours’ long. I don’t know how it is, but
I think we all used to work harder in those days than the young
men do now.’ And then these eulogists of past days went back to
VON BAUHR. 135
the memories of their youths, declaring how in the old glorious
years, now gone, no congress such as this would-have had a chance
of success. Men had men’s work tu do then, and were not wont
to play the fool, first at one provincial town and then at another, but
stuck to their oars and made their fortunes. ‘It seems to me,
Mr. Furnival,’ said Mr. Round, ‘that this is all child’s play, and to
tell the truth I am half ashamed of myself for being here.’
* And you'll look into that matter yourself, Mr. Round ?”
‘Yes, I will, certainly.’
‘I shall take it as a great favour. Of course you will advise
your client in accordance with any new facts which may be brought
before you; but as I feel certain that no case against young Mason
can have any merits, I do hope that you will be able to suggest to
Mr. Mason of Groby that the matter should be allowed to rest.’
And then Mr. Furnival took his leave, still thinking how far it might
be possible that the enemy’s side of the question might be supported
by real merits. Mr. Round was a good-natured old fellow, and if
the case could be inveigled out of his son’s hands and into his own,
it might be possible that even real merits should avail nothing.
‘I confess Iam getting rather tired of it,’ said Felix Graham
that evening to his friend young Staveley, as he stood outside his
bedroom door at the top of a narrow flight of stairs in the back part
of a large hotel at Birmingham.
‘Tired of it! I should think you are too.’
‘ But nevertheless I am as sure as ever that good will come from
it. Iam inclined to think that the same kind of thing must be
endured before any improvement is made in anything.’
‘That all reformers have to undergo Von Bauhr?”
‘Yes, all of them that do any good. Von Bauhr’s words were
very dry, no doubt.’
‘You don’t mean to say that you understood them ?”
‘Not many of them. A few here and there, for the first half
hour, came trembling home to my dull comprehension, and then—’
‘You went to sleep.’
‘The sounds became too difficult for my ears; but dry and dull
and hard as they were, they will not absolutely fall to the ground.
He had a meaning in them, and that meaning will reproduce itself
in some shape.’ .
‘Heaven forbid that it should ever do so in my presence! All
the iniquities of which the English bar may be guilty cannot be so
intolerable to. humanity as Von Bawhr.’
‘Well, good-night, old fellow; your governor is to give us his
ideas to-morrow, and perhaps he will be as bad to the Germans as
your Von Bauhr was to us.’
‘Then I can only say that my governor will be very cruel to the
Germans.” And so they two went to their dreams.
136 ORLEY FARM.
; In the mean tinie Von Bauhr was sitting alone looking back on
the past hours with ideas and views very different from those of the
zany English lawyers who were at that time discussing his
demerits. To him the day had been one long triumph, for his
voice had sounded sweet in his own ears as, period after period, he
‘had poured forth in full flowing language the gathered wisdom and
experience of his life. Public men in England have so much to do
that they cannot give time to the preparation of speeches for such
meetings as these, but Von Bauhr had been at work on his pamphlet
for months. Nay, taking it in the whole, had he not been at work
on it for years? And now a kind Providence had given him the
opportunity of pouring it forth before the assembled pundits
gathered from all the natious of the civilized world.
As he sat there, solitary in his bedroom, his hands dropped down
by his side, his pipe hung from his mouth on to his breast, and his
eyes, turned up to the ceiling, were lighted almost with inspiration.
Men there at the congress, Mr. Chaffanbrass, young Staveley, Felix
Graham, and others, had regarded him as an impersonation of dull-
ness; but through his mind and brain, as he sat there wrapped in
his old dressing-gown, there ran thoughts which seemed to lift him
lightly from the earth into an elysium of justice and mercy. And
at the end of this elysium, which was not wild in its beauty, but
trim and orderly in its gracefulness—as might be a beer-garden at
Munich—there stood among flowers and vases a pedestal, grand
above all other pedestals in that garden; and on this there was a
bust with an inscription :—‘ To Von Bauhr, who reformed the laws
of nations.’ ‘
It was a grand thought; and though there was in it much ‘of
human conceit, there was in it also much of human philanthropy.
ff a reign of justice could be restored through his efforts—through
those efforts in which on this hallowed day he had been cnabled'to
make so great a progress—how beautiful would it be! And then
as he sat there, while the smoke still curled from his unconscious
nostrils, he felt that he loved all Germans, all Englishmen, even
all Frenchmen, in his very heart of hearts, and especially those
who had travelled wearily to this English town that they might
listen to the results of his wisdom. He said to himself, and said
truly, that he loved the world, and that he would willingly spend
himself in these great endeavours for the amelioration of its laws
and the perfection of its judicial proceedings. And then he betook
himself to bed in a frame of mind that was not unenviable.
I am inclined, myself, to agree with Felix Graham that such
efforts are seldom absolutely wasted. A man who strives honestly
to do good will generally do geod, though seldom perhaps as much
as he has himself anticipated. Let Von Bauhr have his pedestal
aimorg the flowers, even though it be sia! and humble!
VON BAUHR’S DREAM.
CHAPTER XVIIL.
THE ENGLISH VON BAUHR.
On the following morning, before breakfast, Felix Graham and
Augustus Staveley prepared themselves for the labours of tho
coming day by a walk into the country; for even at Birmingham, by
perseverance, a walk into the country may be attained,—and very
pretty country it is when reached. These congress meetings did
not begin befure eleven, so that for those who were active time for
matutinal exercise was allowed.
Augustus Staveley was the only son of the judge who on that day
was to defend the laws of England from such attacks as might be
made on them by a very fat advocate from Florence. Of Judge
Staveley himself much need not be said now, except that he lived
at Noningsby near Alston, distant from The Cleeve about nine miles,
and that at his house Suphia Furnival had been invited to pass the
coming Christmas. Hisson was a handsome clever fellow, who had
nearly succeeded in getting the Newdegate, and was now a member
of the Middle Temple. He was destined to follow the steps of his
father, and become a light at the Common Law bar; but hitherto he
had not made much essential progress. The world lad been too
pleasant to him to allow of his giving many of his hours to work.
His father was one of the best men in the world, revered on the
bench, and loved by all men; but he had not sufficient parental
sternness to admit of his driving his son well into harness. Hoe
himself had begun the world with little or nothing, and had therefore
succeeded; but his son was already possessed of almost everything
that he could want, and therefore his success seemed doubtful. His
chambers were luxuriously furnished, he had his horse in Piccadilly,
his father’s house at Noningsby was always open to him, and the
society of London spread out for him all its allurements. Under
such circumstances how could it be expected that he should work?
Nevertheless he did talk of working, and had some idea in his head
of-the manner in which he would do so. To a certain extent he
had worked, and he could talk fluently of the little that he knew.
The idea of a far niente life would have beon intolerable to him;
but there wero many among his friends who began to think that
such a life would nevertheless be his ultimate destiny. Nor did
138 ORLEY FARM.
it much matter, they said, for the judge was known to have made
money.
But his friend Felix Graham was rowing in a very different
boat; and of him also many prophesied that he would hardly be
able to push his craft up against the strength of the stream. Not
that he was an idle man, but that he would not work at his oars in
the only approved method of making progress for his boat. He
also had been at Oxford; but he had done little there except talk at
a debating society, and make himself notorious by certain ideas on
religious subjects which were not popular at the University. He
had left without taking a degree, in consequence, as it was believed,
of some such notions, and had now been called to the bar with’a
fixed resolve to open that oyster with such weapons, offensive and
defensive, as nature had given to him. But here, as at Oxford, he
would not labour on the same terms with other men, or make
himself subject to the same conventional rules; and therefore it
seemed only too probable that he might win no prize. He had
ideas of his own that men should pursue their labours without
special conventional regulations, but should be guided in their work
by the general great rules of the world,—such for instance as those
given in the commandments :—Thou shalt not bear false witness;
Thou shalt not steal; and others. His notions no doubt were
great, and perhaps were good; but hitherto they had not led him
to much pecuniary success in his profession. A sort of a name he
had obtained, but it was not a name sweet in the ears of practising
attorneys. :
And yet it behoved Felix Graham to make money, for none was
coming to him ready made from any father. Father or mother he
had none, nor uncles and aunts likely to be of service to him. He
had begun the world with some small sum, which had grown smaller
and smaller, till now there was left to him hardly enough to create
an infinitesimal dividend. But he was not a man to become down-
hearted on that account.
‘Bless me, Mr. Staveley, how solemn you are.’
‘There are occasions in a man’s life when he is bound to be
solemn. You are going away from us, Miss Furnival_——’
‘One would think I was going to Jeddo, whereas Iam going to
Harley Street.’
‘And I may come and see you there!”
‘Of course you may if you like it. According to the usages of
the world you would be reckoned very uncivil if you did not. For
myself Ido not much care about such usages, and therefore if you
omit it I will forgive you.’
‘Very well; then I will say good-night,—and good-bye.’ These
last words he uttered in a strain which should have melted her
heart, and as he. took leave of her he squeezed her hand with an
affection that was almost painful.
It may be remarked that if Augustus Staveley was quite in earnest
with Sophia Furnival, he would have asked her that all-important
question in a straightforward manner as Peregrine Orme had asked it
of Madeline. Perhaps Miss Furnival was aware of this, and, being so
aware, considered that a serious half-hour before breakfast might not
as yet be safe. If he were really in love he would find his way to
Harley Street. On the whole I am inclined to think that Miss ©
Furnival did understand her business.
On the following morning Miss Furnival went her way without
any further scenes of tenderness, and Lady Staveley was thoroughly
glad that she was gone. ‘A nasty, sly thing,’ sho said to Baker.
‘Sly enough, my lady,’ said Baker; ‘but our Mr. Augustus will be
one too many for her. Deary me, to think of her having the
imperance to: think of him.’ In all which Miss Furnival was I
think somewhat ill used. If young gentlemen, such as Augustus
Staveley, are allowed to amuse themselves with young ladies, surely
young ladies such as Miss Furnival should be allowed to play their
own cards accordingly.
On that day, early in the morning, Felix Graham sought and
obtained an interview with his host in the judge’s own study. ‘I
have come about two things,’ he said, taking the easy chair to which
he was invited.
‘Two or ten, I shall be very happy,’ said the judge cheerily.
*T will take business first,’ said Graham.
‘And then pleasure will be the sweeter afterwards,’ said the
judge.
SHOWING HOW THINGS WENT ON AT NONINGSBY. Yo
‘I have been thinking a great deal about this case of Lady
Mason’s, and I have read all the papers, old and new, which Mr.
Furnival has sent me. I cannot bring myself to suppose it possible
that she can have been guilty of any fraud or deception.’
‘I believe her to be free from all guilt in the matter—as I told
you before. But then of course you will take that as a private
opinion, not as one legally formed. I have never gone into the
matter as you have done.’
‘I confess that Ido not like having dealings with Mr. Chafian-
brass and Mr. Aram.’
‘Mr. Chaffanbrass and Mr. Aram may not be so bad as you, per-
haps in ignorance, suppose them to be. Does it not occur to you
that we should be very badly off without such men as Chaffanbrass
and Aram ?”
‘So we should without chimney-sweepers and scavengers.’
‘Graham, my dear fellow, judge not that you be not judged. I
am older than you, and have seen more of these men. Believe me
that as you grow older and also see more of them, your opinion
will be more lenient,—and more just. Do not be angry with me
for taking this liberty with you.’
‘My dear judge, if you knew how I value it ;—how I should
value any mark of such kindness that you can show me! However
I have decided that I will know something more of these gentlemen
at once. If Ihave your approbation I will let Mr. Furnival know
that I will undertake the case.’
The judge signified his approbation, and thus the first of those
two matters was soon settled between them.
‘ And now for the pleasure,’ said the judge.
‘I don’t know much about pleasure,’ said Graham, fidgeting in
his chair, rather uneasily. ‘I’m afraid there is not much pleasure
for either of us, or for anybody else, in what I’m going to say.’
‘Then there is so much more reason for having it said quickly.
Unpleasant things should always be got over without delay.’
‘Nothing on earth can exceed Lady Staveley’ s kindness to me,
and yours, and that of the whole family since my unfortunate
accident.’
‘ Don’t think of it. It has been nothing. We like you, but we
should have done as much as that even if we had not.’
‘And now I’m’ going to tell you that I have fallen in love with
your daughter Madeline.’ As the judge wished to have the tale
told quickly, I think he had reason to be satisfied with the very
succinct terms used by Felix Graham.
‘Indeed!’ said the judge.
‘ And that was the reason why I wished to go away at the carliest
possible time—and still wish it.’
‘You are right there, Mr. Graham. I must say you are right
96 ORLEY FARM.
there. Under all the circumstances of the case I think you were
right to wish to leave us.’
‘And therefore I shall go the first thing to-morrow morning ’—in
saying which last words poor Felix could not refrain from showing
a certain unevenness of temper, and some disappointment.
‘Gently, gently, Mr. Graham. Let us have a few more words
before we accede to the necessity of anything so sudden. Have you
spoken to Madeline on this subject ”
‘Not a word.’
‘And I may presume that you do not intend to do so.’
For a moment or so Felix Graham sat without speaking, and then,
getting up from his chair, he walked twice the length of the room.
‘Upon my word, judge, I will not answer for myself if I remain
here,’ he said at last.
A softer-hearted man than Judge Staveley, or one who could
make himself more happy in making others happy, never sat on the
English bench. Was not this a gallant young fellow before him,—
gallant and clever, of good honest principles, and a true manly
heart? Was he not a gentleman by birth, education, and tastes?
What more should a man want for a son-in-law? And then his
daughter had had the wit to love this man so endowed. It was
almost on his tongue to tell Graham that he might go and seek the
girl and plead his own cause to her.
But bread is bread, and butcher’s bills are bills!’ The man and
the father, and the successful possessor of some thousands a year,
was too strong at last for the soft-hearted philanthropist. There-
fore, having collected his thoughts, he thus expressed himself upon
the occasion :—
‘Mr. Graham, I think you have behaved very well in this matter,
and it is exactly what I should have expected from you.’ The
judge at the time knew nothing about Mary Snow. ‘As regards
yourself personally I should be proud to own you as my son-in-law,
but I am of course bound to regard the welfare of my daughter.
Your means I fear are but small.’
‘Very small indeed,’ said Graham.
‘ And though you have all those gifts which should bring you on
in your profession, you have learned to entertain ideas, which
hitherto have barred you from success. Now I tell you what you
shall do. Remain here two or three days longer, fill you are fit to
travel, and abstain from saying anything to my daughter. Come to
me again in three months, if you still hold the same mind, and I
will pledge myself to tell you then whether or no you have my
leave to address my child as a suitor.’
Felix Graham silently took the judge’s hand, feeling that a strong
hope had been given to him, and so the interview was ended.
ia ~~ ior
r Ben iy
Bae x |
2 . SS
- wv Me oly 4, 1
Lady Mason going before the Magistrates.
CHAPTER XITl.
LADY MASON RETURNS HOME.
Lapy Mason remained at The Cleeve for something more than a
week’ after that’ day on which she’ made her confession, during
which time she was fully committed to take her trial at the next
assizes at Alston on an indictment for perjury. This was done in a
manner that astonished even herself by the absence of all publicity
or outward scandal. The matter was arranged between Mr.
Matthew Round and Mr. Solomon Aram, and was so arranged in
aecordance with Mr. Furnival’s wishes. Mr. Furnival wrote to
say that at such atime he would call at The Cleeve with a post-
chaise. This he did, and took Lady Mason with him before two
magistrates ‘for the county who were sitting at Doddinghurst, a
village five miles distant from Sir’ Peregrine’s house. Here by
agreement they were met by Lucius Mason who was to act as one
of the bailsmen for his mother’s appearance at the trial. Sir Pere-
gtine was the other; but it was brought about by amicable manage-
ment between the lawyers that his appearance before the magistrates
was not required.: There were also there the two attorneys, Bridget
Bolster the witness, one Torrington from London who brought
with him the absolute deed executed on that‘14th of July with
reference to the then dissolved partnership of Mason and Martock ;
and there was Mr. Samuel ‘Dockwrath. I must not forget to say
that there was also a reporter for the press, poem by the’ special
care of the latter-named gentleman.
The arrival in the village of four different eahiolia? and the sight
of such gentlemen as Mr. Furnival, Mr. Round, and Mr. Aram,
of course aroused some excitement dherse but this feeling was kept
down as much as possible, and Lady’ Mason was very quickly
allowed to return to the carriage. Mr. Dockwrath made one or
two attempts to get up a scene, and’ to rouse a feeling of public
anger against the lady who was to be tried; but the magistrates
put him down. They also seemed to be fully impressed with a
sense of Lady Mason’s innocence in the teeth of the evidence which
was given against her. This was the general feeling on the minds
of all people,—except of those who knew most about it. There was
an idea that affairs had so been managed by Mr. Joseph Mason and
Mr. Dockwrath that another trial was necessary, but that the un-
VOL. II. q
98 ORLEY FARM.
fortunate victim of Mr. Mason’s cupidity and Mr. Dockwrath’s
malice would be washed white as snow when the day of that trial
came. The chief performers on the present occasion were Round
and Aram, and a stranger to such proceedings would have said
that they were acting in concert. Mr. Round pressed for the indict-
ment, and brought forward in a very short way the evidence of
Bolster and Torrington. Mr. Aram said that his client was advised
to reserve her defence, and was prepared with bail to any amount.
Mr. Round advised the magistrates that reasonable bail should be
taken, and then the matter was settled. Mr. Furnival sat on a
chair close to the elder of those two gentlemen, and whispered a
word to him now and then. Lady Mason was provided with an
arm-chair close to Mr. Furnival’s right hand, and close to her right
hand stood her son. Her face was covered by a deep veil, and she
was not called upon during the whole proceeding to utter one
audible word. A single question was put to her by the presiding
magistrate before the committal was signed, and it was understood
that some answer was made to it; but this answer reached the ears
of those in the room by means of Mr. Furnival’s voice.
It was observed by most of those there that during the whole of
the sitting Lady Mason held her son’s hand; but it was observed also
that though Lucius permitted this he did not seem to return the
pressure. He stood there during the entire proceedings without
motion or speech, looking very stern. He signed the bail-bond,
but even that he did without saying a word. Mr. Dockwrath
demanded that Lady Mason should be kept in custody till the bond
should also have been signed by Sir Peregrine; but upon this
Mr. Round remarked that he believed Mr. Joseph Mason had
intrusted to him the conduct of the case, and the elder magistrate
desired Mr. Dockwrath to abstain from further interference. ‘All
right,’ said he to a person standing close to him. ‘But I’ll be too
many for them yet, as you will see when she is brought before a
judge and jury.’ And then Lady Mason stood committed to take
her trial at the next Alston assizes.
When Lucius had come forward to hand her from the post-chaise
in which she arrived Lady Mason had kissed him, but this was all
the intercourse that then passed between the mother and son.
Mr. Furnival, however, informed him that his mother would return
to Orley Farm on the next day but one.
‘She thinks it better that she should be at home from this time
to the day of the trial,’ said Mr. Furnival; ‘and on the whole Sir
Peregrine is inclined to agree with her.’
‘T have thought so all through,’ said Lucius.
‘But you are to understand that there is no disagreement between
your mother and the family at The Cleeve. The idea of the
matriage has, as I think very properly, been laid aside.’
LADY MASON RETURNS HOME. 99
“Of course it was proper that it should be laid aside.’
‘Yes; but I must beg you to understand that there has been no
quarrel. Indeed you will, I have no doubt, perceive that, as
Mrs. Orme has assured me that she will see your mother constantly
till the time comes.’
‘She is very kind,’ said Lucius. But it was evident from the
tone of his voice that he would have preferred that all the Ormes
should have remained away. In his mind this time of suffering to
his mother and to him was a period of trial and probation,—a
period, if not of actual disgrace, yet of disgrace before the world ;
and he thought that it would have best become his mother to have
abstained from all friendship out of her own family, and even from
all expressed sympathy, till she had vindicated her own purity and
innocence. And as he thought of this he declared to himself that
he would have sacrificed everything to her comfort and assistance
if she would only have permitted it. He would have loved her,
and been tender to her, receiving on his own shoulders all those
blows which now fell so hardly upon hers. Every word should
have been a word of kindness; every look should have been soft
and full of affection. He would have treated her not only with
all the love which a son could show to a mother, but with all the
respect and sympathy which a gentleman could feel for a lady in
distress. But then, in order that such a state of things as this
should have existed, it would have been necessary that she should
have trusted him. She should have leaned upon him, and,—though
he did not exactly say so in talking over the matter with himself,
still he thought it,—on him and on himonly. Butshe had declined
to lean upon him at all. She had gone away to strangers,—she,
who should hardly have spoken to a stranger during these sad
months! She would not have his care; and under those circum-
stances he could only stand aloof, hold up his head, and look
sternly. As for her innocence, that was a matter of course. He
knew that she was innocent. He wanted no one to tell him that
his own mother was not a thief, a forger, a castaway among the
world’s worst wretches. He thanked no one for such an assurance.
Every honest man must sympathize with a woman so injured.
It would be a necessity of his manhood and of his honesty! But
he would have valued most a sympathy which would have abstained
from all expression till after that trial should be over. It should
have been for him to act and for him to speak during this terrible
period. But his mother who was a free agent had willed it other.
wise.
And there had been one other scene. Mr. Furnival had intro-
duced Lady Mason to Mr. Solomon Aram, having explained to her
that it would be indispensable that Mr. Aram should see her, pro-
bably once or twice before the trial came on.
u2
100 ORLEY FARM.
‘ But cannot it be done through you” said Lady Mason. ‘Though
of course I should not expect that you can so sacrifice your valuable
time.’
‘Pray believe me that that is not the consideration,’ said Mr.
Fumival. ‘We have engaged the services of Mr. Aram because
he is supposed to understand difficulties of this sort better than any
other man in the profession, and his chance of rescuing you from
this trouble will be much better if you can bring yourself to have
confidence in him—full confidence.’ And Mr. Furnival looked
into her face as he spoke with an expression of countenance that
was very eloquent. ‘You must not suppose that I shall not do all
in my power. In my proper capacity I shall be acting for you
with all the energy that I can use; but the case has now assumed
an aspect which requires that it should be in an attorney’s hands.’
And then Mr. Furnival introduced her to Mr. Solomon Aram.
Mr. Solomon Aram was not, in outward appearance, such a man
as Lady Mason, Sir Peregrine Orme, or others quite ignorant in
such matters would have expected. He was not a dirty old Jew
with a hooked nose and an imperfect pronunciation of English
consonants. Mr. Chaffanbrass, the barrister, bore more resemblance ,
to a Jew of that ancient type. Mr. Solomon Aram was a good-
looking man about forty, perhaps rather over-dressed, but bearmg
about him no other sign of vulgarity. Nor at first sight would it
probably have been discerned. that he was of the Hebrew per-
suasion. He had black hair and a well-formed face; but his eyes
were closer than is common with most of us, and his nose seemed to
be somewhat swollen about the bridge. When one knew that he was
a Jew one saw that he was a Jew; but.in the absence of such
previous knowledge he might have been taken for as good a Chris-
tian as any other attorney.
Mr. Aram raised his hat and bowed as Mr. Furnival performed
the ceremony of introduction. This was done while she was still
seated in the carriage, and as Lucius was waiting at the door to
hand her down into the house where the magistrates were sitting.
‘I am delighted to have the honour of making your acquaintance,’
said Mr. Aram. :
Lady Mason essayed to mutter some word; but no word was
audible, nor was any necessary. ‘I have no doubt,’ continued the
attorney, ‘that we shall pull through this little difficulty without
any ultimate damage whatsoever. In the mean time it is of course
disagreeable to a lady of your distinction.” And then he made
another bow. ‘ We are peculiarly happy in having such a tower
of strength as Mr. Furnival,’ and then he bowed to the barrister.
And my old friend Mr. Chaffanbrass is another tower of strength.
Eh, Mr. Furnival? And so the introduction was over.
Lady Mason had quite understood Mr. Furnival;—had under-
LADY MASON RETURNS HOME. 101
stood both his words and his face, when he told her how indis-
pensable it was that she should have full confidence in this attorney.
He had meant that she should tell him all. She must bring herself
to confess everything to this absolute stranger. And then—for the
first time—she felt sure that Mr. Furnival had guessed her secret.
He also knew it, but it would not suit him that any one should
know that he knew it! Alas, alas! would it not be better that all
the world should know it and that there might be an end? Had
not her doom been told to her? Even if the paraphernalia of
justice,—the judge, and the jury, and the lawyers, could be induced
to declare her innocent before all men, must she not confess her
guilt to him,—to that one,—for whose verdict alone she cared?
If he knew her to be guilty what matter who might think her
innocent? And she had been told that all must be declared to
him. That property was his,—but his only through her guilt; and
that property must be restored to its owner! So much Sir Pere-
grine Orme had declared to be indispensable,—Sir Peregrine Orme,
who in other matters concerning this case was now dark enough
in his judgment. On that point, however, there need be no dark-
ness. Though the heaven should fall on her devoted head, that
tardy justice must be done!
When this piece of business had been completed at Doddinghurst,
Lady Mason returned to The Cleeve, whither Mr. Furnival accom-
panied her. He had offered his seat in the post-chaise to Lucius,
but the young man had declared that he was unwilling to go to The
Cleeve, and consequently there was no opportunity for conversation |
between Lady Mason and her son. On her arrival she went at once
to her room, and there she continued to live as she had done for the
last few days till the morning of her departure came. To Mrs.
Orme she told all that had occurred, as Mr. Furnival did also to
Sir Peregrine. On that occasion Sir Peregrine said very little to
the barrister, merely bowing his head courteously as each different
point was explained, in intimation of his having heard and under-
stood what was said to him. Mr. Furnival could not but see that
his manner was entirely altered. There was no enthusiasm now,
no violence of invective against that wretch at Groby Park, no
positive assurance that his guest’s innocence must come out at the
trial bright as the day! He showed no inclination to desert Lady
Mason’s cause, and indeed insisted on hearing the particulars of all
that had been done; but he said very little, and those few words
adverted to the terrible sadness of the subject. He seemed too to
be older than he had been, and less firm in his gait. That terrible
sadness had already told greatly upon him. Those about him had
observed that he had not once crossed the threshold of his hall door
since the morning on which Lady Mason had taken to her own
room.
102 ORLEY FARM.
‘ He has altered his mind,’ said the lawyer to himself as he was
driven back to the Hamworth station. ‘ He also now believes her
to be guilty.’ As to his own belief, Mr. Furnival held no argument
within his own breast, but we may say that he was no longer per-
plexed by much doubt upon the matter.
And then the morning came for Lady Mason’s departure. Sir
Peregrine had not seen her since she had left him in the library
after her confession, although, as may be remembered, he had
undertaken to do so. But he had not then known how Mrs. Orme
might act when she heard the story. As matters had turned out
Mrs. Orme had taken upon herself the care of their guest, and all
intercourse ‘between Lady Mason and Sir Peregrine had passed
through his daughter-in-law. But now, on this morning, he
declared that he would go to her upstairs in Mrs. Orme’s room, and
himself hand her down through the hall into the carriage. Against
this Lady Mason had expostulated, but in vain.
“Tt will be better so, dear,’ Mrs. Orme had said. ‘It will teach
the servants and people to think that he still respects and esteems
you.’ 2
‘ But he does not!’ said she, speaking almost sharply. ‘ How
would it be possible? Ah, me—respect and esteem are gone from
me for ever!’
‘No, not for ever,’ replied Mrs. Orme. ‘ You have much to bear,
but no evil lasts for ever.’
‘Will not sin last for ever ;—sin such as mine ?”
‘ Not if you repent ;—repent and make such restitution as is
possible. Lady Mason, say that you have repented. Tell me that
you have asked Him to pardon you!’ And then, as had been so
often the case during these last days, Lady Mason sat silent, wth
hard, fixed eyes, with her hands clasped, and her lips compressed.
Never as yet had Mrs. Orme induced her to say that she had asked
for pardon at the cost of telling her son that the property which
he called his own had been procured for him by his mother’s
fraud. That punishment, and that only, was too heavy for her
neck to bear. Her acquittal in the law court would be as nothing
‘to her if it must be followed by an avowal of her guilt to her
- own son!
Sir Peregrine did come upstairs and handed her down through
the hall as he had proposed. When he came into the room she did
not look at him, but stood leaning against the table, with her eyes
fixed upon the ground.
‘I hope you find yourself better,’ he said, as he put out his hand
to her. She did not even attempt to make a reply, but allowed him
just to touch her fingers.
‘ Perhaps I had better not come down,’ said Mrs. Orme. ‘It will
be easior to say good-bye hero.’
LADY MASON RETURNS HOME. 103
‘ Good-bye,’ said Lady Mason, and her voice sounded in Sir
Peregrine’s ears like a voice from the dead.
‘God bless you and preserve you,’ said Mrs. Orme, ‘and restore
you to your son. God will bless you if you will ask Him. No;
you shall not go without a kiss.’ And she put out her arms that
Lady Mason might come to her.
The poor broken wretch stood for a moment as though trying to
determine what she would do; and then, almost with a shriek, she
threw herself on to the bosom of the other woman, and burst into a
flood of tears. She had intended to abstain from that embrace ; she
had resolved that she would do so, declaring to herself that she was
not fit to be held against that pure heart ; but the tenderness of the
offer had overcome her, and now she pressed her friend convulsively
in her arms, as though there might yet be comfort for her as long
as she could remain close to one who was so good to her.
‘I shall come and see you very often,’ said Mrs, Orme,—‘ almost
daily.’
: No, no, no,’ exclaimed the other, hardly knowing the meaning
of her own words.
“But I shall. My father is waiting now, dear, and you had
better go.’
Sir Peregrine had turned to the window, where he stood shading
his eyes with his hand. When he heard his daughter-in-law’s last
words he again came forward, and offered Lady Mason his arm.
‘ Edith is right,’ he said. ‘You had better go now. When you
are at home you will be more composed.’ And then he led her
forth, and down the stairs, and across the hall, and with infinite
courtesy put her into the carriage. It was a moment dreadful to
Lady Mason; but to Sir Peregrine, also, it was not pleasant. The
servants were standing round, officiously offering their aid,—those
very servants who had been told about ten days since that this lady
was to become their master’s wife and their mistress. They had
been told so with no injunction as to secrecy, and the tidings had
gone quickly through the whole country. Now it was known that
the match was broken off, that the lady had been living upstairs
secluded for the last week, and that she was to leave the house this
morming, having been committed during the last day or two to stand
her trial at the assizes for some terrible offence! He succeeded in
his task. He handed her into the carriage, and then walked back
through his own servants to the library without betraying to them
the depth of his sorrow; but he knew that the last task had been
too heavy for him. When it was done he shut himself up and sat
there for hours without moving. He also declared to himself that
the world was too hard for him, and that it would be well for him
that he should die. Never till now had he come into close contact
with crime, and now the criminal was one whom as a woman he
104 ORLEY FARM.
had learned to love, and whom he had proposed to the world as his
wife! The criminal was one who had declared her crime in order
to protect him, and whom therefore he was still bound in honour to
protect!
When Lady Mason arrived at Orley Farm her son was waiting at
the door to receive her. It should have been said that during the
last two days,—that is ever since the committal,—Mrs. Orme had
urged upon her very strongly that it would be well for her to tell
everything to her son. ‘What! now, at once?’ the poor woman
had said. ‘Yes, dear, at once,’ Mrs. Orme had answered. ‘He
will forgive you, for I know he is good. He will forgive you, and
then the worst of your sorrow will be over.’ But towards doing
this Lady Mason had made no progress even in her mind. In the
violence of her own resolution she had brought herself to tell her
guilt to Sir Peregrine. That effort had nearly destroyed her, and
now she knew that she could not frame the words which should
declare the truth to Lucius. What; tell him that tale; whereas
her whole life had been spent in an effort to conceal it from him?
No. She knew that she could not doit. But the idea of doing so
made her tremble at the prospect of meeting him.
‘I am very glad you have come home, mother,’ said Lucius, as
he received her. ‘ Believe me that for the present this will be the
best place for both of us,’ and then he led her into the house.
‘ Dear Lucius, it would always be best for me to be with you, if
it were possible.’
He did not accuse her of hypocrisy in saying this; but he could
not but think that had she really thought and felt as she now spoke
nothing need have prevented her remaining with him. Had not
his house ever been open to her? Had he not been willing to
make her defence the first object of his life? Had he not longed to
prove himself a good son? But she had gone from him directly
that troubles came upon her, and now she said that she would fain
be with him always—if it were possible! Where had been the
impediment? In what way had it been not possible? He thought
of this with bitterness as he followed her into the house, but he said
not a word of it. He had resolved that he would be a pattern son,
and even now he would not rebuke her.
She had lived in this house for some four-and-twenty years, but it
seemed to her in no way like her home. Was it not the property
of her enemy, Joseph Mason? and did she not know that it must
go back into that enemy’s hands? How then could it be to her
like ahome? The room in which her bed was laid was that very
room in which her sin had been committed? There in the silent
hours of the night, while the old man lay near his death in the adjoin-
ing chamber, had she with infinite care and much slow preparation
done that deed, to undo which, were it possible, she would now give
LADY MASON RETURNS HOME. 105
away her existence,—ay, her very body and soul. And yet for
years she had slept in that room, if not happily at least tranquilly.
Tt was matter of wonder to her now, as she looked back at her past
life, that her guilt had sat so lightly on her shoulders. The black
unwelcome guest, the spectre of coming evil, had ever been present
to her; but she had seen it indistinctly, and now and then the
power had been hers to close her eyes. Never again could she
close them. Nearer to her, and still nearer, the spectre came; and
now it sat upon her pillow, and put its claw upon her plate; it
pressed upon her bosom with its fiendish strength, telling her that |
all was over for her in this world ;—ay, and telling her worse even
than that. Her return to her old home brought with it but little
comfort.
And yet she was forced to make an effort at seeming glad that
she had come there,—a terrible effort! He, her son, was not gay
or disposed to receive from her a show of happiness; but he did
think that she should compose herself and be tranquil, and that she
should resume the ordinary duties of her life in her ordinarily quiet
way. In all this she was obliged to conform herself to his wishes,
—or to attempt so to conform herself, though her heart should
break in the struggle. If he did but know it all, then he would
suffer her to be quiet,—suffer her to lie motionless in her misery!
Once or twice she almost said to herself that she would make the
effort ; but then she thought of him and his suffering, of his pride,
of ‘the respect which he claimed from all the world as the honest
son of an honest mother, of his stubborn will and stiff neck, which
would not bend, but would break beneath the blow. She had done
all for him,—to raise him in the world; and now she could not
oring herself to undo the work that had cost her so dearly !
That evening she went through the ceremony of dinner with him,
and he was punctilious in waiting upon her as though bread and
meat could comfort her or wine could warm her heart. There was
no warmth for her in all the vintages of thé south, no comfort
though gods should bring to her their banquets. She was heavy
jaden,—laden to the breaking of her back, and did not know where
to lay her burden down.
‘Mother,’ he said to her that night, lifting his head from the
books over which he had been poring, ‘ There must be a few words
between us about this affair. They might as well be spoken now.’
‘Yes, Lucius ; of course—if you desire it.’
‘There can be no doubt now that this trial will take place.’
“No doubt;’ she said. ‘There can be no doubt.’
“Is it your wish that I should take any part in it?
She remained silent for some moments before she answered him,
thinking,—striving to think, how best she might do him pleasure,
‘What part she said at last.
106 ORLEY FARM,
‘A man’s part, and ason’s part. Shall I see these lawyers and
Jearn from them what they are at? Have I your leave to tell them that
you wamt no subterfuge, no legal quibbles,—that you stand firmly
on your own clear innocence, and that you defy your enemies to
sully it? Mother, those who have sent you to such men as that
cunning attorney have sent you wrong,—have counselled you
wrong.’
«It cannot be changed now, Lucius.’
«It can be changed, if you will tell me to change it.’
And then again she paused. Ah, think of her anguish as she
sought for words to answer him! ‘No, Lucius,’ she said, ‘it
cannot be changed now.’
‘So be it, mother; I will not ask again,’ and then he moodily
returned to his books, while she returned to her thoughts. Ah,
think of her misery!
CHAPTER XIV.
TELLING ALL THAT HAPPENED BENEATH THE LAMP-POST.
Waen Felix Graham left Noningsby and made his way up to
London, he came at least to one resolution which he intended to be
an abiding one. That idea of a marriage with a moulded wife
should at any rate be abandoned. Whether it might be his great
destiny to be the husband of Madeline Staveley, or whether he
might fail in achieving this purpose, he declared to himself that
it would be impossible that he should ever now become the husband
of Mary Snow. And the ease with which his conscience settled
itself on this matter as soon as he had received from the judge that
gleam of hope astonished even himself. He immediately declared
to himself that he could not marry Mary Snow without perjury!
How could he stand with her before the altar and swear that he
would love her, seeing that he did not love her at all,—seeing that
he altogether loved some one else? He acknowledged that he had
made an ass of himself in this affair of Mary Snow. This moulding
of a wife had failed with him, he said, as it always must fail with
every man. But he would not carry his folly further. He would
go to Mary Snow, tell her the truth, and then bear whatever injury
her angry father might be able to inflict on him. Independently
of that angry father he would of course do for Mary Snow all that
his circumstances would admit.
Perhaps the gentleman of a poetic turn of mind whom Mary had
consented to meet beneath the lamp-post might assist him in his
views; but whether this might be so or not, he would not throw
TELLING ALL THAT HAPPENED BENEATH THE LAMP-POsT, 107
that meeting ungenerously in her teeth. He would not have
allowed that offence to turn him from his proposed marriage had
there been nothing else to turn him, and therefore he would not
plead that offence as the excuse for his broken troth. That the
breaking of that troth would not deeply wound poor Mary’s heart—
so much he did permit himself to believe on the evidence of that
lamp-post.
He had written to Mrs. Thomas telling her when he would be
at Peckham, but in his letter he had not said a word as to those
terrible tidings which she had communicated to him, He had
written also to Mary, assuring her that he accused her of no injury
against him, and almost promising her forgiveness; but this letter
Mary had not shown to Mrs. Thomas. In these days Mary’s anger
against Mrs. Thomas was very strong. That Mrs. Thomas should
have used all her vigilance to detect such goings on as those of the
lamp-post was only natural. What woman in Mrs. Thomas’s posi-
tion,—or in any other position,—would not have done so? Mary
Snow knew that had she herself been the duenna she would have
left no corner of a box unturned but she would have found those
letters. And having found them she would have used her power
over the poor girl. She knew that. But she would not have
betrayed her to the man. Truth between woman and woman
should have prevented that. Were not the stockings which she
had darned for Mrs. Thomas legion in number? Had she not con-
sented to eat the veriest scraps of food in order that those three
brats might be fed into sleekness to satisfy their mother’s eyes?
Had she not reported well of Mrs. Thomas to her lord, though that
house of Peckham was nauseous to her? Had she ever told to
Mr. Graham any one of those little tricks which were carried on
to allure him into a belief that things at Peckham were prosperous ?
Had she ever exposed the borrowing of those teacups when he
came, and the fact that those knobs of white sugar were kept
expressly on his behoof? No; she would have scorned to betray
any woman; and that woman whom she had not betrayed should
have shown the same feeling towards her. Therefore there was
enmity at Peckham, and the stockings of those infants lay un-
mended in the basket.
‘Mary, I have done it all for the best,’ said Mrs. Thomas, driven
to defend herself by the obdurate silence of her pupil.
‘No, Mrs. Thomas, you didn’t. You did it for the worst,’ said
Mary. And then there was again silence between them.
Jé was on the morning following this that Felix Graham was
driven to the door in a cab. He still carried his arm in a sling,
and was obliged to be somewhat slow in his movements, but other-
wise he was again well. His accident however was so far a god-
send to both the women at Peckham that it gave them a subject on
108 ORLEY FARM.
which they were called upon to speak, before that other subject
was introduced. Mary was very tender in her inquiries,—but
tender in a bashful retiring way. To look at her one would have
said that she was afraid to touch the wounded man lest he should
be again broken.
‘Oh, T’m all right,’ said he, trying to assume a look of good-
humour. ‘I sha’n’t go hunting again in a hurry; you may be
sure of that.’
‘We have all great reason to be thankful that Providence inter-
posed to save you,’ said Mrs. Thomas, in her most serious tone.
Had Providence interposed to break Mrs. Thomas’s collar-bone,
or at least to do her some serious outward injury, what a comfort
it would be, thought Mary Snow.
“Have you seen your father lately ” asked Graham.
‘Not since I wrote to you about the money that he—borrowed,’
said Mary.
‘I told her that she should not have given it to him,’ said Mrs.
Thomas.
‘She was quite right,’ said Graham. ‘Who could refuse assist-
ance to a father in distress?) Whereupon Mary put her hand-
kerchief up to her eyes and began to cry.
‘That’s true of course,’ said Mrs. Thomas; ‘ but it would never
do that he should be a drain in that way. He should feel that if he
had any feeling.’
‘So he has,’ said Mary. ‘And you are driven close enough your-
self sometimes, Mrs. Thomas. There’s days when you'd like to
borrow nineteen and sixpence if anybody would lend it you.’
‘Very well,’ said Mrs. Thomas, crossing her hands over each
other in her lap and assuming a look of resignation; ‘I suppose
all this will be changed now. I have endeavoured to do my duty,
and very hard it has been.’
Felix felt that the sooner he rushed into the middle of the sub-
ject which brought him there, the better it would be for all parties.
That the two ladies were not very happy together was evident, and
then he made a little comparison between Madeline and Mary.
Was it really the case that for the last three years he had con-
templated making that poor child his wife? Would it not be
better for him to tie a millstone round his neck and cast himself
into the sea? That was now his thought respecting Mary Snow.
‘Mrs, Thomas,’ he said, ‘I should like to speak to Mary alone
for a few minutes if you could allow it.’
‘Oh certainly; by all means. It will be quite proper.” And
gathering up a bundle of the unfortunate stockings she took herself
out of the room.
Mary, as soon as Graham had spoken, became almost pale, and
sat perfectly still with her eyes fixed on her betrothed husband.
TELLING ALL THAT HAPPENED BENEATH THE LAMP-POST. 109
While Mrs. Thomas was there she was prepared for war and her
spirit was hot within her, but all that heat fled in a moment when
she found herself alone with the man to whom it belonged to speak
her doom. He had almost said that he would forgive her, but
yet she had a feeling that that had been done which could not
altogether be forgiven. If he asked her whether she loved the
hero of the lamp-post what would she say? Had he asked her
‘whether she loved him, Felix Graham, she would have sworn that
she did, and have thought that she was swearing truly; but in
answer to that other question if it were asked, she felt that her
answer must be false. She had no idea of giving up Felix of her
own accord, if he were still willing to take her. She did not even
wish that he would not take her. It had been the lesson of her
life that she was to be his wife, and, by becoming so, provide for
herself and for her wretched father. Nevertheless a dream of
something different from that had come across her young heart,
and the dream had been so pleasant! How painfully, but yet with
what a rapture, had her heart palpitated as she stood for those ten
wicked minutes beneath the lamp-post!
‘Mary,’ said Felix, as soon as they were alone,—and as he spoke
he came up to her and took her hand, ‘I trust that I may never
be the cause to you of any unhappiness ;—that I may never be the
means of making you sad.”
‘Oh, Mr. Graham, I am «sure that you never will. It is I that
have been bad to you.’
‘No, Mary, Ido not think you have been bad at all. I should
have been sorry that that had happened, and that I should not
havo known it.’
‘I suppose she was right to tell, only ? In truth Mary did
not atall understand what might be the nature of Graham’s thoughts
and feelings on such a subject. She had a strong woman’s idea
that the man whom she ought to love would not be gratified by her
meeting another man at a private assignation, especially when that
other man had written to her a love-letter; but she did not at all
know how far such a sin might be regarded as pardonable accord-
ing to the rules of the world recognized on such subjects. At first,
when the letters were discovered and the copies of them sent off to
Noningsby, she thought that all was over. According to her ideas,
as existing at that moment, the crime was conceived to be one
admitting of no pardon; and in the hours spent under that con-
viction all her consolation came from the feeling that there was
still one who regarded her as an angel of light. But then she had
received Graham’s letter, and as she began to understand that
pardon was possible, that other consolation waxed feeble and dim.
If Felix Graham chose to take her, of course she was there for him
to take. Jt never for a moment occurred to her that she could
110 ORLEY FARM.
rebel against sucn taking, even though she did shine as an angel
of light to one dear pair of eyes.
‘I suppose she was right to tell you, only——’
‘Do not think, Mary, that Iam going to scold you, or even that
I am angry with you.’
‘Oh, but I know you must be angry.’
‘Indeed Lam not. If I pledge myself to tell you the truth in
everything, will you be equally frank with me?’
‘Yes, said Mary. But it was much easier for Felix to tell the
truth than for Mary to be frank. I believe that schoolmasters often
tell fibs to schoolboys, although it would be so easy for them to tell
the truth. But how difficult it is for the schoolboy always to tell
the truth to his master! Mary Snow was now as a schoolboy before
her tutor, and it may almost be said that the telling of the truth
was to her impossible. But of course she made the promise. Who
ever said that she would not tell the truth when so asked P
‘Have you ever thought, Mary, that you and I would not make
each other happy if we were married ?’
‘No; I have never thought that,’ said Mary innocently. She
meant to say exactly that which she thought Graham would wish
her to say, but she was slow in following his lead.
‘It has never occurred to you that though we might love each
other very warmly as friends—and so I am sure we always shall—
yet we might not suit each other in all respects as man and wife?”
‘I mean to do the very best I can; that is, if—if—if you are not
too much offended with me now.’
‘But, Mary, it should not be a question of doing the best you can.
Between man and wife there should be no need of such effort. It
should be a labour of love.’
‘So it will ;—and I’m sure I’ll labour as hard as I can,’
Felix began to perceive that the line he had taken would not
answer the required purpose, and that he must be somewhat more
abrupt with her,— perhaps a little less delicate, in coming to the
desired point. ‘Mary,’ he said, ‘ what is the name of that gentle-
man whom—whom you met out of doors you know?”
‘Albert Fitzallen,’ said Mary, hesitating very much as she pro-
nounced the name, but nevertheless rather proud of the sound.
‘And you are—fond of him?’ asked Graham.
Poor girl! What was she to say? ‘No; I’m not very fond of
him.’
‘Are you not? Then why did you consent to that secret
meeting ”
‘Oh, Mr. Graham—I didn’t mean it; indeed I didn’t. And I
didn’t tell him to write to me, nor yet to come looking after me.
Upon my word I didn’t. But then I thought when he sent me that
letter that he didn’t know ;—about you I mean; and so I thought
TELLING ALL THAT HAPPENED BENEATH THE LAMP-PostT. lil
a
Vd better tell him; and that’s why I went. Indeed that was the
reason.’
‘Mrs. Thomas could have told him that.’
‘But I don’t like Mrs. Thomas, and I wouldn’t for worlds that
she should have had anything to do with it. I think Mrs. Thomas
has behaved very bad to me; so I do. And you don’t half know her ;
—that you don’t.’
‘TI will ask you one more question, Mary, and before answering’
it I want to make you believe that my only object in asking it is to
ascertain how I may make you happy. When you did meet Mr, —
this gentleman. ,
‘ Albert Fitzallen.’
‘When you did meet Mr. Fitzallen, did you tell him nothing else
except that you were engaged tome? Did you say nothing to him
as to your feelings towards himself?”
‘T told him it was very wrong of him to write me that letter.’
‘ And what more did you tell him?’
‘Oh, Mr. Graham, I won’t see him any more; indeed I won't. I
give you my most solemn promise. Indeed I won’t. And I will
never write a line to him,—or look at him. And if he sends any-
thing I'll send it to you. Indeed I will. There was never anything
of the kind before; upon my word there wasn’t. I did let him take
my hand, but I didn’t know how to help it when I was there. And
he kissed me—only once. There; I’ve told it all now, as though
you were looking at me. And I aint a bad girl, whatever she may
say of me. Indeed I aint.’ And then poor Mary Snow burst out
into an agony of tears. x
Felix began to perceive that he had been too hard upon her. He
had wished that the first overtures of a separation should come
from her, and in wishing this he had been unreasonable. He
walked for a while about the room, and then going up to her he
stood close by her and took her hand. ‘ Mary,’ he said, ‘ I’m sure
you're not a bad girl.
‘No; she said, ‘no, I aint;’ still sobbing convulsively. ‘1
didn’t mean anything wrong, and I couldn’t help it.’
‘I am sure you did not, and nobody has said you did.’
‘Yes, they have. She has said so. She said’ that I was a bad
girl. She told me so, up to my face.’
‘She was very wrong if she said so.’
‘She did then, and I couldn’t bear it.’
‘I have not said so, and I don’t think so. Indeed in all this
matter I believe that I have been more to blame than you.’
‘No ;—I know I was wrong. I know I shouldn’t have gone to
see him,’
‘I won’t'even say as much as that, Mary. What you should have
done ;—only the task would have been too hard for any young girl
112 ORLEY FARM.
—was to have told me openly that you—liked this young
gentleman.’
‘But I don’t want ever to see him again.’
‘Look here, Mary,’ he said. But now he had dropped her hand
and taken a chair opposite to her. He had begun to find that the
task which he had proposed to himself was not so easy even for him.
‘Look here, Mary. 1 take it that you do like this young gentle.
man. Don’t answer me till I have finished what I am going to say.
I suppose you do like him,—and if so it would be very wicked in
you to marry me.’
‘Oh, Mr. Graham e
‘Wait a moment, Mary. But there is nothing wicked in your
liking him.’ It may be presumed that Mr. Granam would hold such
an opinion as this, seeing that he had allowed himself the same
latitude of liking. ‘It was perhaps only natural that you should
learn to do so. You have been taught to regard me rather as a
master than as a lover.’
‘Oh, Mr. Graham, I’m sure I’ve loved you. I have indeed.
And I will. I won’t even think of Al——’
‘But I want you to think of him,—that is if he be worth thinking
of.’
‘He’s a very good young man, and always lives with his
mother.’
‘It shall be my business to find out that. And now Mary, tell
me truly. If he be a good young man, and if he loves you well
enough to marry you, would you not be happier as his wife than
you would as mine?”
There! The question that he wished to ask her had got itself
asked at last. But if the asking had been difficult, how much more
difficult must have been the answer! He had been thinking over
all this for the last fortnight, and had hardly known how to come
to a resolution. Now he put the matter before her without a
moment’s notice and expected an instant decision. ‘Speak the
truth, Mary ;—what you think about it ;—without minding what
anybody may say of you.’ But Mary could not say anything, so
she again burst into tears,
‘Surely you know the state of your own heart, Mary ?”
* I don’t know,’ she answered.
‘My only object is to secure your happiness ;—-the happiness of
both of us, that is.’
‘Tll do anything you please,’ said Mary.
‘Well then, I'll tell you what I think. I fear that a marriage
between us would not make either of us contented with our lives.
TP’m too old and too grave for you.’ Yet Mary Snow was not
younger than Madeline Staveley. ‘You have been told to love me;
and you think that you do love me because you wish to do what
TELLING ALL THAT HAPPENED BENEATH THE LAMP-PosT. 113
you think to be your duty. But I believe that people can never
really love each other merely because they are told to do so. Of
course I cannot say what sort of a young man Mr. Fitzallen may
be; but if I find that he is fit to take care of you, and that he has
means to support you,—with such little help as I can give,—I shall
be very happy to promote such an arrangement.’
Everybody will of course say that Felix Graham was base in not
telling her that all this arose, not from her love affair with Albert
Fitzallen, but from his own love affair with Madeline Staveley.
But I am inclined to think that everybody will be wrong. Had he
told her openly that he did not care for her, but did care for some
one else, he would have left her no alternative. As it was, he did
not mean that she should have any alternative. But he probably
consulted her feelings best in allowing her to think that she had a
choice. And then, though he owed much to her, he owed nothing
to her father; and had he openly declared his intention of breaking
off the match because he had attached himself to some one else, he
would have put himself terribly into her father’s power. He was
willing to submit to such pecuniary burden in the matter as his
conscience told him that he ought to bear; but Mr. Snow’s ideas on
the subject of recompense might be extravagant; and therefore,—as
regarded Snow the father,—he thought that he might make some
slight and delicate use of the meeting under the lamp-post. In
doing so he would be very careful to guard Mary from her father’s
anger. Indeed Mary would be surrendered, out of his own care,
not to that of her father, but to the fostering love of the gentleman
in the medical line of life.
‘Pll do anything that you please,’ said Mary, upon whose mind
and heart all these changes had come with a suddenness which pre-
vented her from thinking,—much less speaking her thoughts.
‘ Perhaps you had better mention it to Mrs. ‘Thomas.’
‘Oh, Mr. Graham, I’d rather not talk to her. I don’t love her
a bit.’
‘Well, I will not press it on you if you do not wish it. And have
I your permission to speak to Mr. Fitzallen ;—and if he approves to
speak to his mother ”
‘TI do anything you think best, Mr. Graham,’ said poor Mary.
She was poor Mary; for though she had consented to meet a lover
beneath the lamp-post, she had not been without ambition, and had
looked forward to the glory of being wife to such a man as Felix
Graham. She did not however, for one moment, entertain any idea
of resistance to his will,
And then Felix left her, having of course an interview with Mrs.
Thomas before he quitted the house. To her, however, he said
nothing. ‘When anything is settled, Mrs. Thomas, I will let
you know.’ The words were so lacking in confidence that Mrs.
VOL. II. 1
114 ORLEY FARM.
Thomas when she heard them knew that the verdict had gone
against her.
Felix for many months had been accustomed to take leave of
Mary Snow with a kiss. But on this day he omitted to kiss her,
and then Mary knew that it was all over with her ambition. But
love still remained to her. ‘There is some one else who will be
proud to kiss me,’ she said to herself, as she stood alone in the room
when he closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER XV.
WHAT TOOK PLACE IN HARLEY STREET.
‘Tom, I’ve come back again,’ said Mrs. Furnival, as soon as the
dining-room door was closed behind her back.
‘Tm very glad to see you; I am indeed,’ said he, getting up and
putting out his hand to her. ‘ But I really never knew why you
went away.’
‘Oh yes, you know. I’m sure you know why I went. But——’
«Tl be shot if I did then.’
“I went away because I did not like Lady Mason going to your
chambers.’
‘ Psha!’
‘Yes; I know I was wrong, Tom. That is I was wrong—about
that.’
« Of course you were, Kitty.’
‘Well; don’t Isay I was? And I’ve come back again, and I beg
your pardon ;—that is about the lady.’
‘Very well. Then there’s an end of it.’
‘But Tom; you know I’ve been provoked. Haven’t I now?
How often have you been home to dinner since you have been
member of Parliament for that place ?’
‘I shall be more at home now, Kitty.’
‘Shall you indeed? Then I'll not say another word to vex you.
What on earth can I want, Tom, except just that you should sit at
home with me sometimes on evenings, as you used to do always in
the old days? And as for Martha Biggs ?
‘Is she come back too?
‘Oh dear no. She’s in Red Lion Square. And I’m sure, Tom, I
never had her here except when you wouldn’t dine at home. I
wonder whether you know how lonely it is to sit down to dinner all
by oneself!’
‘Why; I do it every other day of my life. And I never think
of sending for Martha Biggs; 1 promise you that.’
WAT TOCK PLACE IN HARLEY STREET. 115
‘She isn’t — nice, I know,’ said Mrs. Furnival— that is, for
gentlemen.’
‘T should ay not,’ said Mr. Furnival. Then the reconciliation
had been effected, and Mrs. Furnival went upstairs to prepare for
dinner, knowing that her husband would be present, and that
Martha Biggs would not. And just as she was taking her accus-
tomed place at the head of the table, almost ashamed to Took up lest
she should catch Spooner’ s eye who was standing behind his
master, Rachel went off in a cab to Orange Street, commissioned to
pay what might be due for the lodgings, to bring back her mistress’s
boxes, and to convey the necessary tidings to Miss Biggs.
‘Well I never!’ said Martha, as she listened to Rachel’s story.
‘ And they’re quite loving I can assure you,’ said Rachel.
“Tt’ll never last,’ said Miss Biggs triumphantly—‘never. It’s
been done too sudden to last.’
‘So I'll say good-night if you please, Miss Biggs,’ said Rachel,
who was in a hurry to get back to Harley Street.
‘I think she might have come here before she went there;
especially as it wasn’t anything out of her way. She couldn't have
gone shorter than Bloomsbury Square, and Russell Square, and over
Tottenham Court Road.’
‘ Missus didn’t think of that, I dare say.’
‘ She used to know the way about these parts well enough. But
give her my love, Rachel.’ Then Martha Biggs was again alone,
and she sighed deeply.
It was well that Mrs. Furnival came back so quickly to her own
house, as it saved the scandal of any domestic quarrel before her
daughter. On the following day Sophia returned, and as harmony
was at that time reigning in Harley Street, there was no necessity
that she should be presumed to know anything of what had occurred.
That she did know,—know exactly what her mother had done, and
why she had done it, and how she had come back, leaving Martha
Biggs dumfounded by her return, is very probable, for Sophia
Furnival was a clever girl, and one who professed to understand
the inns and outs of her own family,—and perhaps of some other
families. But she behaved very prettily to her papa and mamma
on the occasion, never dropping a word which could lead either of
them to suppuse that she had interrogated Rachel, been confidential
with the housemaid, conversed on the subject—even with Spooner,
and made a morning call on Martha Biggs herself.
There arose not unnaturally some conversation between the
mother and daughter as tg Lady Mason ;—not as to Lady Mason’s
visits to Lincoln’s Inn and their impropriety as formerly presumed;
—not at allas to that; but in respect to her present lamentable
‘position and that engagement which had for a time existed between
her and Sir Peregrine Orme. On this latter subject Mrs. Furnival
12
116 ORLEY FARM.
had of course heard nothing during her interview with Mrs. Orme
at Noningsby. At that time Lady Mason had formed the sole
subject of conversation ; but in explaining to Mrs, Furnival that
there certainly could be no unhallowed feeling between her husband
and the lady, Mrs. Orme had not thought it necessary to allude to
Sir Peregrine’s past intentions. Mrs. Furnival, however, had heard
the whole matter discussed in the railway carriage, had since
interrogated her husband,—learning, however, not very much from
him,—and now inquired into all the details from her daughter.
‘And she and Sir Peregrine were really to be married?’ Mrs.
Furnival, as she asked the question, thought with confusion of her
own unjust accusations against the poor woman. Under such
circumstances as those Lady Mason must of course have been inno-
cent as touching Mr. Furnival.
‘Yes,’ said Sophia. ‘There is no doubt whatsoever that they
were engaged. Sir Peregrine told Lady Staveley so himself.’
‘ And now it’s all broken off again ?”
‘Oh yes; it is all broken off now. I believe the fact to be this.
Lord Alston, who lives near Noningsby, is a very old friend of
Sir Peregrine’s. When he heard of it he went to The Cleeve—
I know that for certain ;--and I think he talked Sir Peregrine out
of it.’ ,
‘But, my conscience, Sophia——after he had made her the
offer !’
‘TI fancy that Mrs. Orme arranged it all. Whether Lord Alston
saw her or not I don’t know. My belief is that Lady Mason be-
haved very well all through, though they say very bitter things
against her at Noningsby.’
‘Poor thing!’ said Mrs. Furnival, the feelings of whose heatt
were quite changed as regarded Lady Mason.
‘I never knew a woman so badly treated.’ Sophia had her own
reasons for wishing to make the best of Lady Mason’s case. ‘ And
for myself I do not see why Sir Peregrine should not have married
her if he pleased.’
‘ He is rather old, my dear.’
‘ People don’t think so much about that now-a-days as they used.
If he liked it, and she too, who had a right to say anything? My
idea is that a man with any spirit would have turned Lord Alston
out of the house. What business had he to interfere ?’
‘ But about the trial, Sophia?”
‘That will goon, There’s no doubt about that. But they all
say that it’s the most unjust thing in the world, and that she must
be proved innocent. I heard the judge say so myself”
‘ But why are they allowed to try her then ?’
‘ Oh, papa will tell you that.’
‘I never like to bother your papa about law business.’ Partion-
WHAT TOOK PLACE IN HARLEY STREET. 117
larly not, Mrs. Furnival, when he has a pretty woman for his
client !
‘ My wonder is that she should make herself so unhappy about
it,’ continued Sophia. ‘ It seems that she is quite broken down.’
‘But won’t she have to go and sit in the court,—with all tho
people staring at her?
‘ That won’t kill her,’ said Sophia, who felt that she herself would
not perish under any such process. ‘ lf I was sure that I was in
the right, I think that I could hold up my head against all that.
But they say that she is crushed to the earth.’
‘ Poor thing!’ said Lady Mason. ‘I wish that I could do any-
thing for her.’ And in this way they talked the matter over very
comfortably. :
Two or three days after this Sophia Furnival was sitting alone in
the drawing-room in Harley Street, when Spooner answered a
double knock at the door, and Lucius Mason was shown upstairs.
Mrs. Furnival had gone to make her peace in Red Lion Square, and
there may perhaps be ground for supposing that Lucius had cause
to expect that Miss Furnival might be seen at this hour without
interruption. Be that as it may, she was found alone, and he was
permitted to declare his purpose unmolested by father, mother, or
family friends.
“You remember how we parted at Noningsby,’ said he, when
their first greetings were well over.
‘Oh, yes; I remember it very well. I do not easily forget words
such as were spoken then.’
‘ You said that you would never turn away from me.’
‘ Nor will I;—that is with reference to the matter as to which
we were speaking.’
‘ Is our friendship then to be confined to one subject ?”
‘By no means. Friendship cannot be so confined, Mr. Mason.
Friendship between true friends must extend to all the affairs of
life. What I meant to say was this—— But I am quite sure that
you understand me without any explanation.’
He did understand her. She meant to say that she had promised
to him her sympathy and friendship, but nothing more. But then
he had asked for nothing more. The matter of doubt within his
own heart.was this. Should he or should he not ask for more; and
if he resolved on answering this question in the affirmative, should
he ask for it now? He had determined that morning that he would
come to some fixed purpose on this matter before he reached Harley
Street. As he crossed out of Oxford Street from the omnibus he
had determined that the present was no time for love-making ;—
walking up Regent Street, he had told himself that if he had one
faithful heart to bear him company he could bear his troubles
better ;—as he made his way along the north side of Cavendish
118 GRLEY FARM.
Square he pictured to himself what would be the wound to his
pride if he were rejected ;—and in passing the ten or twelve houses
which intervened in Harley Street between the corner of the square
and the abode of his mistress, he told himself that the question
must be answered by circumstances.
‘ Yes, I understand you,’ he said. ‘And belicve me in this—I
would not for worlds encroach on your kindness. I knew that
when I pressed your band that night, I pressed the hand of a friend,
—and nothing more.’
* Quite so,’ said Sophia. Sophia’s wit was usually ready enough,
but at that moment she could not resolve with what words she
might make the most appropriate reply to her—friend. What she
did say was rather lame, but it was not dangerous.
‘ Since that I have suffered a great deal,’ said Lucius. ‘ Of course
you know that my mother has been staying at The Cleeve?”
‘Oh yes. I believe she left it only a day or two since.’
‘ And you heard perhaps of her—. I hardly know how to tell
you, if you have not heard it.’
‘If you mean about Sir Peregrine, I have heard of that.’
‘ Of course you have. All the world has heard of it’ And Lucius
Mason got up and walked about the room holding his hand to his
brow. ‘ All the world are talking about it. Miss Furnival, you
have never known what it is to blush for a parent.’
Miss Furnival at the moment felt a sincere hope that Mr. Mason
might never hear of Mrs. Furnival’s visit to the neighbourhood of
Orange Street and of the causes which led to it, and by no means
thought it necessary to ask for her friend’s sympathy on that
subject. ‘No,’ said she, ‘I never have; nor need you do so for
yours. Why should not Lady Mason have married Sir Peregrine
Orme, if they both thought such a marriage fitting ?
‘What; at such a time as this; with these dreadful accusations
running in her ears? Surely this was no time for marrying! And
what has come of it? People now say that he has rejected her and
sent her away.’
‘Ohno. They cannot say that.’
‘But they do. It is reported that Sir Peregrine has sent her
away because he thinks her to be guilty. That I do not believe.
No honest man, no gentleman, could think her guilty, But is it
not dreadful that such things should be said ”
‘ Will not the trial take place very shortly now? When that is
once over all these froubles will be at an end?
‘Miss Furnival, I sometimes think that my mother will hardly
have strength to sustain the trial. She is so depressed that I almost
fear her mind will give way; and the worst of it is that I am alto-
gother unable to comfort her.’
‘ Surely that at presont should specially be your task
WHAT TOOK PLACE IN HARLEY STREET. 119
’ ¢Z cannot do it. What should I say to her? Ithink that she is
wrong in what she is doing; thoroughly, absolutely wrong. She
has got about her a parcel of lawyers. I beg your pardon, Miss
Furnival, but you know I do not mean such as your father.’
‘ But has not he advised it?’
“If so I cannot but think he is wrong. They are the very scum
of the gaols; men who live by rescuing felons from the punishment
they deserve. What can my mother require of such services as
theirs? It is they that frighten her and make her dread all manner
of evils. Why should a woman who knows herself to be good and
just fear anything that the law can do to her”
‘T can easily understand that such a position as hers must be very
dreadful. You must not be hard upon her, Mr. Mason, because she
is not as strong as you might be.’
‘Hard upon her! Ah, Miss Furnival, you do not know me. If
she would only accept my love I would wait upon her as a mother
does upon her infant. No labour would be too much for me; no
care would be too close. But her desire is that this affair should
never be mentioned between us. We are living now in the same
house, and though I see that this is killing her yet I may not speak
of it” Then he got up from his chair, and as he walked about the
room he took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes.
’ ¢T-wish I could comfort you,’ said she. And in saying so she
spoke the truth. By nature she was not tender hearted, but now
she did sympathize with him. By nature, too, she was not given
to any deep affection, but she did feel some spark of love for Lucius
Mason. ‘I wish I could comfort you.’ And as she spoke she also
got up from her chair.
‘ And you can,’ said he, suddenly stopping himself and coming
close to her. ‘ You can comfort me,—in some degree. You and
you only can do so. I know this is no time for declarations of love.
Were it not that we are already so much to each other, I would not
indulge myself at such a moment with such a wish. But I have
no one whom I can love; and—it is very hard to bear.’ And then
he stood, waiting for her answer, as though he conceived that he
had offered her his hand.
But Miss Furnival well knew that she had received no offer. ‘ If
my warmest sympathy can be of service to you ;
‘It is your love I want,’ he said, taking her hand as he spoke. :
‘Your love, so that I may look on you as my wife ;—your accept-
ance of my love, so that we may be all in all to each other. There
is my hand. I stand before you now as sad a man as there is in all
London. But there is my hand—vwill you take it and give me yours
in pledge of your love.’
I should be unjust to Lucius Mason were I to omit to say that he
played his part with a becoming air. Unhappiness and a melancholy
120 ORLEY FARM.
mood suited him perhaps better than the world’s ordinary good
humour. He was a man who looked his best when under a cloud,
and shone the brightest when everything about him was dark. And
Sophia also was not unequal to the occasion. There was, however,
this difference between them. JLucius was quite honest in all that
he said and did upon the occasion ; whereas Miss Furnival was only
half honest. Perhaps she was not capable of a higher pitch of
honesty than that.
‘ There is my hand,’ said she; and they stood holding each other,
palm to palm.
‘ And with it your heart” said Lucius.
‘ And with it my heart,’ answered Sophia. Nor as she spoke did
she hesitate for 2 moment, or become embarrassed, or lose her com-
mand of feature. Had Augustus Staveley gone through the same
ceremony at Noningsby in the same way I am inclined to think
that she would have made the same answer. Had neither done so,
she would not on that account have been unhappy. What a blessed
woman would Lady Staveley have been had she known what was
being done in Harley Street at this moment!
In some short rhapsody of love it may be presumed that Lucius
indulged himself when he found that the affair which he had in
hand had so far satisfactorily arranged itself. But he was in truth
too wretched at heart for any true enjoyment of the delights of a
favoured suitor. They were soon engaged again on that terrible
subject, seated side by side indeed and somewhat close, but the
tone of their voices and their very words were hardly different from
what they might have been had no troth been plighted between
them. His present plan was that Sophia should visit Orley Farm
for a time, and take that place of dear and bosom friend which a
woman circumstanced as was his mother must so urgently need.
We, my readers, know well who was now that loving friend, and
we know also which was best fitted for such a task, Sophia Fur-
nival or Mrs. Orme. But we have had, I trust, better means of
reading the characters of those ladies than had fallen to the lot of
Lucius Mason, and should not be angry with him because his eyes
were dark.
Sophia hesitated a moment before she answered this proposition,
—not as though she were slack in her love, or begrudged her ser-
vices to his mother; but it behoved her to look carefully at the
circumstances before she would pledge herself to such an arrange-
ment as that. If she went to Orley Farm on such a mission would
it not be necessary to tell her father and mother,—nay, to tell all
the world that she was engaged to Lucius Mason; and would it be
wise to make such a communication at the present moment?
Lucius said a word to her of going into court with his mother, and
sitting with her, hand in hand, while that ordeal was passing by.
WIIAT TOOK PLACE IN HARLEY STREET. 121
In the publicity of such sympathy there was something that suited
the bearings of Miss Furnival’s mind. The idea that Lady Mason
was guilty had never entered her head, and therefore, on this she
thought there could be no disgrace in such a proceeding. But
nevertheless—might it not be prudent to wait till that trial were
over?
- If you are my wife you must be her daughter; and how can you
better take a daughter’s part?’ pleaded Lucius.
‘No, no; and I would do it with my whole heart. But, Lucius,
does she know me well enough? It is of her that we must think.
After all that you have told me, can we think that she would wish
me to be there?”
It was his desire that his mother should learn to have such a
wish, and this he explained to her. He himself could do but little
at home because he could not yield his opinion on those matters of
importance as to which he and his mother differed so vitally ; but if
she had a woman with her in the house,—such a woman as his own
Sophia—then he thought her heart would be softened and part of
her sorrow might be assuaged.
Sophia at last said that she would think about it. It would be
improper, she said, to pledge herself to anything rashly. It might
be that as her father was to defend Lady Mason, he might on that
account object to his daughter being in the court. Lucius declared
that this would be unreasonable,—unless indeed Mr. Furnival
should object to his daughter’s engagement. And might he not do
so? Sophia thought it very probable that he might. It would
make no difference in her, she said. Her engagement would be
equally binding,—as permanently binding, let who would object to
it. And as she made this declaration, there was of course a little
love scene. But, for the present, it might be best that in this
matter she should obey her father. And then she pointed out how
fatal it might be to avert her father from the cause while the trial
was still pending. Upon the whole she acted her part very pru-
dently, and when Lucius left her she was pledged to nothing but
that one simple fact of a marriage engagement.
CHAPTER XVI.
HOW SIR PEREGRINE LID BUSINESS WITH MR. ROUND.
t
In the mean time Sir Peregrine was sitting at home trying to deter
mine in what way he should act under the present emergency, actuated
as he was on one side by friendshi» and on the other by duty. For
the first day or two—nay for the first week after the confession had
been made to him,—he had been so astounded, had been so
knocked to the earth, and had remained in such a state of bewilder-
ment, that it had been impossible for him to form for himself any
line of conduct. His only counsellor had been Mrs. Orme ; and,
though he could not analyze the matter, he felt that her woman’s
ideas of honour and honesty were in some way different from his
ideas as a man. To her the sorrows and utter misery of Lady
Mason seemed of greater weight than her guilt. At least such was
the impression which her words left. Mrs. Orme’s chief anxiety in
the matter still was that Lady Mason should be acquitted ;—as
strongly so nowas when they both believed her to be as guiltless as
themselves, But Sir Peregrine could not look at in this light. He
did not say that he wished that she might be found guilty ;—mnor did
he wish it. But he did announce his opinion to his daughter-in-law
that the ends of justice would so be best promoted, and that if the
matter were driven to a trial it would not be for the honour of the
court that a false verdict should be given. Nor would he believe °
that such a false verdict could be obtained. An English judge and
an English jury were to him the Palladium of discerning truth. In
an English court of law such a matter could not remain dark ;—nor
ought it, let whatever misery betide. It was strange how that old
man should have lived so near the world for seventy years, should
have taken his place in Parliament and on the bench, should have
rubbed his shoulders so constantly against those of his neighbours,
and yet have retained so strong a reliance on the purity of the
world in general, Here and there such a man may still be found,
but the number is becoming very few.
As for the property, that must of necessity be abandoned. Lady’
Mason had signified her agreement to this; and therefore he was 50
far willing that she should be saved from further outward punish-
ment, if that were still possible. His plan was this; and to his’
thinking it was the only plan that was feasible. Let the estate be
HOW SIR PEREGRINE DID BUSINESS WITH Mk. ROUND. 123
at once given up to the proper owner,—even now, before the day of
trial should come; and then let them trust, not to Joseph Mason,
but to Joseph Mason’s advisers to abstain from prosecuting the
offender. Even this course he knew to be surrounded by a thousand
difficulties; but it might be possible. Of Mr. Round, old Mr.
Round, he had heard a good report. He was a kind man, and even
in this very matter had behaved in a way that had shamed his
client. Might it not be possible that Mr. Round would engage to
drop the prosecution if the immediate return of the property were
secured? But to effect this must he not tell Mr. Round of the
woman's guilt? And could he manage it himself? Must he not
tell Mr. Furnival? And by so doing, would he not rob Lady Mason
of her sole remaining tower of strength ?—for if Mr. Furnival knew
that she was guilty, Mr. Furnival must of course abandon her cause.
And then Sir Peregrine did not know how to turn himself, as he
thus argued the matter within his own bosom.
And then too his own disgrace sat very heavy on him. Whether
or no the law might pronounee Lady Mason to have been guilty, all
the world would know her guilt. When that property should be
abandoned, and her wretched son turned out to earn his bread, it
would be well understood that she had been guilty. And this was
the woman, this midnight forger, whom he had taken to his bosom,
and asked to be his wife! He had asked her, and she had con-
sented, and then he had proclaimed the triumph of his love to all
the world. When he stood there holding her to his breast he had
been proud of her affection. When Lord Alston had come to him
with his caution he had scorned his old friend and almost driven
him from his door. When his grandson had spoken a word, not to
him but to another, he had been full of wrath. He had let it be
known widely that he would feel no shame in showing her to the
world as Lady Orme. And now she was a forger, and a perjurer,
and a thief ;—a thief who for long years had lived on the proceeds
of her dexterous theft, And yet was he not under a deep obligation
to her—under the very deepest? Had she not saved him from a
worse disgrace ;—saved him at the cost of all that was left to her-
self? Was he not still bound to stand by her? And did he not
still love her?
Poor Sir Peregrine! May we not say that it would have been
well for him if the world and all its trouble could have now been
ended so that he might have done with it?
Mrs. Orme was his only counsellor, and though she could not be
brought to agree with him in all his feelings,-yet she was of infinite
tomfort to him. Had she not shared with him this terrible secret
his mind would have given way beneath the burden. On the day
after Lady Mason’s departure from The Cleeve, he sat for an hour
in the library considering what he would do, and then he sent for
324 ORLEY FARM.
his daughter-in-law. If it behoved him to take any step to stay the
trial, he must take it at once. The matter had been pressed on by
each side, and now the days might be counted up to that day on
which the judges would arrive in Alston. That trial would be very
terrible to him in every way. He had promised, during those
pleasant hours of his love and sympathy in which he had felt no
doubt as to his friend’s acquittal, that he would stand by her when
she was arraigned. That was now impossible, and though he had
not dared to mention it to Lady Mason, he knew that she would not
expect that he should do so. But to Mrs. Orme he had spoken on
the matter, and she had declared her purpose of taking the place
which it would not now become him to fill! Sir Peregrine had
started from his chair when she had so spoken. What! his daughter!
She, the purest of the pure, to whom the very air of a court of law
would bea contamination ;—she, whose whiteness had never been
sullied by contact with the world’s dust; she set by the side of that
terrible criminal, hand in hand with her, present to all the world as
her bosom friend! There had been but few words between them on
the matter ; but Sir Peregrine had felt strongly that that might not
be permitted. Far better than that it would be that he should
humble his gray hairs and sit there to be gazed at by the crowd.
But on all accounts how much was it to be desired that there should
be no trial!
‘Sit down, Edith,’ he said, as with her soft step she came up to
him. ‘I find that the assizes will be here, in Alston, at the end of
next month.’
‘So soon as that, father ?
‘Yes; look here: the judges will come in on the 25th of March.’
‘ Ah me—that is verysudden. But, father, will it not be best for
her that it should be over ”
Mrs. Orme still thought, had always thought that the trial itself
was unavoidable. Indeed she had thought and she did think that
it afforded to Lady Mason the only possible means of escape. Her
mind on the subject, if it could have been analyzed, would probably
have been this. As to the property, that question must for the present
stand in abeyance. It is quite right that it should go to its detest-
able owners,—that it should be made over to them at some day not
very distant. But for the present, the trial for that old, long-distant
crime was the subject for them to consider. Could it be wrong to
wish for an acquittal for the sinner,—an acquittal before this
world’s bar, seeing that a true verdict had undoubtedly been given
before another bar? Mrs. Ormo trusted that no jury would convict
her friend. Let Lady Mason go through that ordeal; and then,
when the law had declared ker innocent, let restitution be made.
“It will be very terrible to all if she be condemned,’ said Sir
Peregrine.
HOW SIR PEREGRINE DID BUSINESS WITH MR. ROUND. 125
‘Very terrible! But Mr. Furnival—~
‘ Edith, if it comes to that, she will be condemned. Mr. Furnival
is a lawyer and will not say so; but from his countenance, when he
speaks of her, I know that he expects it!’
‘Oh, father, do not say so.’
‘But if it is so——. My love, what is the purport of these courts
of law if it be not to discover the truth, and make it plain to the
light of day?” Poor Sir Peregrine! His innocence in this respect
was perhaps beautiful, but it was very simple. Mr. Aram, could he
have been induced to speak out his mind plainly, would have
expressed, probably, a different opinion.
‘But she escaped before,’ said Mrs. Orme, who was clearly at
present on the same side with Mr. Aram.
‘Yes; she did;—by perjury, Edith. And now the penalty of
that further crime awaits her. There was an old poet who said that
the wicked man rarely escapes at last. 1 believe in my heart that
he spoke the truth.’
‘Father, that old poet knew nothing of our faith.’
Sir Peregrine could not stop to explain, even if he knew how to
do so, that the old poet spoke of punishment in this world, whereas
the faith on which his daughter relied is efficacious for pardon
beyond the grave. It would be much, ay, in one sense every-
thing, if Lady Mason could be brought to repent of the sin she had
committed ; but no such repentance would stay the bitterness of
Joseph Mason or of Samuel Dockwrath. If the property were at once
restored, then repentance might commence. If the property were at
once restored, then the trial might be stayed. It might be possible
that Mr. Round might so act. He felt all this, but he could not
argue on it, ‘I think, my dear,’ he said, ‘that I had better see Mr.
Round.’ ,
‘But you will not tell him?’ said Mrs. Orme, sharply.
‘No; I am not authorized to do that.’
‘But he will entice it from you! He isa lawyer, and he will
wind anything out from a plain, chivalrous man of truth and
honour.’
‘My dear, Mr. Round I believe is a good man.’
‘But if he asks you the question, what will you say ”
‘I will tell him to ask me no such question.’
‘Oh, father, be careful. For her sake be careful. How is it thar
you know the truth ;—or that I know it? She told it here because
in that way only could she save you from that marriage. Father,
she has sacrificed herself for—for us.’
Sir Peregrine when this was said to him got up from his chair
and walked away to the window. He was not angry with her that
she so spoke to him. Nay; he acknowledged imwardly the truth
of her words, and loved her for her constancy. But nevertheless
126 ORLEY FARM.
they were very bitter. How had it come to pass that he was thus
indebted to so deepacriminal ? What had he done for her but good ?
‘Do not go from me,’ she said, following him. ‘Do not think me
unkind.’
‘No, no, no,’ he answered, striving almost ineffectually to represa
asob. ‘ You are not unkind.’
For two days after that not a word was spoken between them on
the subject, and then he did go to Mr. Round. Not a word on the
subject was spoken between Sir Peregrine and Mrs. Orme; but she
was twice at Orley Farm during the time, and told Lady Mason of
the steps which her father-in-law was taking. ‘ He won’t betray
me!’ Lady Mason had said. Mrs. Orme had answered this with
what best assurance she should give ; but in her heart of hearts she
feared that Sir Peregrine would betray the secret.
It was not a pleasant journey for Sir Peregrine. Indeed it may
be said that no journeys could any longer be pleasant for him. He
was old and worm and feeble; very much older and much more
worn than he had been at the period spoken of in the commence-
ment of this story, though but a few months had passed over his
head since that time. For him now it would have been preferable
to remain in the arm-chair by the fireside in his own library,
receiving such comfort in his old age as might come to him from
the affection of his daughter-in-law and grandson. But he thought
that it behoved him to do this work; and therefore, old and feeble
as he was, he set himself to his task. He reached the station in
London, had himself driven to Bedford Row in a cab, and soon
found himself in the presence of Mr. Round.
There was much ceremonial talk between them before Sir Pere-
grine could bring himself to declare the purport which had brought"
him there. Mr. Round of course protested that he was very sorry
for all this affair. The case was not in his hands personally. He
had hoped many years since that the matter was closed. His client,
Mr. Mason of Groby Park, had insisted that it should be reopened;
dnd now he, Mr. Round, really hardly knew what to say about it.
‘But, Mr. Round, do you think it is quite impossible that the trial
should even now be abandoned” asked Sir Peregrine very carefully.
‘Well, I fear it is. Mason thinks that the property is his, and is
determined to make another struggle for it. Tam imputing nothing
wrong to the lady. I really am not in a position to have any
opinion of my own——’
‘No, no, no; I understand. Of course your firm is bound to do
the best it can for its client. But, Mr. Round;—I know I am
quite safe with you.’
‘Well; safe in one way I hope you are. But, Sir Peregrine, you
must of course remember that I am the attorney for the other side,
—for the side to which you are opposed.’
hl
it
Na
Sur Peregrine at Mr. Round’s office.
HOW SIR PEREGRINE DID BUSINESS WITH MR. ROUND. 127
* But still ;—all that you cdn want is your client’s interest.’
* Of course we desire to serve his interest.’
« And with that view, Mr. Round, is it not possible that we might
come to some compromise ?
‘ What ;—by giving up part of the property”
‘ By giving up all the property,’ said Sir Peregrine, with con-
siderable emphasis.
‘ Whew—w—w.’ Mr. Round at the moment made no other
answer than this, which terminated in a low whistle.
‘Better that, at once, than that she should die broken-hearted,’
said Sir Peregrine.
There was then silence between them for a minute or two, after
which Mr. Round, turning himself round in his chair so as to face
his visitor more fully, spoke as follows. ‘I told you just now, Sir
Peregrine, that I was Mr. Mason’s attorney, and I must now tell
you, that as regards this interview between you and me, { will not
hold myself as being in that position. What you have said shall
be as though it had not been said; and as I am not, myself, taking
any part in the proceedings, this may with absolute strictness be
the case. But——’
‘ If I. have said anything that I ought not to have said—’ began
Sir Peregrine.
‘ Allow me for one moment,’ continued Mr. Round. ‘The fault
is mine, if there be a fault, as I should have explained to you that
the matter could hardly be discussed with propriety between us.’
‘Mr. Round, I offer you my apology from the bottom of my
heart.’ ;
‘No, Sir Peregrine. You shall offer me no apology, nor will I
accept any. I know no words strong enough to convey to you my
esteem and respect for your character.’
‘ Sir!’
‘But I will ask you to listen to me for a moment. If any com-
promise be contemplated, it should be arranged by the advice of
Mr. Furnival and of Mr. Chaffanbrass, and the terms should be
settled between Mr. Aram and my son. But I cannot myself say
that I see any possibility of such a result. It is not however for
me to advise. Ifon that matter you wish for advice, I think that
you had better see Mr. Furnival.’
‘ Ah?’ said Sir Peregrine, telling more and more of the story by
every utterance he made.
‘ And now it only remains for me to assure you once more that
the words which have been spoken in this room shall be as though
they had not been spoken.’ And then Mr. Round made it very
clear that there was nothing more to be said between them on the
subject of Lady Mason. Sir Peregrine repeated his apology, col-
lected his hat and gloves, and with slow step made his way down
128 ORLEY FARM.
to his cab, while Mr. Round absolutely waited upon him till he saw
him seated within the vehicle.
‘So Mat is right after all,’ said the old attorney to himself as he
stood alone with his back to his own fire, thursting his hands into
his trousers-pockets. ‘So Mat is right after all! The meaning
of this exclamation will be plain to my readers. Mat had declaved
to his father his conviction that Lady Mason had forged the codicil
in question, and the father was now also convinced that she had
done so. ‘ Unfortunate woman!’ he said ; ‘ poor, wretched woman!’
And then he began to calculate what might yet be her chances of
escape. On the whole he thought that she would escape. ‘ Twenty
years of possession,’ he said to himself; ‘and so excellent a cha-
racter!’ But, nevertheless, he repeated to himself over and over
again that she was a wretched, miserable woman.
We may say that all the persons most concerned were convinced,
or nearly convinced, of Lady Mason’s guilt. Among her own
friends Mr. Furnival had no doubt of it, and Mr, Chattanbrass and
Mr. Aram but very little ; whereas Sir Peregrine and Mrs. Orme of
course had none. On the other side Mr. Mason and Mr. Dockwrath
were both fully sure of the truth, and the two Rounds, father and
son, were quite of the same mind. And yet, except with Dock-
wrath and Sir Peregrine, the most honest and the most dishonest of
the lot, the opinion was that she would escape. ‘These were five
lawyers concerned, not one of whom gave to the course of justice
credit that it would ascertain the truth, and not one of whom
wished that the truth should be ascertained. Surely had they been
honest-minded in their profession they would all have so wished ;—
have so wished, or else have abstained from all professional inter-
course in the matter. J cannot understand how any gentleman can
be willing to use his intellect for the propagation of untruth, and to
be paid for so using it. As to My. Chaffanbrass and Mr. Solomon
Aram,—to them the escape of a criminal under their auspices would
of course be a matter of triumph. To such work for many years
had they applied their sharp intellects and legal knowledge. But
of Mr. Furnival ;—what shall we say of him ?
Sir Peregrine went home very sad at heart, and crept silently
back into his own library. In the evening, when he was alone
with Mrs. Orme, he spoke one word to her. ‘ Edith, he said, ‘I
have seen Mr. Round. We can do nothing for her there.’
‘I feared not,’ said she.
‘No; we can do nothing for her there.’
After that Sir Peregrine took no step in the matter. What step
could he take? But he sat over his fire in his library, day after
day, thinking over it all, and waiting till those terrible assizes
should have come.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE LOVES AND HOPES OF ALBERT FITZALLEN.
Fenix Granam, when he left poor Mary Snow, did not go on im-
mediately to the doctor’s shop. He had made up his mind that
Mary Snow should never be his wife, and therefore considered it
wise to lose no time in making such arrangements as might be
necessary both for his release and for hers. But, nevertheless, he
had not the heart to go about the work the moment that he left her.
He passed by the apothecary’s, and looking in saw a young man
working sedulously ata pestle. If Albert Fitzallen were fit to be
her husband and willing to be so, poor as he was himself, he would
still make some pecuniary sacrifice by which he might quiet his
own conscience and make Mary’s marriage possible. He still had
a sum of 1,200). belonging to him, that being all his remaining
capital ; and the half of that he would give to Mary as her dower.
So in two days he returned, and again looking in at the doctor's
shop, again saw the young man at his work.
« Yes, sir, my name is Albert Fitzallen,’ said the medical aspirant,
coming round the counter. There was no one else in the shop, and
Felix hardly knew how to accost him on so momentous a subject,
while he was still in charge of all that store of medicine, and liable
to be called away at any moment to relieve the ailments of Clapham.
Albert Fitzallen was a pale-faced, light-haired youth, with an in-
cipient moustache, with his hair parted in equal divisions over his
forehead, with elaborate shirt-cuffs elaborately turned back, and
with a white apron tied round him so that he might pursue his
vocation without injury to his nether garments. His face, however,
was not bad, nor mean, and had there not been about him a little
air of pretension, assumed perhaps to carry off the combined apron
and beard, Felix would have regarded him altogether with favour-
able eyes. *
‘Is it in the medical way” asked Fitzallen, when Graham sug-
gested that he should step out with him for a few minutes. Graham
explained that it was not in the medical way,—that it was in a way
altogether of a private nature ; and then the young man, pulling off
his apron and wiping his hands on a thoroughly medicated towel,
invoked the master of the establishment from an inner room, and in
VOL, II. K
180 ORLEY FARM.
a few minutes Mary Snow’s two lovers were walking together, side
by side, along the causeway.
‘I believe you know Miss Snow,’ said Felix, rushing at once into
the middle of all those delicate circumstances.
Albert Fitzallen drew himself up, and declared that he had that
honour.
‘T also know her,’ said Felix. ‘My name is Felix Graham——’
“Oh, sir, very well,’ said Albert. The street in which they were
standing was desolate, and the young man was able to assume a look
of decided hostility without encountering any other eyes than those
of his rival. ‘If you have anything to say to me, sir, I am quite
prepared to listen to you—to listen to you, and to answer you.
have heard your name mentioned by Miss Snow.’ And Albert
Fitzallen stood his ground as though he were at once going to cover
himself with his pistol arm.
‘Yes, I know you have. Mary has told me what has passed be-
tween you. You may regard me, Mr. Fitzallen, as Mary’s best and
surest friend.’
‘I know you have been a friend to her; Iam aware of that.
But, Mr. Graham, if you will allow me to say so, friendship is one
thing, and the warm love of a devoted bosom is another.’
‘ Quite so,’ said Felix.
¢ A woman’s heart is a treasure not to be bought by any efforts of
friendship,’ said Fitzallen.
‘T fully agree with you there,’ said Graham.
‘ Far be it from me to make any boast,’ continued the other, ‘or
even to hint that I have gained a place in that lady’s affections. I
know my own position too well, and say proudly that I am existing
only on hope.’ Here, to show his pride, he hit himself with his closed
fist on his shirt-front. ‘But, Mr. Graham, I am free to declare,
even in your presence, though you may be her best and surest
friend,—and there was not wanting, from the tone of his voice a
strong flavour of scorn as he repeated these words—‘ that I do
exist on hope, let your claims be what they will. If you desire to
make such hope on my part a cause of quarrel, I have nothing to
say against it.” And then he twirled all that he could twirl of that
incipient moustache.
‘ By no means,’ said Graham.
‘ Oh, very well,’ said Fitzallen. ‘Then we understand that the
arena of love is open to us both. Ido not fail to appreciate the
immense advantages which you enjoy in this struggle” And then
Fitzallen looked up into Graham’s ugly face, and thought of his
own appearance in the looking-glass.
‘What I want to know is this,’ said Felix. ‘If you marry
Mary Snow, what means have you of maintaining her? Would
your mother receive her into her house? I presume you are noté
THE LOVES AND HOPES OF ALBERT YiTZALLEN. 131
partner in that shop; but would it be possible to get you in as a
partner, supposing Mary were to marry you and had a little money
as her fortune ?”
‘Eh!’ said Albert, dropping his look of pride, allowing his hand
to fall from his lips, and standing still before his companion with
his mouth wide open.
‘ Of course you mean honestly by dear Mary.’
‘ Oh, sir, yes, on the honour of a gentleman. My intentions, sir,
are ——. Mr. Graham, I love that young lady with a devotion of
heart, that—that—that—. Then you don’t mean to marry her
yourself; eh, Mr. Graham ?”
“No, Mr. Fitzallen, I do not. And now, if you wiil so far
confide in me, we will talk over your prospects.’
‘Oh, very well. I’m sure you are very kind. But Miss Snow
did tell me——’
« Yes, I know she did, and she was quite right. But as you said
just now, a woman’s heart cannot be bought by friendship. I have
not been a bad friend to Mary, but I had no right to expect that I
could win her love in that way. Whether or no you may be able to
succeed, I will not say, but I have abandoned the pursuit.’ In all
which Graham intended to be exceedingly honest, but was, in truth,
rather hypocritical.
‘ Then the course is open to me,’ said Fitzallen.
* Yes, the course is open,’ answered Graham, :
* But the race has still to be run. Don’t you think that Miss
Snow is of her nature very—very cold?
Felix remembered the one kiss beneath the lamp-post,—the one
kiss given, and received. He remembered also that Mary’s acquaint-"
ance with the gentleman must necessarily have been short; and he
made no answer to this question. But he made a comparison.
What would Madeline have said and done had he attempted such
an iniquity? And he thought of her flashing ‘eyes and terrible
scorn, of the utter indignation of all the Staveley family, and of
the wretched abyss into which the offender would have fallen.
He brought back the subject at once to the young man’s means, ©
to his mother, and to the doctor’s shop; and though he learned
nothing that was very promising, neither did he learn anything -
that was the reverse. Albert Fitzallen did not ride a very high :
horse when he learned that his supposed rival was so anxious to
assist him. He was quite willing to be guided by Graham, and, in |
that matter of the proposed partnership, was sure that old Balsam, ‘
the owner of the business, would be glad to take a sum of money
down. ‘He has a son of his own,’ said Albert, ‘ but he don’t take
to it at all. He’s gone into wine and spirits; but he don’t sell half
as much as he drinks,’
Felix then proposed that he should call on Mrs. Fitzallen, and to
: K 2
«
132 ORLEY FARM.
this Albert gave a blushing consent. ‘Mother has heard of it,
said Albert, ‘but I don’t exactly know how.’ Perhaps Mrs. Fitz-
allen was as attentive as Mrs. Thomas had been to stray documents
packed away in odd places. ‘ And I suppose I may call on—on—
Mary?’ asked the lover, as Graham took his leave. But Felix
could give no authority for this, and explained that Mrs. Thomas
might be found to bea dragon still guarding the Hesperides. Would
it not be better to wait till Mary’s father had been informed? and
then, if all things went well, he might prosecute the affair in due
form and as an acknowledged lover.
All this was very nice, and as it was quite unexpected, Fitzallen
could not but regard himself as a fortunate young man. He had
never contemplated the possibility of Mary Snow being an heiress.
And when his mother had spoken to him of the hopelessness of his
passion, had suggested that he might perhaps marry his Mary in
five or six years. Now the dearest wish of his heart was brought
close within his reach, and he must have been a happy man. But
yet, though this certainly was so, nevertheless, there was a feeling
of coldness about his love, and almost of disappointment as he again
took his place behind the counter. The sorrows of Lydia in the
play when she finds that her passion meets with general approba-
tion are very absurd, but, nevertheless, are quite true to nature,
Lovers would be great losers if the path of love were always to ru
smooth. Under such a dispensation, indeed, there would probably be
no lovers. The matter would be too tame. Albert did not probably
bethink himself of a becoming disguise, as did Lydia,—of an amiable
ladder of ropes, of a conscious moon, or a Scotch parson ; but he did
feel, in some undefined manner, that the romance of his life had
been taken away from him. Five minutes under a lamp-post with
Mary Snow was sweeter to him than the promise of a whole bevy of
evenings spent in the same society, with all the comforts of his
mother’s drawing-room around him. Ah, yes, dear readers—my
male readers of course 1 mean—were not those minutes under the
lamp-post always very pleasant ?
But Graham encountered none of this feeling when he discussed
the same subject with Albert’s mother. She was sufficiently alive
to the material view of the matter, and knew how much of a man’s
married happiness depends on his supplies of bread and butter.
Six hundred pounds! Mr. Graham was very kind—very kind
indeed. She hadn’t a word to say against Mary Snow. She had
seen her, and thought her very pretty and modest looking. Albert
was certainly warmly attached to the young lady. Of that she was
quite certain. And she would say this of Albert,—that a better-
disposed young man did not exist anywhere. He came home quite
regular to his meals, and spent ten hours a day behind the counter
in Mr. Balsam’s shop—ten hours a day, Sundays included, which
THE LOVES AND HOPES OF ALBERT FITZALLEN. 133
Mrs. Fitzallen regarded as a great drawback to the medical line—
as should I also, most undoubtedly. But six hundred pounds would
make a great difference. Mrs. Fitzallen little doubted but that sum
would tempt Mr. Balsam into a partnership, or perhaps the five
hundred, leaving one hundred for furniture. In such a case
Albert would spend his Sundays at home, of course. After that, so
much having been settled, Felix Graham got into an omnibus and
took himself back to his own chambers.
So far was so good. This idea of a model wife had already become
a very expensive idea, and in winding it up to its natural conclusion
poor Graham was willing to spend almost every shilling that he
could call his own. But there was still another difficulty in his
way. What would Snow pére say? Snow pére was, he knew, a
man with whom dealings would be more difficult than with Albert
Fitzallen. And then, seeing that he had already promised to give
his remaining possessions to Albert Fitzallen, with what could he
bribe Snow pére to abandon that natural ambition to have a bar-
rister for his son-in-law? In these days, too, Snow pere had dero-
gated even from the position in which Graham had first known
him, and had become but little better than a drunken, begging
impostor. What a father-in-law to have had! And then Felix
Graham thought of Judge Staveley.
He sent, however, to the engraver, and the man was not long in
obeying the summons. In latter days Graham had not seen him
frequently having bestowed his alms through Mary, and was shocked
at the unmistakable evidence of the gin-shop which the man’s appear-
ance and voice betrayed. How dreadful to the sight are those
watery eyes; that red, uneven, pimpled nose; those fallen cheeks ;
and that hanging, slobbered mouth! Look at the uncombed hair,
the beard half shorn, the weak, impotent gait of the man, and the
tattered raiment, all eloquent of gin! You would fain hold your
nose when he comes nigh you, he carries with him so foul an
evidence of his only and his hourly indulgence. You would do so,
had you not still a respect for his feelings, which he himself has
entirely forgotten to maintain. How terrible is that absolute loss
of all personal dignity which the drunkard is obliged to undergo!
And then his voice! Every tone has been formed by gin, and tells
of the havoc which the compound has made within his throat. I
do not know whether such a man as this is not the vilest thing
which grovels on God’s earth. There are women whom we affect
to scorn with the full power of our contempt; but I doubt whether
any woman sinks to a depth so low as that. She also may be a
drunkard, and as such may more nearly move our pity and affect
our hearts, but I do not think she ever becomes so nauseous a thing
as the man that has abandoned all the hopes of life for gin. You
ean still touch her;—ay, and if the task be in one’s way, can
134 ORLEY FARM.
touch her gently, striving to bring her back to decency. But the
other! Well, one should be willing to touch him too, to make that
attempt of bringing back upon him also. I can only say that the task
is both nauseous and unpromising. Look at him as he stands there
before the foul, reeking, sloppy bar, with the glass in his hand,
which he has just emptied. See the grimace with which he puts
it down, as though the dram had been almost too unpalatable. It
is the last touch of hypocrisy with which he attempts to cover the
offence ;—as though he were to say, ‘I do it for my stomach’s sake ;
but you know how I abhor it.’ Then he skulks sullenly away,
speaking a word to no one,—shuffling with his feet, shaking him-
self in his foul rags, pressing himself into a heap—as though striving
to drive the warmth of the spirit into his extremities! And there
he stands lounging at the corner of the street, till his short
patience is exhausted, and he returns with his last penny for the
other glass. When that has been swallowed the policeman is his
guardian.
Reader, such as you and I have come to that, when abandoned by
the respect which a man owes to himself. May God in his merey
watch over us and protect us both!
Such a man was Snow pére as he stood before Graham in his
chambers in the Temple. He could not ask him to sit down, so he
himself stood up as he talked to him. At first the man was civil,
‘twirling his old hat about, and shifting from one foot to the other ;—
very civil, and also somewhat timid, for he knew that he was half
drunk at the moment. But when he began to ascertain what was
Graham’s object in sending for him, and to understand that the
gentleman before him did not propose to himself the honour of being
his son-in-law, then his civility left him, and, drunk as he was, he
spoke out his mind with sufficient freedom,
‘You mean to say, Mr. Graham ’—and under the effect of gin he
turned the name into Gorm—‘ that you are going to throw that
young girl over?
‘I mean to say no such thing. I shall do for her all that is in
. my power. Andif that is not as much as she deserves, it will, at
‘ any rate, be more than you deserve for her.’
‘And you won’t marry her?’
‘No; I shall not marry her. Nor does she wish it. I trust that
she will be engaged, with my full approbation——’
‘ And what the deuce, sir, is your full approbation to mo? Whose
child is she, I should like to know? Look here, Mr. Gorm; per-
haps you forget that you wrote me this letter when I allowed you
to have the charge of that young girl?’ And he took out from his
breast a very greasy pocket-book, and displayed to Felix his own
much-worn letter,—holding it, however, at a distance, so that it
should not be torn from his hands by any sudden raid. ‘Do you
?
THE LOVES AND HOPES OF ALBERT FITZALLEN. 135
think, sir, | would have given up my child if I didn’t know she was to
be married respectable? My child is as dear to me as another man’s.’ .
‘Lhope she is. And you are a very lucky fellow to have her so |
well provided for. I’ve told you all I’ve got to say, and now you
may go.’
‘Mr. Gorm!’
‘ T’ve nothing more to say; and if I had, I would not say it to you
now. Your child shall be taken care of.’
‘ That’s what I call pretty cool on the part of any gen’leman.
And you're to break your word,—a regular breach of promise, and
nothing aint to come of it! I'll tell you what, Mr. Gorm, you'll
find that something will come of it. What do you think I took this
letter for ?”
‘You took it, I hope, for Mary’s protection.’
* And by she shall be protected.’
‘She shall, undoubtedly; but I fear not by you. For the present
I will protect her; and I hope that soon a husband will do so who
will love her. Now, Mr. Snow, I’ve told you all I’ve got to say,
and I must trouble you to leave me.’
Nevertheless there were many more words between them before
Graham could find himself alone in his chambers. Though Snow pére
might be a thought tipsy—a sheet or so in the wind, as folks say, he
was not more tipsy than was customary with him, and knew pretty well
what he was about. ‘And what am I to do with myself, Mr. Gorm ?’
he asked in a snivelling voice, when the idea began to strike him
that it might perhaps be held by the courts of law that his intended
son-in-law was doing well by his daughter.
‘Work,’ said Graham, turning upon him sharply and almost
fiercely.
‘ That's all very well. It’s very well to say “ Work!”’
* You'll find it well to do it, too. Work, and don’t drink. You
hardly think, I suppose, that if I had married your daughter I should
have found myself obliged to support you in idleness?
“It would have been a great comfort in my old age to have had
a daughter’s house to go to,’ said Snow, naively, and now reduced
to lachrymose distress.
But when he found that Felix would do nothing for him ; that he
would not on the present occasion lend him a sovereign, or even
half a crown, he again became indignant and paternal, and in this
state of mind was turned out of the room.
‘ Heaven and earth!’ said Felix to himself, clenching his hands
and striking the table with both of them at the same moment. That
was the man with whom he had proposed to link himself in the
closest ties of family connection. Albert Fitzallen did not know
Mr. Snow; but it might be a question whether it would not be
Graham’s duty to introduce them to each other.
CHAPTER XVIII.
MISS STAVELEY DECLINES TO EAT MINCED VEAL.
Tue house at Noningsby was now very quiet. All the visitors had
gone, including even the Arbuthnots. Felix Graiam and Sophia
Furnival, that terrible pair of guests, had relieved Mrs. Staveley of
their presence; but, alas! the mischief they had done remained
behind them. The house was very quiet, for Augustus and the
judge were up in town during the greater part of the week, and
Madeline and her mother were alone. The judge was to come back
to Noningsby but once before he commenced the circuit which was
to terminate at Alston; and it seemed to be acknowledged now on
all sides that nothing more of importance was to be done or said in
that locality until after Lady Mason’s trial.
It may be imagined that poor Madeline was not very happy.
Felix had gone away, having made no sign, and she knew that her
mother rejoiced that he had so gone. She never accused her mother
of cruelty, even within her own heart, She seemed to realize to
herself the assurance that a marriage with the man she loved was a
happiness which she had no right to expect. She knew that her
father was rich. She was aware that in all probability her own
fortune would be considerable. She was quite sure that Felix
Graham was clever and fit to make his way through the world.
And yet she did not think it hard that she should be separated from
him. She acknowledged from the very first that he was not the
sort of man whom she ought to have loved, and therefore she was
prepared to submit.
It was, no doubt, the fact that Felix Graham had never whis-
pered to her a word of love, and that therefore, on that ground,
she had no excuse for hope. But, had that been all, she would
not have despaired. Had that been all, she might have doubted,
but her doubt would have been strongly mingled with the sweet-
ness of hope. He had never whispered a syllable of love, but she
had heard the tone of his voice as she spoke a word to him at his.
chamber door; she had seen his eyes as they fell on her when he
was lifted into the carriage; sho had felt the tremor of his touch
on that evening when she walked up to him across the drawing-
room and shook hands with him. Such a girl as Madeline Staveley
does not analyze her feelings on such a matter, and then draw her
conclusions. Buta conclusion is drawn; the mind does receive an
MISS STAVELEY DECLINES TO EAT MINCED VEAL. 137
impression; and the conclusion and impression are as true as thougl.
they had been reached by the aid of logical reasoning. Had the
match been such as her mother would have approved, she would
have had a hope as to Felix Graham’s love—strong enough for
happiness.
As it was, there was no use in hoping; and therefore she resolved
—having gone through much logical reasoning on this head—that
by her all ideas of love must be abandoned. As regarded herself, she
must be content to rest by her mother’s side as a flower ungathered.
That she could marry no man without the approval of her father
and mother was a thing to her quite certain; but it was, at any
rate, as certain that she could marry no man without her own
approval, Felix Graham was beyond her reach. That verdict she
herself pronounced, and to it she submitted. But Peregrine Orme
was still more distant from her ;—Peregrine Orme, or any other of
the curled darlings who might come that way playing the part of a
suitor. She knew what she owed to her mother, but she also knew
her own privileges.
There was nothing said on the subject between the mother and
child during three days. Lady Staveley was more than ordinarily
affectionate to her daughter, and in that way made known the
thoughts which were oppressing her; but she did so in no other
way. All this Madeline understood, and thanked her mother with
the sweetest smiles and the most constant companionship. Nor
was she, even now, absolutely unhappy, or wretchedly miserable ;
as under such circumstances would be the case with many girls,
She knew all that she was prepared to abandon, but she understood
also how much remained to her. Her life was her own, and with
her life the energy to use it. Her soul was free. And her heart,
though burdened with love, could endure its load without sinking.
Let him go forth on his career. She would remain in the shade,
and be contented while she watched it.
So strictly wise and philosophically serene had Madeline become
within a few days of Graham’s departure, that she snubbed poor
Mrs. Baker, when that goodnatured and sharp-witted housekeepor
said a word or two in praise of her late patient.
‘We are very lonely, aint we, miss, without Mr. Graham to look
after ? said Mrs. Baker.
‘I’m sure we are all very glad that he has so far recovered as to
be able to be moved.’
‘That's in course,—though I still say that he went before he
ought. He was such a nice gentleman. Where there’s one better,
there’s twenty worse; and as full of cleverness as an egg’s full of
meat.’ In answer to which Madeline said nothing.
‘At any rate, Miss Madeline, you ought to say a word for him,’
continued Mrs, Baker; ‘for he used to worship the sound of your
138 ORLEY FARM.
voice. I’ve known him lay there and listen, listen, listen, for your
very footfall.’
‘How can you talk such stuff, Mrs. Baker? You have never
known anything of the kind—and even if he had, how could you
know it? You should not talk such nonsense to me, and I beg you
won't again.’ Then she went away, and began to read a paper
about sick people written by Florence Nightingale.
But it was by no means Lady Staveley’s desire that her daughter
should take to the Florence Nightingale line of life. The charities
of Noningsby were done on a large scale, in a quiet, handsome,
methodical manner, and were regarded by the mistress of the
mansion as a very material part of her life’s duty; but she would
have been driven distracted had she been told that a daughter of
hers was about to devote herself exclusively to charity. Her ideas
of general religion were the same. Morning and evening prayers,
church twice on Sundays, attendance at the Lord’s table at any
rate once a month, were to herself—and in her estimation for her
own family—essentials of life. And they had on her their prac-
tical effects. She was not given to backbiting—though, when
stirred by any motive near to her own belongings, she would say
an illnatured word or two. She was mild and forbearing to her
inferiors. Her hand was open to the poor. She was devoted to
her husband and her children. In no respect was she self-seeking
or self-indulgent. But, nevertheless, she appreciated thoroughly
the comforts of a good income—for herself and for her children.
She liked to see nice-dressed and nice-mannered people about. her,
preferring those whose fathers and mothers were nice before them.
She liked to go about in her own carriage, comfortably. She liked
the feeling that her husband was a judge, and that he and she were
therefore above other lawyers and other lawyers’ wives. She would
not like to have seen Mrs. Furnival walk out of a room before her,
nor perhaps to see Sophia Furnival when married take precedence
of her own married daughter. She liked to live in a large place
like Noningsby, and preferred country society to that of the
neighbouring town.
It will be said that I have drawn an impossible character, and
depicted a woman who served both God and Mammon. To this
accusation I will not plead, but will ask my accusers whether in
their life’s travail they have met no such ladies as Lady Staveley?
But such as she was, whether good or bad, she had no desire
whatever that her daughter should withdraw herself from the
world, and give up to sick women what was meant for mankind.
Her idea of a woman’s duties comprehended the birth, bringing up,
education, and settlement in life of children, also due attendance
upon a husband, with a close regard to his special taste in cookery.
There was her granddaughter Marian. She was already thinking
MISS STAVELEY DECLINES TO EAT MINCED VEAL. 1389
what sort of a wife she would make, and what comimencements of
education would best fit her to be a good mother. Itis hardly too
much to say that Marian’s future children were already a subject
of care to her. Such being her disposition, it was by no means
matter of joy to her when she found that Madeline was laying out
for herself little ways of life, tending in some slight degree to the
monastic. Nothing was said about it, but she fancied that Madeline
had doffed a ribbon or two in her usual evening attire. That she
yead during certain fixed hours in the morning was very manifest.
As to that daily afternoon service at four o’clock—she had very
often attended that, and it was hardly worthy of remark that she
now went to it every day. But there seemed at this time to be a
monotonous regularity about her visits to the poor, which told to
Lady Staveley’s mind—she hardly knew what tale. She herself
visited the poor, seeing some of them almost daily. If it was foul
weather they came to her, and if it was fair weather she went to
them. But Madeline, without saying a word to any one, had
adopted a plan of going out exactly at the same hour with exactly
the same object, in all sorts of weather. All this made Lady
Staveley uneasy; and then, by way of counterpoise, she talked of
balls, and offered Madeline carte blanche as to a new dress for that
special one which would grace the assizes. ‘I don’t think I shall
go, said Madeline; and thus Lady Staveley became really unhappy.
Would not Felix Graham be better than no son-in-law? When
some one had once very strongly praised Florence Nightingale in
Lady Staveley’s presence, she had stoutly declared her opinion that
it was a young woman’s duty to get married. For myself, I am
inclined to agree with her. Then came the second Friday after
Graham’s departure, and Lady Staveley observed, as she and her
daughier sat at dinner alone, that Madeline would eat nothing but
potatoes and seakale. ‘My dear, you will be ill if you don’t eat
some meat.’
‘Oh no, I shall not,’ said Madeline with her prettiest smile.
‘ But you always used to like minced veal.’
‘So I do, but I won’t have any to-day, mamma, thank you.’
Then Lady Staveley resolved that she would tell the judge that
Felix Graham, bad as he might be, might come there if he pleased.
Even Felix Graham would be better than no son-in-law at all.
On the following day, the Saturday, the judge came down with
Augustus, to spend his last Sunday at home before the beginning of
his circuit, and some little conversation respecting Felix Graham
did take place between him and his wife.
‘If they are both really fond of each other, they had better marry,’
said the judge, curtly.
hd it is terrible to think of their having no income,’ said his
wife.
140 ORLEY FARM.
“We must get them an income. You'll find that Graham will
fall on his legs at last.’
‘ He’s a very long time before he begins to use them,’ said Lady
Staveley. ‘And then you know The Cleeve is such a nice property,
and Mr. Orme is -
‘But, my love, it seems that she does not like Mr. Orme.’
‘No, she doesn’t, said the poor mother in a tone of voice that
was very lachrymose. ‘ But if she would only wait she might like
him,—might she not now? He is such a very handsome young
man.’
‘Ifyou ask me, I don’t think his beauty will do it.’
‘I don’t suppose she cares for that sort of thing,’ said Lady
Staveley, almost crying. ‘But I’m sure of this, if she were to go
and make a nun of herself, it would break my heart,—it would,
indeed. I should never hold up my head again.’
What could Lady Staveley’s idea have been of the sorrows of
some other mothers, whose daughters throw themselves away after
a different fashion ?
After lunch on Sunday the judge asked his daughter to walk
with him, and on that occasion the second church service was
abandoned. She got on her bonnet and gloves, her walking-boots
and winter shawl, and putting her arm happily and comfortably
within his, started for what she knew would be a long walk.
‘ We'll get as far as the bottom of Cleeve Hill,’ said the judge.
Now the bottom of Cleeve Hill, by the path across the fields and
the common, was five miles from Noningsby.
‘ Oh, as for that, T’ll walk to the top if you like,’ said Madeline.
“Ifyou do, my dear, you'll have to go up alone,’ said the judge.
And so they started.
There was a crisp, sharp enjoyment attached: to a long walk
with her father which Madeline always loved, and on the present
occasion she was willing to be very happy; but as she started,
with her arm beneath his, she feared she knew not what. She had
a secret, and her father might touch upon it; she had a sore, though
it was not an unwholesome festering sore, and her father might
probe the wound. There was, therefore, the slightest shade of
hypocrisy in the alacrity with which she prepared herself, and in
the pleasant tone of her voice as she walked down the avenue
towards the gate.
But by the time that they had gone a mile, when their feet had
left the road and were pressing the grassy field-path, there was no
longer any hypocrisy in her happiness. Madeline believed that no
human being could talk as did her father, and on this occasion he
came out with his freshest thoughts and his brightest wit. Nor did
he, by any means, have the talk all to himself. The delight of Judge
Staveley’s conversation consisted chiefly in that—that though he
MISS STAVELEY DECLINES TO EAT MrNCED VEAL. 141
might bring on to the carpet all the wit and all the information
going, he rarely uttered much beyond his own share of words. And
now they talked of pictures and politics—of the new gallery that
was not to be built at Charing Cross, and the great onslaught which
was not to end in the dismissal of Ministers. And then they
got to books—to novels, new poetry, magazines, essays, and re~
views ; and with the slightest touch of pleasant sarcasm the judge
passed sentence on the latest efforts of his literary contemporaries.
And thus at last they settled down on a certain paper which had
lately appeared in a certain Quarterly—a paper on a grave subject,
which had been much discussed—and the judge on a sudden stayed
his hand, and spared his raillery. ‘You have not heard, I suppose,
who wrote that? said he.. No; Madeline had not heard. She
would much like to know. When young people begin their world
of reading there is nothing so pleasant to them as knowing the
little secrets of literature; who wrote this and that, of which folk
are then talking ;—who manages this periodical, and puts the salt
and pepper into those reviews. The judge always knew these
events of the inner literary world, and would communicate them
freely to Madeline as they walked. No; there was no longer the
slightest touch of hypocrisy in her pleasant manner and eager
voice as she answered, ‘ No, papa, I have not heard. Was it Mr.
So-and-so ?” and she named an ephemeral literary giant of the day.
‘No, said the judge, ‘it was not So-and-so; but yet you might
guess, as you know the gentleman.’ Then the slight shade of
hypocrisy came upon her again in a moment. ‘She couldn’t
guess,’ she said; ‘she didn’t know.’ But as she thus spoke the tone
of her voice was altered. ‘ That article,’ said the judge, ‘ was
written by Felix Graham. It is uncommonly clever, and yet there
are a great many people who abuse it.’
And now all conversation was stopped. Poor Madeline, who
had been so ready with her questions, so eager with her answers,
so communicative and so inquiring, was stricken dumb on the
instant. She had ceased for some time to lean upon his arm, and
therefore he could not feel her hand tremble; and he was too
generous and too kind to look into her face; but he knew that he
had touched the. fibres of her heart, and that all her presence of
‘mind had for the moment fled from her. Of course such was the
case, and of course he knew it. Had he not brought her out there,
that they might be alone together when he subjected her to the
violence of this shower-bath ?
‘ Yes,’ he continued, ‘ that was written by our friend Graham.
Do you remember, Madeline, the conversation which you and I had
about him in the library some time since?’
‘ Yes,’ she said, ‘ she remembered it.’
* And so do I,’ said the judge, ‘and have thought much about it
142 ORLEY FARM.
since. A very clever fellow is Felix Graham. There can be ne
doubt of that.’
‘Is he” said Madeline.
I am inclined to think that the judge also had lost something of
his presence of mind, or, at least, of his usual power of conversation.
He had brought his daughter out there with the express purpose cf
saying to her a special word or two; he had beat very wide about
the bush with the view of mentioning a certain name; and now
that his daughter was there, and the name had been mentioned, it
seemed that he hardly knew how to proceed.
‘Yes, he is clever enough,’ repeated the judge, ‘clever enough;
and of high principles and an honest purpose. The fault: which
people find with him is this,—that he is not practical. He won’t
take the world as he finds it. If he can mend it, well and good ; we
all ought to do something to mend it; but while we are mending it
we must live in it.’
‘Yes, we must live in it,’ said Madeline, who hardly knew at the
moment whether it would be better to live or die in it. Had her
father remarked that they must all take wings and fly to heaven,
she would have assented.
Then the judge walked on a few paces in silence, bethinking
himself that he might as well speak out at once the words which he
had to say. ‘Madeline, my darling,’ said he, ‘have you the
courage to tell me openly what you think of Felix Graham?’
* What I think of him, papa”
‘Yes, my child. It may be that you are in some difficulty at this
moment, and that I can help you. It may be that your heart is
sadder than it would be if you knew all my thoughts and wishes
respecting you, and all your mother’s. Ihave never had many
secrets from my children, Madeline, and I should be pleased now if
you could see into my mind and know all my thoughts and wishes
as they regard you.’
* Dear papa!’
‘To see you happy—you and Augustus and Isabella—that is now
our happiness; not to see you rich or great. High position anda
plentiful income are great blessings in this world, so that they
be achieved without a stain. But even in this world they are not
the greatest blessings. There are things much sweeter than them,’
As he said this, Madeline did not attempt to answer him, but she
put her arm once more within his, and clung to his side.
‘ Money and rank are only good, if every step by which they are
gained be good also. I should never blush to see my girl the wife
of a poor man whom she loved; but I should be stricken to the
core of my heart if I knew that she had become the wife of a rich
man whom she did not love.’
‘Papa!’ she said, clinging to him, She had meant to assure him
MISS STAVELEY DECLINES TO EAT MINCED VEAL. 143
that that sorrow should never be his, but she could not get beyond
the one word. :
«If you love this man, let him come,’ said the judge, carried by
his feelings somewhat beyond the point to which he had intended to
go. ‘I know no harm of him. I know nothing but good of him.
If you are sure of your own heart, let it be so. He shall be to me
as another son,—to me and to your mother. Tell me, Madeline,
shall it be so?
She was sure enough of her own heart; but how was she to be
sure of that other heart? ‘It shall be so,’ said her father. Buta
man vould not be turned into a lover and a husband because she
and her father agreed to desire it;—not even if her mother would
join in that wish. She had confessed to her mother that she loved
this man, and the confession had been repeated to her father. But
she had never expressed even a hope that she was loved in return.
‘ But he has never spoken to me, papa,’ she said, whispering the
words ever so sofily less the winds should carry them.
‘No; I know he has never spoken to you,’ said the judge. ‘ He
told me so himself. I like him the better for that,’
So then there had been other communications made besides that
which she had made to her mother. Mr. Graham had spoken to her
father, and had spoken to him about her. In what way had he
done this, and how had he spoken? What had been his object, and
when had it been done? Had she been indiscreet, and allowed him
to read her secret? And then a horrid thought came across her
mind. Was he to come there and offer her his hand because he
pitied and was sorry forher? The Friday fastings and the evening
church and the sick visits would be better far than that. She could
not however muster courage to ask her father any question as to
that interview between him and Mr, Graham.
* Well, my love;’ he said, ‘I know it is impertinent to ask a
young lady to speak on such a subject; but fathers are imperti-
nent, Be frank with me. Ihave told you what I think, and your
mamma agrees with me. Young Mr. Orme would have been her
favourite ;
« Oh, papa, that is impossible.’
‘So I perceive, my dear, and therefore we will ‘say no more
about it. I only mention his name because I want you to under-
stand that you may speak to your mamma quite openly on the
subject. He is a fine young fellow, is Peregrine Orme.’
‘ I’m sure he is, papa.’ :
‘ But that is no reason you should marry him if you don’t like
him.’
‘ I could never like him,—in that way.’
‘ Very well, my dear. There is an end of that, and I’m sorry for
him. I think that if I had been a young man at The Cleeve, I
144 ORLEY FARM.
should have done just the same. And now let us decide this im-
portant question. When Master Graham’s ribs, arms, and collar
bones are a little stronger, shall we ask him to come back to
Noningsby ”
‘ If you please, papa.’
‘Very well, we'll have him here for the assize week. Poor
fellow, he’ll have a hard job of work on hand just then, and won't
have much time for philandering. With Chaffanbrass to watch him
on his own side, and Leatherham on the other, I don’t envy him his
position. I almost think I should keep my arm in the sling’till the
assizes were over, by way of exciting a little pity.’ .
‘Is Mr. Graham going to defend Lady Mason ?
* To help to do so, my dear.’
‘ But, papa, she is innocent; don’t you feel sure of that ?”
The judge was not quite so sure as he had been once. However,
he said nothing of his dotibts to Madeline. ‘ Mr. Graham’s task on
that account will only be the more trying if it becomes difficult to
-establish her innocence.’ - -
‘ Poor lady ! said Madeline.. ‘You won’t be the judge; will you,
papa?
“No, certainly not. I would. have preferred to have gone any
other circuit than to have presided in a case affecting so near a
neighbour, and I may almost say a friend. Baron Maltby will sit in
that court.’
‘ And will Mr. Graham have to do much, papa ?’
‘It will be an occasion of very great anxiety to him, no doubt.’
And then they began to return home,—Madeline forming a little
plan in her mind by which Mr. Furnival and Mr. Chaffanbrass were
to.fail absolutely in making out that lady’s innocence, but the fact
was to be established to the satisfaction of the whole court, and of
‘all the world, by the judicious energy of Felix Graham.
On their homeward journey the judge again spoke of pictures and
books, of failures and successes, and Madeline listened to him
gratefully. But she did not again take much part in the conver-
sation, She could not now express a very fluent opinion on any
subject, and to tell the truth, could have been well satisfied to have
been left entirely to her own thoughts. But just before they came
out again upon the road, her father stopped her and asked’ a direct
question. ‘Tell me, Madeline, are you happy now?”
‘ Yes, papa.’
‘That is right. And what you are to understand is this;
Mr. Graham will now be privileged by your mother and me to
address you. He has already asked my permission to do so, and
I told him that I must consider the matter before I either gave it or
withheld it. Ishall now give him that permission.’ Whereupon
Madeline made her answer by a slight pressure upon his arm.
Tell me, Madelaine, are you happy now?
NO SURRENDER. 145
* But you may be sure of this, my dear; I shall be very discreet,
and commit you to nothing. If he should choose to ask you any
question, you will be at liberty to give him any answer that you
may think fit.’ But Madeline at once confessed to herself that no
such liberty remained to her. If Mr. Graham should choose to ask
her a certain question, it would be in her power to give him only
one answer. Had he been kept away, had her father told her that
such a marriage might not be, she would not have broken her
heart, She had already told herself, that under such circumstances,
she could live and still live contented. But now,—now if the siege
were made, the town would have to capitulate at the first shot.
Was it not an understood thing that the governor had been recom-
mended by the king to give up the keys as soon as they were asked
for?
‘You will tell your mamma of this my dear,’ said the judge, as
they were entering their own gate.
‘ Yes,’ said Madeline. But she felt that, in this matter, her
father was more surely her friend than her mother. And indeed
she could understand her mother’s opposition to poor Felix, much
better than her father’s acquiescence.
‘Do, my dear, What is anything to us in this world, if we are
not all happy together? She thinks that you have become sad, and
she must know that you are so no longer.’
‘But Ihave not beensad, pava,’ said Madeline, thinking with
some pride of her past heroism.
When they reached the hall-door she had one more question to
ask; but she could not look in her father’s face as she asked.
‘ Papa, is that review you were speaking of here at Noningsby ?
-* You will find it on my study table; but remember, Madeline,
I don’t above half go along with him.’
The judge went into his study before dinner, and found that the
review had been taken.
CHAPTER XIX.
NO SURRENDER.
Sin Perecrine Orme had gone up to London, had had his interview
with Mr. Round, and had failed. He had then returned home, and
hardly a word on the subject had been spoken between him and
Mrs. Orme. Indeed little or nothing was now said between them
as to Lady Mason or the trial. What was the use of speaking on a
subject that was in every way the cause of so much misery? He
had made up his mind that it was no longer possible for him to
VOL. L
146 ORLEY FARM.
take any active step in the matter. He had become bail for her
appearance in court, and that was the last trifling act of friendship
which he could show her? How was it any longer possible that he
could befriend her? He could not speak up on her behalf with
eager voice, and strong indignation against her enemies, as had
formerly been his practice. He could give her no counsel. His
counsel would have taught her to abandon the property in the first
instance, let the result be what it might. He had made his little
effort in that direction by seeing the attorney, and his little effort
had been useless. It was quite clear to him that there was nothing
further for him to do ;—nothing further for him, who but a week or
two since was so actively putting himself forward and letting the
world know that he was Lady Mason’s champion.
Would he have to go into court as a witness? His mind was
troubled much in his endeavour to answer that question. He had
been her great friend. For years he had been her nearest neigh-
bour. His daughter-in-law still clung to her. She had lived at his
house. She had been chosen to be his wife. Who could speak to
her character, if he could not doso? And yet, what could he say,
if so called on? Mr. Furnival, Mr. Chaffanbrass—all those who
would have the selection of the witnesses, believing themselves in
their client’s innocence, as no doubt they did, would of course
imagine that he believed in it also. Could he tell them that it
would not be in his power to utter a single word in her favour?
In these days Mrs. Orme went daily to the Farm. Indeed, she
never missed a day from that on which Lady Mason left The
Cleeve up to the time of thé trial. It seemed to Sir Peregrine that
his daughter’s affection for this woman had grown with the know-
ledge of her guilt; but, as I have said before, no discussion on the
matter now took place between them. Mrs. Orme would generally
take some opportunity of saying that she had been at Orley Farm;
but that was all.
Sir Peregrine during this time never left the house once, except
for morning service on Sundays. He hung his hat up on its accus-
tomed peg when he returned from that ill-omened visit to Mr. Round,
and did not move it for days, ay, for weeks,—except on Sunday morn-
ings. At first his groom would come to him, suggesting to him that
he should ride, and the woodman would speak to him about the
young coppices; but after a few days they gave up their efforts.
His grandson also strove to take him out, speaking to him more
earnestly than the servants would do, but it was of no avail. Pere-
grino, indeed, gave up the attempt sooner, for to him his grandfather
did in some sort confess his own weakness. ‘I have had a blow,’
said he; ‘Peregrine, I have had a blow. Iam too old to bear up
against it;—too old and too weak.’ Peregrine knew that he alludec
in some way to that proposed marriage, but he was quite in the
NO SURRENDER. 147
dark as to the manner in which his grandfather had been affected
by it.
: People think nothing of that now, sir,’ said he, groping in the
dark as he strove to administer consolation.
‘ People will think of it;—and I think of it. But never mind,
my boy. I have lived my life, and am contented with it. .I have
lived my life, and have great joy that such as you are left behind to
take my place. If I had really injured you I should have broken
my heart—have broken my heart.’
Peregrine of course assured him that let what would come to him
the pride which he had in his grandfather would always support
him. ‘I don’t know anybody else that I could be so proud of, said
Peregrine; ‘ for nobody else that I see thinks so much about other
people. And I always was, even when I didn’t seem to think much
about it ;—always.’
Poor Peregrine! Circumstances had somewhat altered him since
that day, now not more than six months ago, in which he had pledged
himself to abandon the delights of Cowcross Street. As long as there
was a hope for him with Madeline Staveley all this might be very
well. He preferred Madeline to Cowcrosstreet with all its delights.
But when there should be no longer any hope—and indeed, as
things went now, there was but little ground for hoping—what
then? Might it not be that his trial had come on him too early in
life, and that he would solace himself in his disappointment, if not
with Carroty Bob, with companionships and pursuits which would
be as objectionable, and perhaps more expensive ?
On three or four occasions his grandfather asked him how things
were going at Noningsby, striving to interest himself in something
as to which the out-look was not altogether dismal, and by degrees
learned,—not exactly all the truth—but as much of the truth as
Peregrine knew. _
‘Do as she tells you,’ said the grandfather, referring to Lady
Staveley’s last words.
‘I suppose I must,’ said Peregrine, sadly. ‘ There’s nothing else
for it. But if there’s anything that I hate in this world, it’s
waiting.’
“You are both very young,’ said his grandfather.
“Yes; we are what people call young, I suppose. But I don’t
understand all that. Why isn’t a fellow to be happy when he’s
young as well as when he’s old?”
Sir Peregrine did not answer him, but no doubt thought that he
might alter his opinion in a few years. There is great doubt as to
what may be the most enviable time of life with a man. I am
inclined to think that it is at that period when his children have
all been born but have not yet began to go astray or to vex him
with disappointment; when his own pecuniary prospects are
u2
148 ORLEY FARM.
settled, and he kuows pretty well what his tether will allow him;
when the appetite is still good and the digestive organs at their
full power; when he has ceased to care as to the length of his
girdle, and before the doctor warns him against solid breakfasts and
port wine after dinner; when his affectations are over and his
infirmities have not yet come upon him; while he can still walk
his ten miles, and feel some little pride in being able to do so;
while he has still nerve to ride his horse to hounds, and can look
with some scorn on the ignorance of younger men who have hardly
yet learned that noble art. As regards men, this, I think, is the
happiest time of life; but who shall answer the question as regards
women? In this respect their lot is more liable to disappointment.
With the choicest flowers that blow the sweetest aroma of their
perfection lasts but for a moment. The hour that sees them at their
fullest glory sees also the beginning of their fall.
On one morning before the trial Sir Peregrine rang his bell and
requested that Mr. Peregrine might be asked to come to him,
Mr. Peregrine was out at the moment, and did not make his appear-
ance much before dark, but the baronet had fully resolved upon
having this interview, and ordered that the dinner should be put
back for half an hour. ‘Tell Mrs. Orme; with my compliments,’
he said, ‘that if it does not put her to inconvenience we will not
dine till seven.’ It put Mrs. Orme to no inconvenience ; but I am
inclined to agree with the cook, who remarked that the compliments
ought to have been sent to her.
‘Sit down, Peregrine,’ he said, when his grandson entered his
room with his thick boots and muddy gaiters. ‘I have been thinking
of something.’
‘I and Samson have been cutting down trees all day,’ said Pere-
grine. ‘You've no conception how the water lies down in the
bottom there; and there’s a fall every yard down to the river. It's
a sin not to drain it.’
‘ Any sins of that kind, my boy, shall lie on your own head for
the future. I will wash my hands of them.’
‘Then I'll go to work at once,’ said Peregrine, not quite under-
standing his grandfather.
‘You must go to work on more than that, Peregrine.’ And then
the old man paused. ‘You must not think that I am doing this
because Iam unhappy for the hour, or that I shall repent it when
the moment has gone by.’
‘ Doing what?’ asked Peregrine.
‘ T have thought much of it, and I know that I am right. I can-
‘not get out as I used to do, and do not care to meet people about
business.’
‘I never knew you more clear-headed in my life, sir.’
‘Well, perhaps not. We'll say nothing about that. What I
No Surrender,
NO SURRENDER. 149
intend to do is this;—to give up the property into your hands a:
Lady-day. You shall be master of The Cleeve from that time
forth.’
‘ Sir?
‘ The truth is, you desire employment, and Idon’t. The property
is small, and therefore wants the more looking after. I have neve
had a regular land steward, but have seen to that myself. If you'll
take my advice you'll do the same. There is no better employment
for a.gentleman. So now, my boy, you may go to work and drain
wherever you like. About the Crutchley bottom I have no doubt
you're right. I don’t know why it has been neglected.’ These last
words.the baronet uttered in a weak, melancholy tone, asking, as it
were, forgiveness for his fault; whereas he had spoken out the pur-
port of his great resolution with a clear, strong voice, as though the
saying of the words pleased him well. —
*T'could not hear of such a thing as that,’ said his grandson, after
a short pause.
‘ But you have heard it, Perry, and you may be quite sure that
T should not have named it had I not fully resolved upon it. Ihave
been thinking of it for days, and have quite made up my mind.
You won’t turn me out of the house, I know.’
‘All.the same. I will not hear of it,’ said the young man,
stoutly. :
* Peregrine !’
‘I know very well what it all means, sir, and I am not at all
astonished. You have wished to do something out of sheer good-
ness of heart, and you have been balked.’
_ * We will not talk about that, Peregrine.’ ,
~¢ But I must say a few words. about it. All that has made you
unhappy, and—and—and——’ He wanted to explain. that his
grandfather was ashamed of his baffled attempt, and for that reason.
was cowed and down at heart at the present moment; but that in
the three or four months when this trial would be over and the
wonder passed away, all that would be forgotten, and he would be
again as well as ever. But Peregrine, though he understood all
this, was hardly able to express himself, ; 4
‘ My boy,’ said the old man, ‘ I know very well what you mean.
What you say is partly true, and partly not quite true. Some day,,
, perhaps, when we are sitting here together over the fire, I shall be
better able to talk over all this; but not now, Perry. God has
been very good to me, and given me so much that I will not repine
at this sorrow. I have lived my life, and am content.’
_ * Ob yes, of course all that’s true enough. And if God should
choose that you should—die, you know, or I either, some people
would be sorry, but we shouldn't complain ourselves. But what I
say is this: you should never give up as long as you live. There’s
150 : ORLEY FARM.
a sort of feeling about it which I can’t explain. One should
always say to oneself, No surrender.’ And Peregrine, as he spoke,
stood up from his chair, thrust his hands into his trousers-pockets,
and shook his head.
Sir Peregrine smiled as he answered him. ‘ But Perry, my boy,
we can’t always say that. When the heart and the spirit and the
body have all surrendered, why should the voice tell a foolish
falsehood ?”
‘But it shouldn’t be a falsehdod,’ said Peregrine. ‘ Nobody
should ever knock under of his own accord,’
‘You are quite right there, my boy; you are quite right there.
Stick to that yourself. But, remember, that you are not to knock
under to any of your enemies. The worst that you will meet with
are folly, and vice, and extravagance.’ _
‘That's of course,’ said Peregrine, by no means wishing on the
present occasion to bring under discussion his future contests with
any such enemies as those now named by his grandfather.
‘And now, suppose you dress for dinner,’ said the baronet. ‘I’ve
got ahead of you there you see. What I’ve told you to-day I have
already told your mother.’
«T’m sure she doesn’t think you right.’
«If she thinks me wrong, she is too kind and well-behaved to say
so,—-which is more than I can say for her son. Your mother, Perry,
never told me that I was wrong yet, though she has had many occa-
sions ;—too many, too many. But, come, go and dress for dinner.’
‘You are wrong in this, sir, if ever you-were wrong in your life,’
said Peregrine, leaving the room. His grandfather did not answer
him again, but followed him out of the door, and walked briskly
across the hall into the drawing-room.
‘ There’s Peregrine been lecturing me about draining,’ he said to
his daughter-in-law, striving to speak in a half-bantering tone of
voice, as though things were going well with him.
‘ Lecturing you!’ said Mrs. Orme.
‘And he’s right, too. There’s nothing like it. He'll make a
better farmer, I take it, than Lucius Mason. You'll live to see him
know the value of an acre of land as well as any man in the
county. It’s the very thing that he’s fit for. He'll do better with
the property than ever I did.’
There was something beautiful in the effort which the old man
was making when watched by the eyes of one who knew him as
well as did his daughter-in-law. She knew him, and understood
all the workings of his mind, and the deep sorrow of his heart. In
very truth, the star of his life was going out darkly under a cloud;
but he was battling against his sorrow and shame—not that he
might be rid of them himself, but that others might not have to
share them. That doctrine of ‘No surrender’ was strong within
NO SURRENDER. 11
his bosom, and he understood the motto in a finer sense than that
in which his grandson had used it. He would not tell them that
his heart was broken,—not if he could help it. He would not
display his wound if it might be in his power to hide it. He |
would not confess that lands, and houses, and seignorial functions
were no longer of value in his eyes. As far as might be possible
he would bear his own load till that and the memory of his last
folly might be hidden together in the grave.
But he knew that he was no longer fit for a man’s work, and that
it would be well that he should abandon it. He had made a
terrible mistake. In his old age he had gambled for a large stake,
and had lost it all. He had ventured to love ;—to increase the small
number of those who were nearest and dearest to him, to add one
to those whom he regarded as best and purest,—and he had been
terribly deceived. He had for many years almost worshipped the
one lady who had sat at his table, and now in his old age he had
asked her to share her place of honour with another. What that
other was need not now be told. And the world knew that this
woman was to have been his wife! He had boasted loudly that he
would give her that place and those rights. He had ventured his
all upon her innocence and her purity. He had ventured his all,—
and he had lost. s
1 do not say that on this account there was any need that he
should be stricken to the ground,—that it behoved him as a man
of high feeling to be broken-hearted. He would have been a
greater man had he possessed the power to bear up against all this,
and to go forth to the world bearing his burden bravely on his
shoulders. But Sir Peregrine Orme was not a great man, and pos-
sessed few or none of the elements of greatness. He was a man
of a singularly pure mind, and endowed with a strong feeling of
chivalry. It had been everything to him to be spoken of by the
world as a man free from reproach,—who had lived with clean
hands and with clean people around him. All manner of delin-
quencies he could forgive in his dependents which did not tell of
absolute baseness; but it would have half killed him had he ever
learned that those he loved had become false or fraudulent, When
his grandson had come to trouble about the rats, he had acted, not
over-cleverly, a certain amount of paternal anger; but had Pere-
grine broken his promise to him, no acting would have been neces-
sary. It may therefore be imagined what were now his feelings
as to Lady Mason.
Her he could forgive for deceiving him. He had told his
daughter-in-law that he would forgive her; and it was a thing
done. But he could not forgive himself in that he had been de-
‘ceived. He could not forgive himself for having mingled with the
sweet current of his Edith’s life the foul waters of that criminal:
152 ORLEY FARM.
tragedy. He could not now bid her desert Lady Mason; for was
it not true that the woman’s wickedness was known to them two,
through her resolve not to injure those who had befriended her?
But all this made the matter worse rather than better to him. It
is all very well to say, ‘No surrender ;’ but when the load placed
upon the back is too heavy to be borne, the back must break or
bend beneath it.
His load was too heavy to be borne, and therefore he said to
himself that he would put it down. He would not again see Lord
Alston and the old friends of former days. He would attend no
more at the magistrates’ bench, but would send his grandson out
into his place. For the few days that remained to him in this
world, he might be well contented to abandon the turmoils and
troubles of life. ‘It will not be for long,’ he said to himself over
and over again. And then he would sit in his arm-chair for hours,
intending to turn his mind to such solemn thoughts as might befit
a dying man. But, as he sat there, he would still think of Lady
Mason. He would remember her as she had leaned against his
breast on that day that he kissed her; and then he would remem-
ber her as she was when she spoke those horrid words to him—
‘Yes; I did it; at night, when I was alone.’ And this was the
woman whom he had loved! This was the woman whom he still
loved,—if all the truth might be confessed.
His grandson, though he read much of his grandfather’s mind,
had failed to read it all. He did not know how often Sir Peregrine
repeated to himself those words, ‘ No Surrender,’ or how gallantly
he strove to live up to them. Lands and money and seats of
honour he would surrender, as a man surrenders his tools when
he has done his work; but his tone of feeling and his principle he
would not surrender, though the maintenance of them should crush
him with their weight. The woman had been very vile, despe-
rately false, wicked beyond belief, with premeditated villany, for
years and years ;—and this was the woman whom he had wished to
make the bosom companion of his latter days!
‘Samson is happy now, I suppose, that he has got the axe in his
hand,’ he said to his grandson.
‘Pretty well for that, sir, I think.’
‘That man will cut down every tree about the place, if you'll
let him.’ And in that way he strove to talk about the affairs of the
property.
CHAPTER XX.
WHAT REBEKAH DID FOR HER SON.
Every day Mrs. Orme went up to Orley Farm and sat for two hours
with Lady Mason. We may say that there was now no longer any
secret between them, and that she-whose life had been so innocent,
so pure, and so good, could look into the inmost heart and soul of
that other woman whose career had been supported by the proceeds
of one terrible life-long iniquity. And now, by degrees, Lady
Mason would begin to plead for herself, or, rather, to put in a plea
for the deed she had done, acknowledging, however, that she, the
doer of it, had fallen almost below forgiveness through the crime.
‘Was he not his son as much as that other one; and had I not
deserved of him that he should do this thing for me?’ And again
‘Never once did I ask of him any favour for myself from the day
that I gave myself to him, because he had been good to my father
and mdther. Up to the very hour of his death I never asked him to
spend a shilling on my own account. But I asked him to do this
thing for his child; and when at last he refused me, I told him that
I myself would cause it to be done.’
‘You told him so?”
‘Idid; and I think that he believed me. He —— that I was one
who would act up to my word. I told him that Orley Farm should
belong to our babe.’
‘ And what did he say ”
He bade me beware of my soul. My answer was very terrible,
and I will not shock you with it. Ah me! it is easy to talk of
repentance, but repentance will not come with a word.’
In these days Mrs. Orme became gradually aware that hitherto
she had comprehended but little of Lady Mason’s character. There
was a power of endurance about her, and a courage that was almost
awful to the mind of the weaker, softer, and better woman. Lady
Mason, during her sojourn at The Cleeve, had seemed almost to
sink under her misfortune ; nor had there been any hypocrisy, any
pretence in her apparent misery. She had been very wretched ;—
as wretched a human creature, we may say, as any crawling God’s
earth at that time. But she had borne her load, and, bearing it,
had gone about her work, still striving with desperate courage as
the ground on which’ she trod continued to give way beneath her
154 ORLEY FARM.
feet, inch by inch. They had known and pitied her misery; they
had loved her for misery—as it is in the nature of such people to
do ;—but they had little known how great had been the cause for it.
They had sympathized with the female weakness which had suc-
cumbed when there was hardly any necessity for succumbing.
Had they then known all, they would have wondered at the
strength which made a struggle possible under such circumstances,
Even now she would not yield. I have said that there had been
no hypocrisy in her misery during those weeks last past; and I
have said so truly. But there had perhaps been some pretences,
some acting of a part, some almost necessary pretence as to her
weakness. Was she not bound to account to those around her for
her great sorrow? And was it not above all things needful that
she should enlist their sympathy and obtain their aid? She had
been obliged to cry to them for help, though obliged also to confess
that there was little reason for such crying. ‘Iam a woman, and
weak, she had said, ‘and therefore cannot walk alone, now that
the way is stony.’ But what had been the truth with her? How
would she have cried, had it been possible for her to utter the sharp
cry of her heart? The waters had been closing over her head, and
she had clutched at a hand to save her; but the owner of that hand
might not know how imminent, how close was the danger.
But in these days, as she sat in her own room with Mrs. Orme,
the owner of that hand might know everything. The secret had
been told, and there was no longer need for pretence. As she
could now expose to view the whole load of her wretchedness,
so also could she make known the strength that was still left for
endurance. And these two women who had become endeared to
each other under such terrible circumstances, came together at
these meetings with*more of the equality of friendship than had
ever existed at The Cleeve. It may seem strange that it should be
so—strange that the acknowledged forger of her husband’s will
should be able to maintain a better claim for equal friendship than
the lady who was believed to be innocent and true! But it was
so. Now she stood on true ground ;—-now, as she sat there with
Mrs. Orme, she could speak from her heart, pouring forth the real
workings of her mind. From Mrs. Orme she had no longer aught
to fear ; nor from Sir Peregrine. Everything was known to them,
and she could now tell of every incident of her crime with an out-
spoken boldness that in itself was incompatible with the humble
bearing of an inferior in the presence of one above her.
And she did still hope. The one point to be gained was this;
that her son, her only son, the child on whose behalf this crime
had been committed, should never know her shame, or live to be
disgraced by her guilt. If she could be punished, she would say,
and he left in ignorance of her punishment, she would not care
WHAT REBEKAH DID FOR HER SON. 155
what indignities they might heap upon her. She had heard of
penal servitude, of years, terribly long, passed in all the misery of
vile companionship ; of solitary confinement, and the dull madness
which it engenders; of all the terrors of a life spent under cir-
cumstances bearable only by the uneducated, the rude, and the
vile. But all this was as nothing to her compared with the loss of
honour to her son. ‘I should live,’ she would say ; ‘ but he would
die. You cannot ask me to become his murderer!’
It was on this point that they differed always. Mrs. Orme would
have had her confess everything to Lucius, and strove to make her
understand that if he were so told, the blow would fall less heavily
than it would do if the knowledge came to him from her conviction
at the trial. But the mother would not bring herself to believe
that it was absolutely necessary that he should ever know it.
‘There was the property! Yes; but let the trial come, and if she
were acquitted, then let some arrangement be made about that.
The lawyers might find out some cause why it should be sur-
rendered.’ But Mrs. Orme feared that if the trial were over, and
the criminal saved from justice, the property would not be sur-
rendered. And then how would that wish of repentance be possible ?
After all was not that the one thing necessary ?
I will not say that Mrs. Orme in these days ever regretted that
her sympathy and friendship had been thus bestowed, but she
frequently acknowledged to herself that the position was too
difficult for her. There was no one whose assistance she could
ask; for she felt that she could not in this matter ask counsel from
Sir Peregrine. She herself was good, and pure, and straight-
minded, and simple in her perception of right and wrong; but
Lady Mason was greater than she in force of character,—a stronger
woman in every way, endowed with more force of will, with more
power of mind, with greater energy, and a swifter flow of words.
Sometimes she almost thought it would be better that she should
stay away from Orley Farm; but then she had promised to be true
to her wretched friend, and the mother’s solicitude for her gon still
softened the mother’s heart.
In these days, till the evening came, Lucius Mason never made
his way into his mother’s sitting-room, which indeed was the
drawing-room of the house,—and he and Mrs. Orme, as a rule,
hardly ever met each other. If he saw her as she entered or left
the place, he would lift his hat to her and pass by without speaking.
He was not admitted to those councils of his mother’s, and would
not submit to ask after his mother’s welfare or to inquire as to her
affairs from a stranger. On no other subject was it possible that
he should now speak to the daily visitor and the only visitor at
Orley Farm. All this Mrs. Orme understood, and saw that the
young man was alone and comfortless. He passed his hours below,
156 ORLEY FARM. \
in his own room, and twice a day his mother found him in the
parlour, and then they sat through their silent, miserable meals,
She would then leave him, always saying some soft words of
motherly love, and putting her hand either upon his shoulder or
his arm. On such occasions he was never rough to her, but he
would never respond to her caress. She had ill-treated him, pre-
ferring in her trouble the assistance of a stranger to his assistance.
She would ask him neither for his money nor his counsel, and as
she had thus chosen to stand aloof from him, he also would stand
aloof from her. Not for always,—as he said to himself over and
over again; for his heart misgave him when he saw the lines of
care so plainly written on his mother’s brow. Not for always
should it be so. The day of the trial would soon be present, and
the day of the trial would soon be over; then again would they
be friends. Poor young man! Unfortunate young man!
Mrs. Orme saw all this, and to her it was very terrible. What
would be the world to her, if her boy should frown at her, and look
black when she caressed him? And she thought that it was the
fault of the mother rather than of the son; as indeed was not all
that wretchedness the mother’s fault? But then again, there was
the one great difficulty. How could any step be taken in the
vight direction till the whole truth had been confessed to him?
The two women were sitting together in that upstairs room ; and
the day of the trial was now not a full week distant from them,
when Mrs. Orme again tried to persuade the mother to intrust her
son with the burden of all her misery. On the preceding day Mr.
Solomon Aram had been down at Orley Farm, and had been with
Lady Mason for an hour.
‘He knows the truth!’ Lady Mason had said to her friend. ‘1
am sure of that.’
‘ But did he ask you ?
‘ Oh, no, he did not ask me that. He asked of little things that
happened at the time; but from his manner I am sure he knows it
all. He says that I shall escape.’
‘ Did he say escape ”
‘No; not that word, but it was the same thing. He spoke to
Lucius, for I saw them on the lawn together.’
‘You do not know what he said to him?’
‘No; for Lucius would not speak to me, and I could not ask
him,’ And then they both were silent, for Mrs. Orme was thinking
how she could bring about that matter that was so near her heart.
Lady Mason was seated in a large old-fashioned arm-chair, in
which she now passed nearly all her time. The table was by her
side, but she rarely turned herself to it. She sat leaning with her
elbow on her arm, supporting her face with her hand; and opposite
to her, so close that she might look into her face and watch every
WHAT REBEKAH DID FOR HER SON. 157
movement of her eyes, sat Mrs. Orme,—intent upon that one thing,
that the woman before her should be brought to repent the evit
she had done.
« And you have not spoken to Lucius ”
‘No,’ she answered. ‘No more than I have told you. What
could I say to him about the man”
‘Not about Mr. Aram. It might not be necessary to speak of him.
He has his work to do; and I suppose that he must do it in his
own way?
“Yes; he must do it, in his own way. Lucius would not under-
stand.’
‘Unless you told him evorything, of course he could not under-
stand.’
‘ That is impossible.’
‘No, Lady Mason, it is not impossible. Dear Lady Mason, do
not turn from me in that way. It is for your sake,—because I love
you, that I press you to do this. If he knew it all ,
‘Could you tell your son such a tale? said Lady Mason, turning
upon her sharply, and speaking almost with an air of anger.
Mrs. Orme was for a moment silenced, for she could not at once
bring herself to conceive it possible that she could be so circum-
stanced. But at last she answered. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I think I
could, if——.’ And then she paused.
‘If you had done such a deed! Ah, you do not know, for the
doing of it would be impossible to you. You can never understand
what was my childhood, and how my young years were passed. I
never loved anything but him ;—that is, till I knew you, and—
and But instead of finishing her sentence she pointed down
towards The Cleeve. ‘How, then, can I tell him? Mrs. Orme, I
would let them pull me to pieces, bit by bit, if in that way I could
save him.’
‘ Not in that way,’ said Mrs. Orme; ‘not in that way.’
But Lady Mason went on pouring forth the pent-up feelings of
her bosom, not regarding the faint words of her companion. ‘ Till
he lay in my arms I had loved nothing. From my earliest years I
had been taught to love money, wealth, and property; but as to
myself the teachings had never come home to me. When they bade
me marry the old man because he was rich, I obeyed them,—not
caring for his riches, but knowing that it behoved me to relieve
them of the burden of my support. He was kinder to me than they
had been, and I did for him the best I could. But his money and
his wealth were little to me. He told me over and over again that
when he died I should have the means to live, and that was enough.
I would not pretend to him that I cared for the grandeur of his
children who despised me. But then camo my baby, and the world
was all altered forme. What could I do for the only thing that I
158 ORLEY FARM.
had ever called my own? Money and riches they had told me were
everything,’ :
‘ But they had told you wrong,’ said Mrs. Orme, as she wiped the
tears from her eyes.
‘They had told me falsely. I had heard nothing but falsehoods
from my youth upwards,’ she answered fiercely. ‘ For myself I had
not cared for these things; but why should not he have money and
riches and land? His father had them to give over and above what
had already made those sons and daughters so rich and proud.
Why should not this other child also be his father’s heir? Was he
not as well born as they? was he not as fair a child? What did
Rebekah do, Mrs. Orme? Did she not do worse ; and did it not all
go well with her? Why should my boy be an Ishmael? Why
should I be treated as the bondwoman, and see my little one perish
of thirst in this world’s wilderness ?”
“ No Saviour had lived and died for the world in those days,’ said
Mrs. Orme.
« And no Saviour had lived and died for me,’ said the wretched
‘woman, almost shrieking in her despair. The lines of her face were
terrible to be seen as she thus spoke, and an agony of anguish
loaded her brow upon which Mrs. Orme was frightened to look.
She fell on her knees before the wretched woman, and taking her
by both her hands strove all she could to find some comfort for her.
‘ Ah, do not say so. Do not say that. Whatever may come, that
misery—that worst of miseries need not oppress you. If that
indeed were true!’
‘ It was true ;—and how should it be otherwise?”
‘But now,—now. It need not be true now. Lady Mason, for
‘your soul’s sake say that it is so now.’
‘Mrs. Orme,’ sho said, speaking with a singular quiescence of tone
after the violence of her last words, ‘it seems to me that I care
more for his soul than for my own. For myself I can bear even
that. But if he were a castaway——!’
I will not attempt to report the words that passed between them
for the next half-hour, for they concerned a matter which I may
not dare to handle too closely in such pages as these. But Mrs. Orme
still knelt there at her feet, pressing- Lady Mason’s hands, pressing
against her knees, as.with all the eagerness of true affection she
endeavoured to bring her to a frame of mind that would admit of
some comfort. But it all ended in this :—Let everything be told
to Lucius, so that the first step back to honesty might be taken,—
and then let them trust to Him whose mercy can ever temper the
wind to the shorn lamb.
But, as Lady Mason had once said to herself, repentance will not
come witha-word. ‘Icannot tell him,’ she said at last. ‘Itisa thing
impossible. I should die at his feet before the words were spoken.’
WHAT REBEKAH DID FOR HER SON. 159
¢ I will do it for you,’ said Mrs. Orme, offering from pure charity
to take upon herself a task perhaps as heavy as any that a human
creature could perform. ‘I will tell him.’
‘No, no,’ screamed Lady Mason, taking Mrs. Orme by both her
arms as she spoke. ‘ You will not do so: say that you will not.
Remember your promise to me. Remember why it is that you
know it all yourself.’
«I will not, surely, unless you bid me,’ said Mrs. Orme.
‘No, no; Ido not bid you. Mind, I do not bid you. I will not
have it done, Better anything than that, while it may yet be
avoided. I have your promise; have I not?
© Oh, yes; of course I should not do it unless you told me.’ And
then, after some further short stay, during which but little was said,
Mrs. Orme got up to go.
* You will come to me to-morrow,’ said Lady Mason.
* Yes, certainly,’ said Mrs. Orme.
* Because I feared that I had offended you.’
© Oh, no; I will take no offence from you.’
¢ You should not, for you know what I have to bear. You know,
and no one else knows. Sir Peregrine does not know. He cannot
understand. But you know and understand it all. And, Mrs, Orme,
what you do now will be counted to you for great treasure,—for
very great treasure. You are better than the Samaritan, for he
went on his way. But you will stay till the last. Yes; I know you
will stay.’ And the poor creature kissed her only friend ;—kissed
her hands and her forehead and her breast. Then Mrs. Orme went
without speaking, for her heart was full, and the words would not
come to her; but as she went she said to herself that she would
stay till the last.
Standing alone on the steps before the front door she found
Lucius Mason all alone, and some feeling moved her to speak a word
to him as she passed. ‘I hope all this does not trouble you much,
Mr. Mason,’ she said, offering her hand to him. She felt that her
words were hypocritical as she was speaking them; but under such
circumstances what else could she say to him?
‘ Well, Mrs. Orme, such an episode in one’s family history does
give one some trouble. I am unhappy,—very unhappy; but not
too much so to thank you for your most unusual kindness to my
poor mother.” And then, having been so far encouraged by her
speaking to him, he accompanied her round the house on to the
lawn, from whence a path led away through a shrubbery on to the
road which would take her by tho village of Coldharbour to Tho
Cleeve.
‘ Mr. Mason,’ she said, as they walked for a few steps together
before the house, ‘do not suppose that I presume to interfere
between you and your mother.’
160 ORLEY FARM.
‘ You have a right to interfere now,’ he said.
‘ But I think you might comfort her if you would be more with
her. Would it not be better if you could talk freely together about
all this?”
‘It would be better,’ he said; ‘ but I fear that that is no longer
possible, When this trial is over, and the world knows that she
is innocent; when people shall see how cruelly she has been
used ——’
Mrs. Orme might not tell the truth to him, but she could with
difficulty bear to hear him dwell thus confidently on hopes which
were so false. ‘The future is in the hands of God, Mr. Mason; but
for the present——’
‘The present and the future are both in His hands, Mrs. Orme.
I know my mother’s innocence, and would have done a son’s part
towards establishing it;—but she would not allow me. All this will
soon be over now, and then, I trust, she and I will once again under-
stand each other. Till then I doubt whether I should be wise to
interfere. Good morning, Mrs. Orme; and pray believe that I
appreciate at its full worth all that you are doing for her.’ Then he
again lifted his hat and left her.
Lady Mason from her window saw them as they walked together,
and her heart for a moment misgave her. Could it be that her
friend was treacherous to her? Was it possible that even now she
was telling everything that she had sworm that she would not
tell? Why were they two together, seeing that they passed each
other day by day without intercourse? And so she watched with
anxious eyes till they parted, and then she saw that Lucius stood
idly on the terrace swinging his stick as he looked down the hill
towards the orchard below him. He would not have stood thus
calmly had he already heard his mother’s shame. This she knew,
and having laid aside her immediate fears she retreated back to her
chair. No; she would not tell him: at any rate till the trial should
be over.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE STATE OF PUBLIC OPINION.
Tue day of the trial was now quickly coming on, and the London
world, especially the world of lawyers, was beginning to talk much
on the subject. Men about the Inns of Court speculated as to the
verdict, offering to each other very confident opinions as to the
result, and offering, on some occasions, bets as well as opinions.
The younger world of barristers was clearly of opinion that Lady
Mason was innocent; but a portion, an unhappy portion, was in-
clined to fear, that, in spite of her innocence, she would be found
guilty. The elder world of barristers was not, perhaps, so de-
monstrative, but in that world the belief.in her innocence was not
so strong, and the fear of her condemnation much stronger. The
attorneys, as a rule, regarded her as guilty. To the policeman’s
mind every man not a policeman is a guilty being, and the
attorneys perhaps share something of this feeling. But the
attorneys to a man expected to see her acquitted. Great was
their faith in Mr. Furnival; great their faith in Solomon Aram;
but greater than in all was their faith in Mr. Chaffanbrass. If
Mr. Chaffanbrass could not pull her through, with a prescription of
twenty years on her side, things must be very much altered indeed
in our English criminal court. To the outer world, that portion of
the world which had nothing to do with the administration of the
law, the idea of Lady Mason having been guilty seemed prepos-
terous. Of course she was innocent, and of course she would be
found to be innocent. And of course, also, that Joseph Mason of
Groby Park was, and would be found to be, the meanest, the lowest,
the most rapacious of mankind.
And then the story of Sir Peregrine’s attachment and proposed
marriage, joined as it was to verious hints of the manner in which
that marriage had been broken off, lent a romance to the whole
affair, and added much to Lady Mason’s popularity. Everybody
had now heard of it, and everybody was also aware, that though the
idea of a marriage had been abandoned, there had been no quarrel. ,
The friendship between the families was as close as ever, and
Sir Peregrine,—so it was understood—had pledged himself to an
acquittal. It was felt to be a public annoyance that an affair of so
exciting a nature should be allowed to come off in the little town of
VOL, Il. M
162 ORLEY FARM.
Alston. The court-house, too, was very defective in its arrange-
ments, aud, ill qualified to give accommodation to the great body of
would-be attendants at the trial. One leading newspaper went so
far as to suggest, that in such a case as this, the antediluvian preju-
dices of the British grandmother—meaning the Constitution —
should be set aside, and the trial should take place in London.
But I am not aware that any step was taken towards the carrying
out of so desirable a project.
Down at Hamworth ‘the feeling in favour of Lady Mason was not
perhaps so strong as it was elsewhere. Dockwrath was a man not
much respected, but nevertheless many believed in him; and
down there, in the streets of Hamworth, he was not slack in
propagating his view of the question. He had no doubt, he said,
how the case would go. He had no doubt, although he was well
aware that Mr. Mason’s own lawyers would do all they could to
throw over their own client. But he was too strong, he said, even
for that. The facts as he would bring them forward would con-
found Round and Crook, and compel any jury to find a verdict of
guilty. I do not say that all Hamworth believed in Dockwrath, but
his energy and confidence did have its effect, and “Lady Mason’s
case was not upheld so strongly in her own neighbourhood as else-
where.
The witnesses in these days were of course very important
' persons, and could not but feel the weight of that attention which
the world would certainly pay to them. There would be four chief
witnesses for the prosecution; Dockwrath himself, who would be
prepared to speak as to the papers left behind him by old Ushech;
the man in whose possession now remained that deed respecting the
partnership which was in truth executed by old Sir Joseph on that
fourteenth of July; Bridget Bolster; and John Kenneby. Of the
manner in which Mr. Dockwrath used his position we already
know enough. The man who held the deed, one Torrington,
was a relative of Martock, Sir Joseph’s partner, and had been
one of his executors. It was not much indeed that he had to say,
but that little sent him up high in the social scale during those
days. He lived at Kennington, and he was asked out to dinner in
that neighbourhood every day for a week running, on the score of
his connection with the great Orley Farm case. Bridget Bolster
was still down at the hotel in the West of England, and being of a
solid, sensible, and somewhat unimaginative turn of mind, probably
went through her duties to the last without much change of manner.
But the effect of the coming scenes upon poor John Kenneby was
terrible. It was to him as though for the time they had made of
him an Atlas, and compelled him to bear on his weak shoulders the
weight of the whole world. Men did talk much about Lady Mason
and the coming trial; but to him it seemed as though men talked of
THE STATE OF PUBLIC OPINION. 163
nothing else. At Hubbles and Grease’s it was found useless to put
figures into his hands till all this should be over. | Indeed it was
doubted by many whether he would ever recover his ordinary tone
of mind. It seemed to be understood that he would be cross-ex-
amined by Chaffanbrass, and there were those who thought that
John Kenneby would never again be equal to a day’s work after
that which he would then be made to endure. That he would have
been greatly relieved could the whole thing have been wiped away
from him there can be no manner of doubt; but I fancy that he
would also have been disappointed. It is much to be great for
a day, even though that day's greatness should cause the shipwreck
of a whole life.
‘I shall endeavour to speak the truth, said John Kenneby,
solemnly.
‘The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,’ said
Moulder.
«Yes, Moulder, that will be my endeavour; and then I may lay
my hand upon my bosom and think that Ihave done my duty by
my country.’ And as Kenneby spoke he suited the action to the word.
‘ Quite right, John,’ said Mrs. Smiley. ‘ Them’s the sentiments
of a man, and I, as a woman having a right to speak where you are
concerned, quite approve of them.’
‘They'll get nothing but the truth out of John,’ said Mrs. Moulder ;
‘not if he knows it.” These last words she added, actuated by ad-
miration of what she had heard of Mr. Chaffanbrass, and perhaps
with some little doubt as to her brother's firmness.
‘ That’s where it is, said Moulder. ‘ Lord bless you, John,
‘they'll turn you round their finger like a bit of red tape. Truth!
Gammon! What do they care for truth?”
‘But I care, Moulder,’ said Kenneby. ‘I don’t suppose they can
make me tell falsehoods if I don’t wish it.’
‘ Not if you're the man I take you to be,’ said Mrs. Smiley.
‘Gammon!’ said Moulder.
‘Mr. Moulder, that’s an objectionable word,’ said Mrs. Smiley.
‘ If John Kenneby is the man I take him to be,—and who’s a right
to speak if I haven’t, seeing that I am going to commit myself for
this world into his hands?’—and Mrs. Smiley, as she spoke, sim-
pered, and looked down with averted head on the fulness of her
Inish tabinet—‘ if he’s the man that I take him to be, he won’t say
on this thrilling occasion no more than the truth, nor yet no less. |
Now that isn’t gammon—if I know what gammon is.’
Jt will have been already seen that the party in question were
assembled at Mr. Moulder’s room in Great St. Helen’s. There had
been a little supper party there to commemorate the final arrange-
ments as to the coming marriage, and the four were now-sitting
round the fire with their glasses of hot toddy at their elbows.
M2
164 ORLEY FARM.
Moulder was armed with his pipe, and was enjoying himself in
that manner which most delighted him. When last we saw him
he had somewhat exceeded discretion in his cups, and was not
comfortable. But at the present nothing ailed him. The supper
had been good, the tobacco was good, and the toddy was good.
Therefore when the lovely Thais sitting beside him,—Thais how-
ever on this occasion having been provided not for himself but
for his brother-in-law,—when Thais objected to the use of his
favourite word, he merely chuckled down in the bottom of his fat
throat, and allowed her to finish her sentence.
Poor John Kenneby had more—much more, on his hands than
this dreadful trial. Since he had declared that the Adriatic was
free to wed another, he had found himself devoted and given up to
Mrs. Smiley. For some days after that auspicious evening there
had been considerable wrangling between Mrs. Moulder and
Mrs. Smiley as to the proceeds of the brick-field; and on this
question Moulder himself had taken a part. The Moulder interest
had of course desired that all right of management in the brick-field
should be vested in the husband, seeing that, according to the
usages of this country, brick-fields and their belongings appertain
rather to men than to women; but Mrs. Smiley had soon made it
evident that she by no means intended to be merely a sleeping
partner in the firm. At one time Kenneby had entertained a hope
of escape; for neither would the Moulder interest give way, nor
would the Smiley. But two hundred a year was a great stake, and
at last the thing was arranged, very much in accordance with the
original Smiley view. And now at this most trying period of his
life, poor Kennedy had upon his mind all the cares of a lover as well
as the cares of a witness.
‘I shall do my best,’ said John. ‘TI shall do my best and then
throw myself upon Providence.’
‘ And take a little drop of something comfortable in your pocket,’
said his sister, ‘so as to sperrit you up a little when your name’s
called.’ '
‘ Sperrit him up!’ said Moulder; ‘why I suppose he'll be stand-
ing in that box the best part of a day. Iknowed a man was a
witness ; it was a case of horse-stealing ; and the man who was the
witness was the man who'd took the horse.’
‘ And he was witness against hisself!’ said Mrs. Smiley.
‘No; he’d paid for it. That is to say, either he had or he hadn’t.
That was what they wanted to get out of him, and I’m blessed if he
didn’t take ’em till the judge wouldn’t set there any longer. And
then they hadn’t got it out of him.’
‘ But John Kenneby aint one of that sort,’ said Mrs. Smiley.
‘I suppose that man did not want to unbosom himself,’ said
Kenneby.
THE STATE OF PUBLIC OPINION. 165
‘Well; no. The likes of him acces do like to unbosom them-
selves,’ said Moulder.
‘ But that will be my desire. If hey will only allow me to speak
freely whatever I know about this matter, I will give them no trouble.’
¢ You mean to act honest, John,’ said his sister.
‘LT always did, Mary Anne.’
‘Well now, I'll tell you what it is,’ said Moulder. ‘ As
Mrs. Smiley don’t like it I won’t say anything more about gammon ;
—not just at present, that is.’
‘T’ve no objection to gammon, Mr. Moulder, when properly used,’
said Mrs. Smiley, ‘but I look on it as disrespectful; and seeing the
position which I hold as regards John Kenneby, anything dis-
respectful to him is hurtful to my feelings.’
‘ All right,’ said Moulder. ‘ And now, John, I'll just tell you
what it is. You’ve no more chance of being allowed to speak freely
there than—than—than—no more than if you was in church.
What are them fellows paid for if you're to say whatever you
pleases out in your own way ?
‘He only wants to say the truth, M.,’ said Mrs. Moulder, who
probably knew less than her husband of the general usages of courts
of law.
* Truth be » said Moulder.
“Mr. Moulder!’ said Mrs. Smiley. ‘There’s ladies by, if you'll
please to remember.’
‘ To hear such nonsense sets one past oneself,’ continued he; ‘as
if all those lawyers were brought together there—the cleverest and
sharpest fellows in the kingdom, mind you—to listen to a man like
John here telling his own story in his own way. You'll have to
tell your story in their way; that is, in two different ways. There'll
be one fellow “Il make you tell it his way first, and another fellow
"ll make you tell it again his way afterwards; and its odds but
what the first “Il be at you again after that, till you won’t know
whether you stand on your heels or your head.’
‘ That can’t be right,’ said Mrs. Moulder.
© And why can’t it be right?” said Moulder. ‘ They’re paid for it;
it’s their duties; just as it’s my duty to sell Hubbles and Grease’s
sugar. It’s not for me to say the sugar’s bad, or the samples not
equal to the last. My duty is to sell, and I sell ;—and it’s their duty
to get a verdict.’
‘ But the truth, Moulder ——!’ said Kenneby.
‘Gammon! said Moulder. ‘Begging your pardon, Mrs. Smiley,
for making use of the expression. Look you here, John; if you're
paid to bring a man off not guilty, won’t you bring him off if you
can? I’ve been at trials times upon times, and listened till I’ve
wished from the bottom of my heart that I’d been brought up a
barrister. Not that I think much of myself, and I mean of course
166 ORLEY FARM.
with education and all that accordingly. It’s beautiful to hear
them. You'll see a little fellow in a wig, and he'll get up; and
there'll be a man in the box before ltim,—some swell dressed up to
his eyes, who thinks no end of strong beer of himself; and in about
“ ten minutes he’ll be as flabby as wet paper, and he’ll say—on his
oath, mind you,—just anything that that little fellow wants him to
say. That’s power, mind you, and I call it beautiful.’
‘ But it aint justice,’ said Mrs. Smiley.
‘Why not? I say it is justice. You can have it if you choose to
pay for it, and so canI. If I buy a greatcoat against the winter, and
you go outat night without having one, is it injustice because you're
perished by the cold while ’m as warm as a toast? I say it’s a
grand thing to live in a country where one can buy a greatcoat.’
The argument had got so far, Mr. Moulder certainly having the
best of it, when a ring at the outer door was heard,
‘ Now who on earth is that? said Moulder. 4
‘ Snengkeld, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said his wife.
“I hope it aint no stranger,’ said Mrs. Smiley. < Situated ag
John and I are now, strangers is so disagreeable.’ And then the
door was opened by the maid-servant, and Mr. Kantwise was shown
into the room.
‘ Halloo, Kantwise!’ said Mr. Moulder, not rising from his chair,
or giving any very decided tokens of welcome. ‘I thought.you were
down somewhere among the iron foundries ?”
‘ So I was, Mr. Moulder, but I came up yesterday. Mrs. Moulder,
allow me to have the honour. I hope I see you quite well; but
looking at you I need not ask. Mr. Kenneby, sir, your very humble
servant. ‘The day’s coming on fast; isn’t it, Mr. Kenneby? Ma’am,
your very obedient. I believe I haven’t the pleasure of being
acquainted.’
‘Mrs. Smiley, Mr. Kantwise. Mr. Kantwise, Mrs. Smiley,’ said
the lady of the house, introducing her visitors to each other in the
appropriate way.
‘ Quite delighted, I’m sure,’ said Kantwise.
‘Smiley as is, and Kenneby as will be this day three weeks,’
said Moulder; and then they all enjoyed that little joke, Mrs. Smiley
by no means appearing bashful in the matter although Mr, Kantwise
was a stranger. .
‘I thought I should find Mr. Kenneby here,’ said Kantwise,
when the subject of the coming nuptials had been sufticiently
discussed, ‘and therefore I just stepped in. No intrusion, I hope,
Mr. Moulder.’
‘ All right,’ said Moulder; ‘ make yourself at home. There’s the
stuff on the table. You know what the tap is,’
“T’ve just parted from— Mr. Dockwrath,’ said Kantwise, speak-
ing in a tone of voice which implied the great importance of the
THE STATE OF PUBLIC OPINION. 167
communication, and looking round the table to see the effect of it
upon the circle.
‘Then you've parted from a very low-lived party, let me tell you
that,’ said Moulder. He had not forgotten Dockwrath’s conduct in
the commercial room at Leeds, and was fully resolved that he never
would forgive it.
‘ That’s as may be,’ said Kantwise. ‘I say nothing on that
subject at the present moment, either one way or the other. But
I think you'll all agree as to this: that at the present moment
Mr. Dockwrath fills a conspicuous place in the public eye.’
¢ By no means s0 conspicuous.as John Kenneby,’ said Mrs, Smiley,
‘if I may be allowed in my position to hold an opinion.’
‘That's as may be, ma’am. I say nothing about that. What
I hold by is, that Mr. Deckwrath does hold a conspicuous place in
the public eye. I’ve just parted with him in Gray’s Inn Lane, and
he says—that it’s all up now with Lady Mason.’
‘Gammon!’ said Moulder. And on this occasion Mrs. Smiley
did not rebuke him. ‘ What does he know about it more than
any one else? Will he bet two to one? Because, if so, Pl take
it ;—only I must see the money down.’
‘I don’t know what he'll bet, Mr. Moulder; only he says a all
up with her.’
‘ Will he back his side, even handed ?”
‘Taint a betting man, Mr. Moulder. I don’t think it’s: right.
And on such a matter as this, touching the liberty and almost life of
a lady whom I’ve had the honour of seeing, and acquainted as I am
with the lady of the other party, Mrs. Mason that is of Groby
Park, I should rather, if it’s no offence to you, decline the subject of
—betting.’
«Bother !’
‘ Now M., in your own house, you know!’ said his wife.
‘So it is bother. But never mind that. Go on, Kantwise.
What is this you were saying about Dockwrath”
‘Oh, that’s about all. I thought you would like to know what
they were doing,—particularly Mr. Kenneby. I do hear that they
mean to be uncommonly hard upon him.’
The unfortunate witness shifted uneasily in his seat, but at the
moment said nothing himself.
‘Well, now, I can’t understand it,’ said Mrs. Smiley, sitting
upright in her chair, and tackling herself to the discussion as though
she meant to express her opinion, let who might think differently.
‘ How is any one to put words into my mouth if I don’t choose to
speak then? There’s John’s waistcoat. is silk.” Upon which. they
all looked at Kenneby’s waistcoat, and, with the exception of
Kantwise, acknowledged the truth of the assertion.
168 ORLEY FARM.
‘ That’s as may be,’ said he, looking round at it from the corner
of his eyes.
‘And do you mean to say that all the barristers in London will
make me say that it’s made of cloth? It’s ridic’lous—nothing short
of ridic’lous.’
‘You've never tried, my dear,’ said Moulder.
‘I don’t know about being your dear, Mr. Moulder
‘ Nor yet don’t I neither, Mrs. Smiley,’ said the wife.
‘Mr. Kenneby’s my dear, and Iaint ashamed to own him,—before
men and women. But if he allows hisself to be hocussed in that
way, I don’t know but what I shall be ashamed. I call it hobusamg
—just hocussing.’
‘So it is, ma’am,’ said Kantwise, * only this, you know, if I
hocus you, why you hocus me in return; so it isn’t so very unfair,
you know.’
‘Unfair!’ said Moulder. ‘It’s the fairest thing that is. It’s the
bulwark of the British Constitution.’
‘What! being badgered and browbeat?’ asked Kenneby, who
was thinking within himself that if this were so he did not care if
he lived somewhere beyond the protection of that blessed Aigis.
‘ Trial by jury is,’ said Moulder. ‘ And how can you have trial
by jury if the witnesses are not to be cross-questioned ”
To this position no one was at the moment ready to give an
answer, and Mr. Moulder enjoyed a triumph over his audience.
That he lived in a happy and blessed country Moulder was well
aware, and with those blessings he did not wish any one to tamper.
‘ Mother,’ said a fastidious child to his: parent, ‘ the bread is gritty
and the butter tastes of turnips.’ ‘Turnips indeed,—and gritty!’
said the mother. ‘Is it not a great thing to have bread and butter
at all? I own that my sympathies are with the child. Bread and
butter is a great thing ; but I would have it of the best if that be
possible.
After that Mr. Kantwise was allowed to dilate upon the subject
which had brought him there. Mr. Dockwrath had been summoned
to Bedford Row, and there had held a council of war together with
Mi. Joseph Mason and Mr. Matthew Round. According to his own
story Mr. Matthew had quite come round and been forced to ac-
knowledge all that Dockwrath had done for the cause. In Bedford
Row there was no doubt whatever as to the verdict. ‘ That
woman Bolster is quite clear that she only signed one deed,’ said
Kantwise.
I shall say nothing—nothing here,’ said Kenneby.
Quite right, John,’ said Mrs. Smiley. ‘ Your feelings on the
occasion become you.’
« T'll lay an even bet she’s acquitted,’ said Moulder. ‘And I'll
do it in a ten-p’und note.’
CHAPTER XXII.
WHAT THE FOUR LAWYERS THOUGHT ABOUT IT.
T wave spoken of the state of public opinion as to Lady Mason’s
coming trial, and have explained that for the most part men’s
thoughts and sympathies took part with her. But I cannot say
that such was the case with the thoughts of those who were most
closely concerned with her in the matter,—whatever may have
been their sympathies. Of the state of Mr. Furnival’s mind on the
matter enough has been said. But if he had still entertained any
shadow of doubt as to his client’s guilt or innocence, none what-
ever was entertained either by Mr. Aram or by Mr. Chaffanbrass.
From the day on which they had first gone into the real circum-
stances of the case, looking into the evidence which could be adduced
against their client, and looking also to their means of rebutting that
evidence, they had never felt a shadow of doubt upon the subject.
But yet neither of them had ever said that she was guilty. Aram,
in discussing with his clerks the work which it was necessary that
they should do in the matter, had never expressed such an opinion ;
nor had Chaffanbrass done so in the consultations which he had
held with Aram. As to the verdict they had very often expressed
an opinion,—differing considerably. Mr. Aram was strongly of
opinion that Lady Mason would be acquitted, resting that opinion,
mainly on his great confidence in the powers of Mr. Chaffanbrass.
But Mr. Chaffanbrass would shake his head, and sometimes say that
things were not now as they used to be.
‘ That may be so in the City,’ said Mr. Aram. ‘But you won’t
find a City jury down at Alston.’
* It’s not the juries, Aram. It’s the judges. It usedn’t to be so,
but it is now. When a man has the last word, and will take the
trouble to use it, that’s everything. If I were asked what point
I'd best like to have in my favour, I’d say, a deaf judge. Or if not
that, one regularly tired out. I’ve sometimes thought I’d like to
be a judge myself, merely to have the last word.’
‘That wouldn’t suit you at all, Mr. Chaffanbrass, for you’d be
sick of it in a week.’
‘ At any rate I’m not fit for it,’ said the great man meekly. ‘I'll
tell you what, Aram, I can look back on life and think that I’ve
done a deal of good in my way. I’ve prevented unnecessary blood.
170 ORLEY FARM.
shed. I’ve saved the country thousands of pounds in the mainte-
nance of men who’ve shown themselves well able to maintain
themselves. And I’ve made the Crown lawyers very careful as to
what sort of evidence they would send up to the Old Bailey. But
my chances of life have been such that they haven’t made me fit to
bea judge. I know that.’
‘I wish I might see you on the bench to-morrow ;—only that we
shouldn’t know what to do without you,’ said the civil attorney. It
‘was no more than the fair every-day flattery of the world, for the
practice of Mr. Solomon Aram in his profession was quite as surely
attained as was that of Mr. Chaffanbrass. And it could hardly be
called flattery, for Mr. Solomon Aram much valued the services of
Mr. Chaffanbrass, and greatly appreciated the peculiar turn of that
gentleman’s mind.
The above conversation took place in Mr. Solomon Aram’s private
room in Bucklersbury. In that much-noted city thoroughfare
Mr. Aram rented the first floor of a house over an eating establish-
ment. He had no great paraphernalia of books and boxes and
clerks’ desks, as are apparently necessary to attorneys in general.
Three clerks he did employ, who sat in one room, and he himself
sat in that behind it. So at least they sat when they were to be
found at the parent establishment; but, as regarded the attorney
himself and his senior assistant, the work of their lives was carried
on chiefly in the courts of law. The room in which Mr. Aram was
now sitting was furnished with much more attention to comfort
than is usual in lawyers’ chambers. Mr. Chaffanbrass was at
present lying, with his feet up, on a sofa against the wall, in a
position of comfort never attained by him elsewhere till the after-
dinner hours had come to him; and Mr. Aram himself filled an easy
lounging-chair. Some few law papers there. were scattered on the
library table, but none of those piles of dusty documents which
give to a stranger, on entering an ordinary attorney’s room, so
terrible an idea of the difficulty and dreariness of the prcfession.
There were no tin boxes with old names labelled on them; there
were no piles of letters, and no pigeon-holes loaded with old memo-
randa. On the whole Mr. Aram’s private room was smart and
attractive; though, like himself, it had an air rather of pretence
than of steady and assured well-being.
It is not quite the thing for a barrister to wait upon an attorney,
and therefore it must not be supposed that Mr. Chaffanbrass had
come to Mr. Aram with any view to immediate business; but never-
theless, as the two men understood each other, they could say what
they had to say as to this case of Lady Mason’s, although their
present positions were somewhat irregular. They were both to
meet Mr. Furnival and Felix Graham on that afternoon in Mr. Fur-
nival’s chambers with reference to the division of those labours
WHAT THE FOUR LAWYERS THOUGHT’ ABOUT rr, 17h
which were to be commenced at Alston on the day but one follow-
ing, and they both thought that it might be as well that they should
say a word to each other on the subject before they went there.
‘I suppose you know nothing about the panel down there, eh?
said Chaffanbrass.
‘Well, I have made some inquiries; but I don’t think there’s
anything especial to know ;—nothing that matters. If I were you,
Mr. Chaffanbrass, I wouldn’t have any Hamworth people on the
jury, for they say that a prophet is never a prophet in his own
country.’
« But do you know the Hamworth people?
‘Oh, yes; I can tell you as muchas that. But I don’t think it
will matter much who is or is not on the jury.’
¢ And why not?’
If those two witnesses break down—that is, Kenneby oe Bolster,
no jury can convict her. And if they don’t——’
‘Then no jury can acquit her. But let me tell you, —_ that
it’s not every man put into a jury-box who can tell whether a
witness has broken down or not.’
_ £ But from what. I hear, Mr. Chaffanbrass, I don’t think either of
these can stand a chance ;—that is, if they both come into your
hands.’
‘ But they won’t both come into my hands,’ said the anxious hero
of the Old Bailey.
‘ Ah! that’s where it is. That's where we shall fail. Mr. Fur-
nival is a great man, no doubt.’
‘ A very great man,—in his way,’ said Mr. Chaffanbrass.
‘But if he lets one of those two slip through his fingers the
thing’s over.’
* You know my opinion,’ said Chaffanbrass. ‘I think it is all over.
If you're right in what you say,—that they’re both ready to swear
in their direct evidence that they only signed one deed on that day,
no vacillation afterwards would have any effect on the judge. It’s
just possible, you know, that their memory might deceive them.’
‘Possible! Ishould think so. I'll tell you what, Mr. Chaffanbrass,
if the matter was altogether in your hands I should have no fear,—
literally no fear.’
‘ Ah, yow’e partial, Aram.’
“It couldn’t be so managed, could it, Mr. Chaffanbrass? It would
be a great thing; a-very great thing.’ But Mr. Chaffanbrass said that
he thought it could not be managed. The success or safety of a
client is a very great thing ;—in a professional point of view a very
great thing indeed. But there is a matter which in legal eyes is
greater even than that. Professional etiquette required that the
cross-examination of these two most important witnesses should not
be left in the hands of the same barrister,
172 ORLEY FARM.
And then the special attributes of Kenneby and Bridget Bolster
were discussed between them, and it was manifest that Aram knew
with great accuracy the characters of the persons with whom he
had to deal. That Kenneby might be made to say almost anything
was taken for granted. With him there would be very great scope
for that peculiar skill with which Mr. Chaffanbrass was so wonder-
fully gifted. In the hands of Mr. Chaffanbrass it was not impro-
bable that Kenneby might be made to swear that he had signed two,
three, four—any number of documents on that fourteenth of July,
although he had before sworn that he had only signed one,
Mr. Chaffanbrass indeed might probably make him say anything
that he pleased. Had Kenneby been unsupported the case would
have been made safe,—so said Mr. Solomon Aram,—by leaving
Kenneby in the hands of Mr. Chaffanbrass. But then Bridget
Bolster was supposed to be a witness of altogether a different class
of character. To induce her to say exactly the reverse of that
which she intended to say might, no doubt, be within the power
of man. Mr. Aram thought that it would be within the power of
Mr. Chaffanbrass, He thought, however, that it would as certainly
be beyond the power of Mr. Furnival; and when the great man
lying on the sofa mentioned the name of Mr. Felix Graham,
Mr. Aram merely smiled. The question with him was this:—
Which would be the safest course ?—to make quite sure of Kenneby
by leaving him with Chaffanbrass; or to go for the double stake by
handing Kenneby over to Mr. Furnival and leaving the task of aa
culty to the great master ?
“When so much depends upon it, I do detest all this etiquette
and precedence,’ said Aram with enthusiasm. ‘In. such a case
Mr. Furnival ought not to think of himself.’
‘My dear Aram,’ said Mr. Chaffanbrass, ‘ men always think of
themselves first. And if we were to go out of the usual course, do
you conceive that the gentlemen on the other side would fail to
notice it?
* Which shall it be then?”
‘T’m quite indifferent. If the memory of either of these two
persons is doubtful,—and after twenty years it may be s0,—
Mr. Furnival will discover it.’
‘Then on the whole I’m disposed to think that I’d let him take
the man.’
« Just as you please, Aram. That is, if he’s satisfied also.’
‘I’m not going to have my client overthrown, you know,’ said
Aram, ‘And then you'll take Dockwrath also, of course. I don’t
know that it will have much effect upon the case, but I shall like t¢
see Dockwrath in your hands; I shall indeed.’
*I doubt he'll be too many for me.’
‘Ha, ha, hal? Aram might well laugh; for when had any
Mr. Chaffanbrass and Mr, Solomon Aram,
WHAT THE FOUR LAWYERS THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 173
one shown himself able to withstand the powers of Mr: Chaffan-
brass ?
‘ They say he is a sharp fellow,’ said Mr. Chaffanbrass. ‘ Well, we
must be off. When those gentlemen at the West End get into Par-
Tiament it does not do to keep them waiting. Let one of your
fellows get a cab.’ And then the barrister and the attorney started
from Bucklersbury for the general meeting of their forces to be held
in the Old Square, Lincoln’s Inn.
We have heard how it came to pass that Felix Graham had been
induced to become one of that legal phalanx which was employed
on behalf of Lady Mason. It was now some days since he had left
Noningsby, and those days with him had been very busy. He had
never yet undertaken the defence of a person in a criminal court,
and had much to learn,—or perhaps he rather fancied that he had.
And then that affair of Mary Snow’s new lover was not found to
arrange itself altogether easily. When he came to the details of hiy
dealings with the different parties, every one wanted from him twice
as much money as he had expected. The chemist was very willing
to have a partner, but then a partnership in his business was, ac-
cording to his view of the matter, a peculiarly expensive luxury.
Snow pére, moreover, came forward with claims which he rested on
such various arguments, that Graham found it almost impossible to
resist them. At first,—that is immediately subsequent to the inter-
view between him and his patron described in a preceding chapter,
Graham had been visited by a very repulsive attorney who had
talked loudly about the cruel wrongs of his ill-used client. This
phasis of the affair would have been by far the preferable one; but
the attorney and his client probably disagreed. Snow wanted im-
mediate money, and as no immediate money was forthcoming
through the attorney, he threw himself repentant at Graham’s
feet, and took himself off with twenty shillings. But his penitence,
and his wants, and his tears, and the thwarted ambition of his
parental mind were endless; and poor Felix hardly knew where
to turn himself without seeing him. It seemed probable that every
denizen of the courts of law in London would be told before long
the sad tale of Mary Snow’s injuries. And then Mrs, Thomas
wanted money,—more money than she had a right to want in
accordance with the terms of their mutual agreement. ‘She had
been very much put about,’ she said,— dreadfully put about. She
had had to change her servant three times. There was no knowing
the trouble Mary Snow had given her. She had, in a great measure,
been forced to sacrifice ber school.’ Poor woman! she thought she
was telling the truth while making these false plaints. She did not
mean to be dishonest, but itis so easy to be dishonest without mean-
ing it when one is very poor! Mary Snow herself made no claim on
her lost lover, no claim for money or for aught besides.: When he
174 ORLEY FARM.
parted from her on that day without kissing her, Mary Snow knew
that all that was over. But not the less did Graham recognize her
claim. The very bonnet which she must wear when she stood before
the altar with Fitzallen must be paid for out of Graham’s pocket,
That hobby of moulding a young lady is perhaps of all hobbies the
most expensive to which a young gentleman can apply himself.
And in these days he heard no word from Noningsby. Augustus
Staveley was up in town, and once or twice they saw each other,
But, as may easily be imagined, nothing was said between them
about Madeline. As Augustus had once declared, a man does not
talk to his friend about his own sister. And then hearing nothing
—as indeed how could he have heard anything ?—Graham en-
deavoured to assure himself that that was all over. His hopes
had ran high at that moment when his last interview with the
judge had taken place; but after all to what did that amount?
He had never even asked Madeline to love him. He had been
such a fool that he had made no use of those opportunities which
chance had thrown in his way. He had been told that he might
fairly aspire to the hand of any lady. And yet when he had really
loved, and the girl whom he had loved had been close to him, he
had not dared to speak to her! How could he now expect that she,
in his absence, should care for him?
With all these little troubles around him he went to work on
Lady Mason’s case, and at first felt thoroughly well inclined to
give her all the aid in his power. He saw Mr. Furnival on different
occasions, and did much to charm that gentleman by his enthusiasm
in this matter. Mr. Furnival himself could no longer be as enthusi-
astic as he had been. The skill of a lawyer he would still give if
necessary, but the ardour of the loving friend was waxing colder
from day to day. Would it not be better, if such might be possible,
that the whole affair should be given up to the hands of Chaffan-
brass who could be energetic without belief, and of Graham who
was energetic because he believed? So he would say to himself
frequently. But then he would think again of her pale face and
acknowledge that this was impossible. He must go on till the end.
But, nevertheless, if this young man could believe, would it not be
well that he should bear the brunt of the battle? That fighting ofa
battle without belief is, I think, the sorriest task which ever falls to
the lot of any man. :
But, as the day grew nigh, a shadow of unbelief, a dim passing
shade—a shade which would pass, and then return, and then pass
again—flitted also across the mind of Felix Graham. His theory
had been, and still was, that those two witnesses, Kenneby and
Bolster, were suborned by Dockwrath to swear falsely. He had
commenced by looking at the matter with a full confidence in his
client’s innocence, a confidence which had come from the outer
WHAT THE FOUR LAWYERS THOUGHT ABOUT IT. 175
world, from his social convictions, and the knowledge which he had
of the confidence of others. Then it had been necessary for him to
reconcile the stories which Kenneby and Bolster were prepared to
tell with this strong confidence, and he could only do so by be-
lieving that they were both false and had been thus suborned.
But what if they were not false? What if he were judging
them wrongfully? I do not say that he had ceased to believe
in Lady Mason; but a shadow of doubt would occasionally cross
his mind, and give to the whole affair an aspect which to him was
very tragical.
He had reached Mr. Furnival’s chambers on this day some few
minutes before his new allies, and as he was seated there discussing
the matter which was now so interesting to them all, he blurted
out a question which nearly confounded the elder barrister
‘ I suppose there can really be no doubt as to her innocence ”
What was Mr. Furnival to say? Mr. Chaffanbrass and Mr. Aram
had asked no such question, Mr. Round had asked no such
question when he had discussed the whole matter confidentially
with him. It was a sort of question never put to professional men,
and one which Felix Graham should not have asked. Nevertheless
:t must be answered.
‘ Eh” he said.
‘I suppose we may take it for granted that Lady Mason is really
‘nnocent,—that is, free from all falsehood or fraud in this matter ?
* Really innocent! Oh yes; I presume we take that for granted,
as a matter of course.’
‘ But you yourself, Mr. Furnival; you have no doubt about it?
You have been concerned in this matter from the beginning, and
therefore J have no hesitation in asking you.’
But that was exactly the reason why he should have hesitated!
At least so Mr, Furnival thought. ‘Who; I? No; I have no
doubt; none in the least,’ said he. And thus the lie which he had
been trying to avoid, was at last told.
The assurance thus given was very complete as far as the words
were concerned ; but there was something in the tone of Mr. Fur-
nival’s voice, which did not quite satisfy Felix Graham. It was not
that he thought that Mr. Furnival had spoken falsely, but the
answer had not been made in a manner to set his own mind at rest.
Why had not Mr. Furnival answered him with enthusiasm? Why
had he not, on behalf of his old friend, shown something like
indignation that any such doubt should have been expressed? His
words had been words of assurance ; but, considering the subject, his
tone had contained no assurance. And thus the shadow of doubt
flitted backwards and forwards before Graham’s mind.
Then the general meeting of the four lawyers was held, and the
various arrangements necessary for the coming contest were settled.
176 ORLEY FARM.
No such impertinent questions were asked then, nor were there any
communications between them of a confidential nature. Mr. Chaffan-
brass and Solomon Aram might whisper together, as might also
Mr. Furnival and Felix Graham; but there could be no whispering
when all the four were assembled. The programme of their battle
was settled, and then they parted with the understanding that they
were to meet again in the court-house at Alston.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE EVENING BEFORE THE TRIAL.
Tus eve of the trial had now come, and still there had been no
confidence between the mother and the son. No words of kindness
had been spoken with reference to that terrible event which was so
near at hand. Lucius had in his manner been courteous to his
mother, but he had at the same time been very stern. He had
seemed to make no allowance for her sorrows, never saying to her
one of those soft words which we all love to hear from those around
us when we are suffering. Why should she suffer thus? Had she
chosen to lean upon him, he would have borne on her behalf all this
trouble and vexation. As to her being guilty—as to her being
found guilty by any twelve jurymen in England,—no such idea
ever entered his head. I have said that many people had begun to
suspect; but no such suspicions had reached his ears. What man,
unless it should be some Dockwrath, would whisper to the son the
possibility of his mother’s guilt? Dockwrath had done more than
whisper it; but the words of such a man could have no avail with
him against his mother’s character.
On that day Mrs. Orme had been with Lady Mason for some
hours, and had used all her eloquence to induce the mother even
then to divulge her secret to- her son. Mrs. Orme had suggested
that Sir Peregrine should tell him ; she had offered to tell him her-
self; she had proposed that Lady Mason, should write to Lucius.
But all had been of no avail. Lady Mason had argued, and had
argued with some truth, that it was too late to tell him now, with
the view of obtaining from him support during the trial. If he
were now told, he would not recover from the first shock of the
blow in time to appear in court without showing on his brow the
perturbation of his spirit. His terrible grief would reveal the secret
to every one. ‘When it is over,—she had whispered at last, as
Mrs. Orme continued to press upon her the absolute necessity that
Lucius should give up the property,—‘ when it is over, you shall
do it.’ ‘
THE EVENING BEFORE THE TRIAL. 177
With this Mrs. Orme was obliged to rest contented. She had not
the heart to remind Lady Mason how probable it was that the truth
might be told out to all the world during the next two or three
days ;—that a verdict of Guilty might make any further telling
unnecessary. And indeed it was not needed that she should do so.
In this respect Lady Mason was fully aware of the nature of the
ground on which she stood.
Mrs. Orme had sat with her the whole afternoon, only leaving
herself time to be ready for Sir Peregrine’s dinner ; and as she left
her she promised to be with her early on the following morning to
go with her down to the court. Mr. Aram was also to come to the
Farm for her, and a closed carriage had been ordered from the inn
for the occasion.
‘You won't let him prevent you?’ were the last words she spoke,
as Mrs. Orme then left her.
‘ He will not wish to do so,’ said Mrs. Orme. ‘He has already
given me his permission. He never goes back from his word, you
know.’ ‘
This had been said in allusion to Sir Peregrine. When Mrs. Orme '
had first proposed to accompany Lady Mason to the court and to sit
by her side during the whole trial, he had been much startled. He
had been startled, and for a time had been very unwilling to accede
to such a step. The place which she now proposed to fill was one
which he had intended to fill himself ;—but he had intended to stand
by an innocent, injured lady, not a perpetrator of midnight forgery.
He had intended to support a spotless being, who would then be his
wife,—not a woman who for years had lived on the proceeds of
fraud and felony, committed by herself !
‘ Edith,’ he had said, ‘ you know that Iam unwilling to oppose
you; but I think that in this your feelings are carrying you too
far.’
‘No, father,’ she answered, not giving way at all, or showing
herself minded to be turned from her purpose by anything he might
say. ‘Do not think so; think of her misery. How could she
endure it by herself?’
¢ Think of her guilt, Edith !’
“I will leave others to think of that. But, father, her guilt wili
not stain me. Are we not bound to remember what injury she
might have done to us, and how we might still have been ignorant
of all this, had not ches herself confessed it—for our sakes—for our
sakes, father?
And then Sir Peregrine gave way. When this argument was
used to him, he was forced to yield. It was true that, had not that
woman been as generous as she was guilty, he would now have been
bound to share her shame, The whole of this affair, taken together,
had nearly laid him prostrate; but that which had gone farthest
VOL. II.
178 ORLEY FARM.
towards effecting this ruin, was the feeling that he owed so much
to Lady Mason. As regarded the outer world, the injury to him
would have been much more terrible had he married her; men
would then have declared that all was over with him; but as
regards the inner man, I doubt whether he would not have borne
that better. It was easier for him to sustain an injury than a
favour,—than a favour from one whom his judgment compelled him
to disown as a friend.
But he had given way, and it was understood at The Cleeve that
.Mrs. Orme was to remain by Lady Mason’s side during the trial,
To the general household there was nothing in this that was
wonderful. They knew only of the old friendship. To them the
question of her guilt was still an open question. As others had
begun to doubt, so had they; but no one then presumed that Sir
Peregrine or Mrs. Orme had any doubt. That they were assured
of her innocence was the conviction of all Hamworth and its neigh-
bourhood.
‘He never goes back from his word, you know,’ Mrs. Orme had
said; and then she kissed Lady Mason, and went her way. She
had never left her without a kiss, had never greeted her without a
warm pressure of the hand, since that day on which the secret had
been told in Sir Peregrine’s library. It would be impossible to
describe how great had been the worth of this affection to Lady
Mason; but it may almost be said that it had kept her alive. She
herself had said but little about it, uttering but few thanks; but not
the less had she recognized the value of what had been done for her.
She had even become more free herself in her intercourse with Mrs.
Orme,—more open in her mode of speech,—had put herself more on
an equality with her friend, since there had ceased to be anything
hidden between them. Previously Lady Mason had felt, and had
occasionally expressed the feeling, that she was hardly fit to asso-
ciate on equal terms with Mrs. Orme; but now there was none of
this,—now, as they sat together for hours and hours, they spoke,
and argued, and lived together as though they were equal, But
nevertheless, could she have shown her love by any great deed,
there was nothing which Lady Mason would not have done for
Mrs. Orme.
She was now left alone, and according to her daily custom would
wemain there till the servant told her that Mr. Lucius was waiting
for her in the dining-room. In an early part of this story I have
endeavoured to describe how this woman sat alone, with deep
sorrow in her heart and deep thought on her mind, when she first
learned what terrible things were coming on her. The idea, bow-
ever, which the reader will have conceived of her as she sat there
will have come to him from the skill of the artist, and not from the
words of the writer. If that drawing is now near him, let him go
THE EVENING BEFORE THE TRIAL 179
back to it. Lady Mason was again sitting in the same room—that
pleasant room, looking out. through the verandah on to the sloping
lawn, and in the same chair; one hand again rested open on the arm
of the chair, while the other supported her face as she leaned upon
her elbow; and the sorrow was still in her heart, and the deep
thought in her mind. But the lines of her face were altered, and
the spirit expressed by it was changed. There was less of beauty,
less of charm, less of softness ; but in spite of all that she had gone
through there was more of strength,—more of the power to resist
all that this world could do to her.
It would he wrong to say that she was in any degree a hypocrite.
A man is no more a hypocrite because his manner and gait when he
is alone are different from those which he assumes in company, than
he is for wearing a dressing-gown in the morning, whereas he puts
on a black coat in the evening. Lady Mason in the present crisis
of her life endeavoured to be true in all her dealings with Mrs,
Orme ; but nevertheless Mrs. Orme had not yet read her character,
As she now sat thinking of what the morrow would bring upon her,
—thinking of all that the malice of that man Dockwrath had
brought upon her,—she resolved that she would still struggle on
with a bold front. It had been brought home to her that he, her
son, the being for whom her soul had been imperilled, and all her
hopes for this world destroyed,—that he must be told of his mother’s
guilt and shame. Let him be told, and then let him leave her
while his anguish and the feeling of his shame were hot upon him.
Should she be still a free woman when this trial was over she
would move herself away at once, and then let him be told. But
still it would be well—well for his sake, that his mother should not
be found guilty by the law. It was still worth her while to
struggle. The world was very hard to her, bruising her to the very
soul at every turn, allowing her no hope, offering to her no drop of
cool water in her thirst. But still for him there was some future
career ; and that career perhaps need not be blotted by the public
notice of his mother’s guilt, She would still fight against her foes,
—still show to that court, and to the world that would then gaze at
her, a front on which guilt should not seem to have laid its hideous,
defacing hand.
There was much that was wonderful about this woman. While
she was with those who regarded her with kindness she could be
so soft and womanly; and then, when alone, she could be so stern
and hard! And it may be said that she felt but little pity for her-
self. Though she recognized the extent of her misery, she did not
complain of it, Even in her inmost thoughts her plaint was this,—
that he, her son, should be doomed to suffer so deeply for her sin!
Sometimes she would utter to that other mother a word of wailing,
in that he would not be soft to her; but even in that she did not
N 2
180 ORLEY FARM.
mean to complain of him. She knew in her heart of hearts that she
had no right to expect such softness. She knew that it was better
that it should be as it now was. Had he stayed with her from morn
till evening, speaking kind words to her, how could she have failed
to tell him? In sickness it may irk us because we are not allowed
to take the cool drink that would be grateful; but what man in his
senses would willingly swallow that by which his very life would
be endangered? It was thus she thought of her son, and what his
love might have been to her.
Yes; she would still bear up, as she had borne up at that other
trial. She would dress herself with care, and go down into the
court with a smooth brow. Men, as they looked at her, should not
at once say, ‘Behold the face of a guilty woman!’ There was still
a chance in the battle, though the odds were so tremendously
against her. It might be that there was but little to which she
could look forward, even though the verdict of the jury should be
in her favour; but all that she regarded as removed from her by a
great interval. She had promised that Lucius should know all
after the trial,—that he should know all, so that the property might
be restored to its rightful owner; and she was fully resolved that
this promise should be kept. But nevertheless there was a long
interval. If she could battle through this first danger,—if by the
skill of her lawyers she could avert the public declaration of her
guilt, might not the chances of war still take some further tun in
her favour? And thus, though her face was pale with suffering and
thin with care, though she had realized the fact that nothing
short of a miracle could save her,—still she would hope for that
miracle.
But the absolute bodily labour which she was forced to endure
was so hard upon her! She would dress herself, and smooth her
brow for the trial; but that dressing herself, and that maintenance
of a smooth brow would impose upon her an amount of toil which
would almost overtask her physical strength. 0 reader, have
you ever known what it is to rouse yourself and go out to the
world on your daily business, when all the inner man has revolted
against work, when a day of rest has seemed to you to be worth a
year of life? If she could have rested now, it would have been
worth many years of life,—worth all her life. She longed for rest,
—to be able to lay aside the terrible fatigue of being ever on
the watch. From the burden of that necessity she had never
been free since her crime had been first committed. She had
never known true rest. She had not once trusted herself to sleep
without the feeling that her first waking thought would be one of
horror,.as the remembrance of her position came upon her. In
every word she spoke, in every trifling action of her life, it was
necessary that she should ask herself how that word and action
THE EVENING BEFORE THE TRIAL. 181
might tell upon her chances of escape. She had striven to be true
and honest,—true and honest with the exception of that one deed,
But that one deed had communicated its poison to her whole life.
Truth and honesty — fair, unblemished truth and open-handed,
fearless honesty,—had been impossible to her. Before she could
bea true and honest it would be necessary that she should go back
and cleanse herself from the poison of that deed. Such cleansing
is to be done. Men have sinned deep as she had sinned, and, lepers
though they have been, they have afterwards been clean, But that
task of cleansing oneself is not an easy one ;—the waters of that
Jordan in which it is needful to wash are scalding hot. The cool
neighbouring streams of life’s pleasant valleys will by no means
suffice.
Since she had been home at Orley Farm she had been very
scrupulous as to going down into the parlour both at breakfast and
at dinner, so that she might take her meals with her son. She had
» not as yet omitted this on one occasion, although sometimes the task
of sitting through the dinner was very severe upon her. On the
present occasion, the last day that remained to her before the trial—
perhaps the last evening on which she would ever watch the sun set
from those windows, she thought that she would spare herself.
‘Tell Mr. Lucius,’ she said to the servant who came to summon
her, ‘ that I would be obliged to him if he would sit down without me.
Tell him that I am not ill, but that I would rather not go down to
dinner!’ But before the girl was on the stairs she had changed her
mind. Why should she now ask for this mercy? What did it
matter? So she gathered herself up from the chair, and going
forth from the room, stopped the message before it was delivered.
She would bear on to the end.
She sat through the dinner, and answered the ordinary questions
which Lucius put to her with her ordinary voice, and then, as was
her custom, she kissed his brow as she left the room. It must be
remembered that they were still mother and son, and that there had
been no quarrel between them. And now, as she went up stairs,
he followed her into the drawing-room. His custom had been to
remain below, and though he had usually seen her again during the
evening, there had seldom or never been any social intercourse
between them. On the present occasion, however, he followed her,
and closing the door for her as he entered the room, he sat himself
down on the sofa, close to her chair.
‘Mother,’ he said, putting out his hand and touching her arm,
‘ things between us are not as they should be.’
She shuddered, not at the touch, but at the words. Things were
not as they should be between them. ‘No,’ she said. ‘But I am
sure of this, Lucius, that you never had an unkind thought in your
heart towards me,’
182 ORLEY FARM.
‘Never, mother. How could I,—to my own mother, who has
ever been so good to me?’ But for the last three months we have
been to each other nearly as though we were pirangers:
‘ But we have loved each other all the same,’ said she.
‘ But love should beget close social intimacy, and above all close
confidence in times of sorrow. There has been none such between
us.’
- What could she say to him? It was on her lips to promise
him that such love should again prevail between them as soon
as this trial should be over; but the words stuck in her throat. She
did not dare to give him so false an assurance. ‘ Dear Lucius,’ she
said, ‘if it has been my fault, I have suffered for it.’
‘ Ido not say that it is your fault ;—nor will I say that it has been
my own. IfI haveseemed harsh to you, I beg your pardon.’
‘No, Lucius, no; you have not been harsh. I have understood
you through it all,’
‘ Thave been grieved because you did not seem to trust me ;—but
let that pass now. Mother, I wish that there may be no unpleasant
feeling between us when you enter on this ordeal to-morrow.’
‘ There is none ;—there shall be none.’
“ No one can feel more keenly,—no one can feel so keenly as Ido,
the cruelty with which you are treated. The sight of your sorrow
has made me wretched.’
‘Oh, Lucius!’
‘ I know how pure and innocent you are——’
‘No, Lucius, no.’
‘ But I say yes; and knowing that, it has cut me to the quick to
see them going about a defence of your innocence by quips and
quibbles, as though they were struggling.for the escape of a
criminal.’
‘Lucius !? And she put her hands up, praying for mercy,
though she could not explain to him how terribly severe were his
words.
‘Wait a moment, mother. To me such men as Mr. Chaffanbrass
and his comrades are odious. I will not, and do not believe that
their services are necessary to you
‘ But, Lucius, Mr. Furnival_——’
‘Yes; Mr. Furnival! It is he that hs done it all. In my heart
I wish that you had never known Mr. Furnival ;—never known him
as a lawyer that is,’ he added, thinking of his own strong love for
the lawyer’s daughter.
‘Do not upbraid me now, Lucius. Wait till it is all over.’
‘Upbraid you! No. Ihave come to you now that we may be
friends. As things have gone so far, this plan of defence must of
course be carried on. Iwill say no more about that. But, mother,
I will go into the court with you to-morrow. That support I can
THE EVENING BEFORE THE TRIAL. 183 -
at any rate give you, and they shall see that there is no quarrel be-
tween us.’
But Lady Mason did not desire this. She would have wished
that he might have been miles away from the court had that been
possible. ‘Mrs. Orme is to be with me,’ she said.
Then again there came a black frown upon his brow,—a frown
such as there had often been there of late. ‘And will Mrs, Orme’s
presence make the attendance of your own son improper ?”
‘Oh, no; of course not. I did not mean that, Lucius.’
‘Do you not like io have me near you?’ he asked; and as he
spoke he rose up, and took her hand as he stood before her.
She gazed for a moment into his face while the tears streamed
down from her eyes, and then rising from her chair, she threw her-
self on to his bosom and clasped him in her arms. ‘ My boy! my
boy !’ she said. ‘Oh, if you could be near me, and away from this
—away from this!’
She had not intended thus to give way, but the temptation had
been too strong for her. When she had seen Mrs. Orme and Pere-
grine together,—when she had heard Peregrine’s mother, with words
expressed in a joyful tone, affect to complain of the inroads which
her son made upon her, she had envied her that joy. ‘Oh, if it
could be so with me also!’ she always thought; and the words too
had more than once been spoken. Now at last, in this last moment,
as it might be, of her life at home, he had come to her with kindly
voice, and she could not repress her yearning.
‘Lucius,’ she said; ‘dearest Lucius! my own boy!’ And then
the tears from her eyes streamed hot on to his bosom.
‘ Mother,’ he said, ‘it shall be so. Iwill be with you.’
But she was now thinking of more than this—of much more.
Was it possible for her to tell him now? As she held him in her
arms, hiding her face upon his breast, she struggled hard to speak
the word. Then in the midst of that struggle, while there was
still something like a hope within her that it might be done, she
raised her head and looked up into his face. It was not a face
pleasant to look at, as was that of Peregrine Orme. It was hard in
its outlines, and perhaps too. manly for his age. But she was his
mother, and she loved it well. She looked up at it, and raising her |
hands she stroked his cheeks. She then kissed him again and .
again, with warm, clinging kisses. She clung to him, holding him
close to her, while the sobs which she had so long repressed came
forth from her with a violence that terrified him. Then again she
looked up into his face with one long wishful gaze; and after that
she sank upon the sofa and hid her face within her hands. She
had made the struggle, but it had been of no avail. She could not
tell him that tale with her own voice.
‘ Mother,’ he said, ‘what does this mean? I cannot understand
184 ORLEY FARM.
such grief as this.’ But for a while she was quite unable to answer.
The flood-gates were at length opened, and she could not restrain
the torrent of her sobbings.
“You do not understand how weak a woman can be,’ she said at
last.
But in truth he understood nothing of a woman’s strength. He
sat down by her, now and then taking her by the hand when she
would leave it to him, and in his way endeavoured to comfort her.
All comfort, we may say, was out of the question; but by degrees
she again became tranquil. ‘It shall be to-morrow as you will
have it. You will not object to her being with me also?
He did object, but he could not say so. He would have much
preferred to be the only friend near to her, but he felt that he
could not deny her the solace of a woman’s aid and a woman’s
countenance. ‘ Oh no,” he said, ‘if you wish it.” He would have
found it impossible to define even to himself the reason for his
dislike to any assistance coming from the family of the Ormes; but
the feeling was there, strong within his bosom.
‘And when this is over, mother, we will go away,’ he said. ‘If
you would wish to live elsewhere, I will sell the property. It will
be better perhaps after all that has passed. We will go abroad for
a while.’
She could make no answer to this except pressing his hand. Ah,
if he had been told—if she had allowed Mrs. Orme to do that kind-
ness for her, how much better for her would it now have been!
Sell the property! Ah, me! Were they not words of fearful sound
in her ears,—words of terrible import?
‘Yes, it shall be so,’ she said, putting aside that last proposition
of his. ‘We will go together to-morrow. Mr. Aram said that he
would sit at my side, but he cannot object to your being there
between us.’ Mr. Aram’s name was odious to Lucius Mason. His
close presence would be odious to him. But he felt that he could
urge nothing against an arrangement that had now become neces-
sary. Mr, Aram, with all his quibbles, had been engaged, and the
trial must now be carried through with all the Aram tactics.
After that Lucius left his mother, and took himself out into the
dark night, walking up and down on the road between his house
and the outer gate, endeavouring to understand why his mother
should beso despondent. That she must fear the result of the trial}
he thought, was certain, but he could not bring himself to have any
such fear. As to any suspicion of her guilt,—no such idea had ever
for one moment cast a shadow upon his peace of mind,
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE FIRST JOURNEY TO ALSTON.
At that time Sir Richard Leatherham was the Solicitor-general,
and he had been retained as leading counsel for the prosecu-
tion. It was quite understood by all men who did understand
what was going on in the world, that this trial had been in truth
instituted by Mr. Mason of Groby with the hope of recovering the
property which had been left away from him by his father’s will.
The whole matter had now been so much discussed, that the true
bearings of it were publicly known. If on the former trial Lady
Mason had sworn falsely, then there could be no doubt that that
will, or the codicil to the will, was an untrue document, and the
property would in that case revert to Mr. Mason, after such further
legal exercitations on the subject as the lawyers might find neces-
sary and profitable. As far as the public were concerned, and as
far as the Masons were concerned, it was known and acknowledged
that this was another struggle on the part of the Groby Park family
to regain the Orley Farm estate. But then the question had become
much more interesting than it had been in the days of the old trial,
through the allegation which was now made of Lady Mason’s guilt.
Had the majter gone against her in the former trial, her child would
have lost the property, and that would have been all. But the
present issue would be very different. It would be much more
tragical, and therefore of much deeper interest.
As Alston was so near to London, Sir Richard, Mr. Furnival,
Mr. Chaffanbrass, and others, were able to go up and down by train,
—which arrangement was at ordinary assizes a great heartsore to the
hotel-keepers and owners of lodging-houses in Alston. But on this
occasion the town was quite full in spite of this facility. The
attorneys did not feel it safe to run up and down in that way, nor
did the witnesses. Mr. Aram remained, as did also Mr. Mat Round.
Special accommodation had been provided for John Kenneby and
Bridget Bolster, and Mr. Mason of Groby had lodgings of his
own.
Mr. Mason of Groby had suggested to the attorneys in Bedford
Row that his services as a witness would probably be required, but
they had seemed to think otherwise. ‘ We shall not call you,’
L835 ORLEY FARM.
Mr. Round had said, ‘ and I do not suppose that the other side will
do so. hey can’t if they do not first serve you.’ But in spite of
this Mr. Mason had determined to be at Alston. If it were true
that this woman had robbed him ;—if it could be proved that she had
really forged a will, and then by crime of the deepest dye taken
from him for years that which was his own, should he not be there
to see? Should he not be a witness to her disgrace? Should he
not be the first to know and feel his own tardy triumph? Pity!
Pity for her ' When such a word was named to him, it seemed to
him as though the speaker were becoming to a certain extent a
partner in her guilt. Pity! Yes; such pity as an Englishman who
had caught the Nana Sahib might have felt for his victim. He had
complained twenty times since this matter had been mooted of the
folly of those who had altered the old laws. That folly had probably
robbed him of his property for twenty years, and would now rob
him of half his revenge. Not that he ever spoke even to himself of
revenge. ‘ Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’ He would have
been as able as any man to quote the words, and as willing. Justice,
outraged justice, was his theme. Whom had he ever robbed? To
whom had he not paid all that was owing? ‘ All that have I done
from my youth upwards.’ Such were his thoughts of himself; and
with such thoughts was it possible that he should willingly be absent
from Alston during such a trial ?
‘I really would stay away if I were you,’ Mat Round had said to
him.
‘T will not stay away,’ he had replied, with a look black as a
thundercloud. Could there really be anything in those suspicions
of Dockwrath, that his own lawyer had wilfully thrown him over
once, and was now anxious to throw him over again? ‘I will not
stay away,’ he said; and Dockwrath secured his lodgings for him.
About this time he was a good deal with Mr. Dockwrath, and almost
regretted that he had not followed that gentleman’s advice at the
commencement of the trial, and placed the management of the whole
concern in his hands.
Thus Alston was quite alive on the morning of the trial, and the
doors of the court-house were thronged long before they were
opened. They who were personally concerned in the matter,
whose presence during the ceremony would be necessary, or who
had legal connection with the matter in hand, were of course not
driven to this tedious manner of obtaining places. Mr. Dockwrath,
for instance, did not stand waiting at the door, nor did his friend
Mr. Mason. Mr. Dockwrath was a great man as far as this day was
concerned, and could command admittance from the doorkeepers and
othors about the court. But for the outer world, for men and women
who were not lucky enough to be lawyers, witnesses, jurymen, or
high sheriff, there was no means of hearing and seeing the events of
THE FIRST JOURNEY TO ALSTON. 187
this stirring day except what might be obtained by exercise of an
almost unlimited patience.
There had been much doubt as to what arrangement for her at-
tendance at the court it might be best for Lady Mason to make, and
some difficulty too as to who should decide as to these arrangements.
Mr. Aram had been down.more than once, and had given a hint
that it would be well that something should be settled.. It had
ended in his settling it himself,—he, with the assistance of Mrs. Orme.
What would Sir Peregrine have said had he known that on any
subject these two had been leagued in council together # ?
‘She can go from hence in a carriage—a catriage from the inn,’
Mrs. Orme had said.
‘ Certainly, certainly ; a carriage from the inn; yes. But in the
ee ma’am ?”
‘ When the trial is over? said Mrs. Orme, inquiring from him his
meuning.
‘ We can hardly expect that it shall be over in one day, ma’am.
She will continue to be on bail, and can return home. I will see
that she is not annoyed as she leaves the town.’
‘ Annoyed? said Mrs. Orme.
‘ By the people I mean.’
‘ Will there be anything of that, sir? she asked, turning pale at
the idea. ‘I shall be with her, you know,’
‘ Through the whole affair, ma’am ?”
‘ Yes, through the whole affair.’
‘ They'll want to have a look at her of course; but,—Mrs. Orme,
we'll see that you are not annoyed. Yes; she had better come
back home the first day. The expense won’t be much; will it”
‘Qh no,’ said Mrs. Orme. ‘I must return home, you know.
How many days will it be, sir ?”
‘ Well, perhaps two,—perhaps three. It may runon all the week.
Of course you know, Mrs. Orme——’
‘ Know what? she asked.
‘ When the trial is over, if—if it should go against us,—then you
must return alone.’
And so the matter had been settled, and Mr. Aram himself had
ordered the carriage from the inn. Sir Peregrine’s carriage would
have been at their disposal,—or rather Mrs. Orme’s own carriage ;
but she had felt that The Cleeve arms on The Cleeve panels would
be out of place in the streets of Hamworth on such an occasion. It
would of course be impossible that she should not be recognized in
the court, but she-would do as little as possible to proclaim her own
presence.
When the morning came, the very morning of the terrible day,
Mrs. Orme came down early from her room, as it was necessary
that she should breakfast two hours before the usual time. She had
188 ORLEY FARM.
said nothing of thisto Sir Peregrine, hoping that she might have
been able to escape in the morning without seeing him. She had
told her son to be there; but when she made her appearance in the
breakfast parlour, she found that his grandfather was already with
him, She sat down and took her cup of tea almost in silence, for
they all felt that on such a morning much speech was impossible
for them.
‘ Edith, my dear,’ said the baronet, ‘ you had better eat some-
thing. Think of the day that is before you.’
‘ Yes, father, I have,’ said she, and she lifted a morsel of bread to
her mouth.
‘ You must take something with you,’ said he, ‘ or you will be
faint in the court. Have you thought how many hours you will be
there ?
‘ I will see to that,’ said Peregrine, speaking with a stern decision
in his voice that was by no means natural to him.
‘Will you be there, Perry” said his mother.
‘ Of course I shall. I will see that you have what you want.
You will find that I will be near you.’
‘ But how will you get in, my boy” asked his grandfather.
‘Let me alone for that. Ihave spoken to the sheriff already.
There is no knowing what may turn up; so if anything does tum
up you may be sure that I am near you.’
Then another slight attempt at eating was made, the cup of
tea was emptied, and the breakfast was finished. ‘Is the carriage
there, Perry ?’ asked Mrs. Orme.
‘Yes; it is at the door.’
* Good-bye, father ; I am so sorry to have disturbed you.’
‘ Good-bye, Edith; God bless you, and give you strength to bear
it. And, Edith——’
« Sir? and she held his hand as he whispered to her.
‘Say to her a word of kindness from me ;—a word of kindness.
Tell her that I have forgiven her, but tell her also that man’s for-
giveness will avail her nothing.’
‘Yes, father, I will.’
‘Teach her where to look for pardon. But tell her all the same
that I have forgiven her.’
And then he handed her into the carriage. Peregrine, as he
stood aside, had watched them as they whispered, and to his mind
also as he followed them to the carriage a suspicion of what the
truth might be now made its way. Surely there would be no need
of all this solemn mourning if she were innocent. Had she been
esteemed as innocent, Sir Peregrine was not the man to believe
that any jury of his countrymen could find her guilty. Had this
been tho reason for that sudden change,—for that breaking off of the
intended marriage? Even Peregrine, as he went down the steps
THE FIRST JOURNEY TO ALSTON. 189
after his mother, had begun to suspect the truth; and we may say
that he was the last within all that household who did so. During
the last week every servant at The Cleeve had whispered to her
fellow-servant that Lady Mason had forged the will.
“I shall be near you, mother,’ said Peregrine as he put his hand
into the carriage ; ‘remember that. The judge and the other fellows
will go out in the middle of the day to get a glass of wine: I'll have
something for both of you near the court.’
Poor Mrs. Orme as she pressed her son’s hand felt much relieved
by the assurance. It was not that she feared anything, but she was
going to a place that was absolutely new to her,—to a place in
which the eyes of many would be fixed on her,—to a place in which
the eyes of all would be fixed on the companion with whom she
would be joined. Her heart almost sank within her as the carriage
drove away. She would be alone till she reached Orley Farm, and
there she would take up not only Lady Mason, but Mr. Aram also.
How would it be with them in that small carriage while Mr. Aram
was sitting opposite to them? Mrs. Orme by no means regretted
this act of kindness which she was doing, but she began to feel that
the task was not a light one. As to Mr. Aram’s presence in the
carriage, she need have been under no uneasiness. He understood
very well when his presence was desirable, and also when it was
not desirable.
When she arrived at the door of Orley Farm house she found
My, Aram waiting there to receive her. ‘Iam sorry to say,’ said
he, raising his hat, ‘ that Lady Mason’s son is to accompany us.’
‘She did not tell me,’ said Mrs. Orme, not understanding why
this should make him sorry.
‘It was arranged between them last night, and it is very unfor-
tunate. I cannot explain this to her; but perhaps -
‘Why is it unfortunate, sir?’
‘Things will be said which—which—which would drive me mad
if they were said about my mother.’ And immediately there was a
touch of sympathy between the high-bred lady and the Old Bailey
Jew lawyer.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mrs. Orme. ‘ It will be dreadful.’
‘And then if they find her guilty! It may be so, you know.
And how is he to sit there and hear the judge’s charge ;—and then
the verdict, and the sentence. If he is there he cannot escape.
I'll tell you what, Mrs. Orme; he should not be there at all.’
But what could she do? Had it been possible that she should be
an hour alone with Lady Mason, she would have explained all this
to -her,—or if not all, would have explained much of it. But now,
with no minutes to spare, how could she make this understood ?
‘ But all that will not come to-day, will it, sir?”
‘ Not all,—not the charge or the verdict. But he should not be
190 ORLEY FARM.
there even to-day. He should have gone away; or if he remained
at home, he should not have shown himself out of the house.’
But this was too late now, for as they were still speaking Lady
Mason appeared at the door, leaning on her son’s arm. She was
dressed from head to foot in black, and over her face there was a
thick black veil. Mr. Aram spoke no word further as she stepped
up the steps from the hall door to the carriage, but stood back,
holding the carriage-door open in his hand. Lucius merely bowed
to Mrs. Orme as he assisted his mother to take her place ; and then
following her, he sat himself down in silence opposite to them.
Mr. Aram, who had carefully arranged his own programme, shut
the door, and mounted on to the box beside the driver.
Mrs. Orme had held out her own hand, and Lady Mason having
taken it, still held it after she was seated. Then they started, and
for the first mile no word was spoken between them. Mrs. Orme
was most anxious to speak, if it might only be for the sake of
breaking the horrid stillness of their greeting; but she could think
of no word which it would be proper on such an occasion to say,
either to Lucius, or even before him. Had she been alone with
Lady Mason there would have been enough of words that she coulc
have spoken. Sir Peregrine’s message was as a burden upon her
tongue till she could deliver it ; but she could not deliver it while
Lucius Mason was sitting by her.
Lady Mason herself was the first to speak. ‘I did not know
yesterday that Lucius would come,’ she said, ‘or I should have
told you.’
‘I hope it does not inconvenience you,’ he said.
‘Oh no; by no means.’
‘I could not let my mother go out without me on such an occa-
sion as this. But I am grateful to you, Mrs. Orme, for coming
also.’
‘T thought it would be better for her to have some lady with
her,’ said Mrs. Orme.
‘Oh yes, it is better—much better.’ And then no further word
was spoken by any of them till the carriage drove up to the couri-
house door. It may be hoped that the journey was less painful to
Mr. Aram than to the others, seeing that he solaced himself on the
coach-box with a cigar.
There was still a. great crowd round the front of the court-house
when they reached it, although the doors were open, and the court
was already sitting. It had been arranged that this case—the great
case of the assize—should come on first on this day, most of the
criminal business having been completed on that preceding ; and
Mr, Aram had promised that his charge should be forthcoming
exactly at ten o’clock. Exactly at ten the carriage was driven up
to the door, and Mr. Aram jumping from his seat directed certain
cil tt
; Me
The Court,
THE FIRST JOURNEY TO ALSTON. 191
policemen and sheriff's servants to make a way for the ladies up to
the door, and through the hall of the court-house. Had he lived in
Alston all his life, and spent his days in the purlieus of that court,
he could not have been more at home or have been more promptly
obeyed.
‘And now 1 think we may go in,’ he said, opening the door and
letting down the steps with his own hands.
At first he took them into a small room within the building, and
then bustled away himself into the court. ‘I shall be back in half
minute,’ he said; and in half a dozen half-minutes he was back.
.
guilt
‘Oh, Mrs. Orme!’
‘If they do, you will come back for her, when the time of her
punishment is over? She is still your mother, Mr. Mason,’
At last the work of the night was done, and the two ladies went
to ‘their beds. The understanding was that Lucius should
see his mother before they started in the morning, but that he
should not again accompany them to the court. Mrs. Orme’s
great object had been,—her great object as regarded the present
moment,—to prevent his presence in court when the verdict should
be given. In this she had succeeded. She could now wish for an
acquittal with a clear conscience ; and could as it were absolve the
sinner within her own heart, seeing that there was no longer
any doubt as to the giving up of the property. Whatever might be
the verdict of the jury Joseph Mason of Groby would, without
doubt, obtain the property which belonged to him.
‘ Good-night, Mr. Mason,’ Mrs. Orme said at last, as she gave him
her hand.
‘Good-night. I believe that in my madness I spoke to you to
night like a brute.’
‘No, no. It was nothing, I did not think of it,
Lucius Mason, as no leaned on the Gate that was no longer his own.
MRS. ORME TELLS THE STORY. 265
‘ When you think of how it was with me, you will forgive me.’ -
She pressed his hand and again told him that she had not thought
of it. It was nothing. And indeed it had been as nothing to her.
There may be moments in a man’s life when any words may be
forgiven, even though they be spoken toa woman...
When Mrs. Orme was gone, he stood for a while perfectly motion-
less in the dining-room, and then coming out into the hall he opened
the front door, and taking his hat, went out into the night. It was still
winter, but the night, though cold and very dark, was fine, and the
air was sharp with the beginning frost. Leaving the door open he
walked forth, and passing out on to the road went down from thence
to the gate. It had been his constant practice to walk up and down
from his own hall door to his own gate on the high road, perhaps
comforting himself too warmly with the reflection that the ground on
which he walked was all his own. He had no.such comfort: now,
as he made his way down the accustomed path and leaned upon the
‘gate; thinking over what he had heard. :
‘. A forger! At some such hour as this, with patient premeditated
care, she had gone to work and committed one of the vilest. crimes
‘known to man. And this was his mother! And he, he, Lucius
Mason, had been living for years on the fruit of this villainy ;—had
been so living till this terrible day of retribution had come upon
‘him! I fear that: at that moment he thought more of his own misery
‘than he did of hers, and hardly considered, as he surely: should
‘have done, that mother’s love which had led ‘to all this guilt.. And
for a moment he resolved that he would not go back to the house.
-His head, he said to himself, should never again rest under a roof
which belonged of right to Joseph Mason. He had injured Joseph
Mason ;—had injured him innocently, indeed, as far as’ he. himself
was concerned; but he had injured him greatly, and therefore now
hated him all the more. ‘He shall have it instantly,’ he said, and
walked forth into the high road as though he would not allow his
- feet to rest again on his brother’s property. .
: But he was forced to remember that this could not.be so. “His
‘mother’s trial was not yet over, and even in'the midst of his own
‘personal trouble he remembered that the verdict to her was still
a matter of terrible import. He would not let it be known that he
_had abandoned the property, at any rate till that verdict had been
given. And then as he moved back to the house he tried to think
in what way it would become him to behave to his mother. ‘She
can. never be. my mother’ again,’ he said to himself. They were
‘terrible words ;—but then was not his-position very terrible?
And when at last he had bolted the front door, going through the
accustomed task mechanically,.and had gone up stairs to his own
room, he had failed to make up his mind on this subject. Perhaps
it would be better that he should not see her. What could he say
266 ORLEY FARM.
to her? What word of comfort could he speak? 1t was not only
that she had beggared him! Nay; it was not that at all! Butshe -
had doomed him to a life of disgrace which no effort of his own could
wipe away. And then as he threw himself on his bed ‘he thought
of Sophia Furnival. Would she share his disgrace with him? Was
it possible that there might be solace there ?
Quite impossible, we should say, who know her well.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
YOUNG LOCHINVAR.
JupgE STAVELEY, whose court had not been kept siting to a late
hour by any such eloquence as that of Mr. Furnival, had gone home
before the business of the other court had closed. Augustus, who
was his father’s marshal, remained for his friend, and had made his
way in among the crowd, so as to hear the end of the speech.
‘Don’t wait dinner for us,’ he had said to his father. ‘If you do
you will be hating us all the time; and we sha’n’t be there till
between eight and nine.’
‘I should be sorry to hate you,’ said the judge, ‘and so I won’t.’
When therefore Felix Graham escaped from the court at about half-
past seven, the two young men were able to take their own time
and eat their dinner together comfortably, enjoying their bottle of
champagne between them perhaps more thoroughly than they would
have done had the judge and Mrs. Staveley shared it with them.
But Felix had something of which to think besides the cham-
pagne—something which was of more consequence to him even
than the trial in which he was engaged. Madeline had promised
that she would meet him that evening ;—or rather had not so
promised. When asked to do so she had not refused, but even
while not refusing had reminded him that her mother would be
there. Her manner to him had, he thought, been cold, though she
had not been ungracious. Upon the whole, he could not make up
his mind to expect success. ‘ Then he must have been a fool!’ the
reader learned in such matters will say. The reader learned in
such matters is, I think, right. In that respect he was a fool.
‘I suppose we must give the governor the benefit of our company
over his wine, said Augustus, as soon as their dinner was over.
‘1 suppose we ought to do so.’
‘ And why not? Is there any objection?”
‘To tell the truth,’ said Graham, ‘I have an appointment which
I am very anxious to keep.’
‘An appointment? Where? Here at Noningsby, do you mean?”
YOUNG LOCHINVAR. 267
‘In this house. But yet I cannot say that it is absoutely an
appointment. I am going to ask your sister what my fate is to bo.’
‘ And that is the appointment! Very well, my dear fellow; and
may God prosper you. If you can convince the governor that it is
all right, I shall make no objection. I wish, for Madeline’s sake,
that you had not such a terrible bee in your bonnet.’
‘ And you will go to the judge alone”
‘Oh, yes. Tl tell him——. What shall I tell him?
‘ The truth, if you will. Good-bye, old fellow. You will not see
me again to-night, nor yet to-morrow in this house, unless I am
more fortunate than I have any right to hope to be.’
* Faint heart never won fair lady, you know,’ said Augustus.
‘My heart is faint enough then; but nevertheless I shall say
what I have got to say.’ And then he got up from the table.
‘If you don’t come down to us,’ said Augustus, ‘ I shall come up
to you. But may God speed you. And now I'll go to the governor.’
Felix made his way from the small breakfast-parlour in which
they had dined across the hall into the drawing-room, and there he
found Lady Staveley alone. ‘So the trial is not over yet, Mr. Gra-
ham? she said.
‘No; there will be another day of it.’
‘ And what will be the verdict? Is it possible that she really
forged the will?
“¢* Ah! that I cannot say. You know that I am one of her counsel,
Lady Staveley ?
‘Yes; I should have remembered that, and been more discreet.
If you are looking for Madeline, Mr. Graham, I think that she is in
the library.’
‘Oh! thank you ;—in the library.’ And then Felix got himself
out of the drawing-room into the hall again not in the most graceful
manner. He might have gone direct from the drawing-room to
the library, but this he did not remember. It was very odd, he
thought, that Lady Staveley, of whose dislike to him he had felt
sure, should have thus sent him direct. to her daughter, and have
become a party, as it were, to an appointment between them. But
he had not much time to think of this before he found himself in
the room. There, sure enough, was Madeline waiting to listen to
his story. She was seated when he entered, with her back to him;
but as she heard him she rose, and, after pausing for a moment, she
stepped forward to meet him.
“You and Augustus were very late to-day,’ she said.
“Yes. Iwas kept there, and he was good enough to wait for me.
‘You said you wanted to——speak to me,’ she said, hesitating a
little, but yet very little; ‘to speak to me alone; and so mamma
said I had better come in here. I hope you are not vexed that I
should have told her.’
268 ORLEY FARM,
‘ Certainly not, Miss Staveley.’
‘ Because I have no secrets from mamma.’
‘Nor do I wish that anything should be secret. I hate all secre-
cies. Miss Staveley, your father knows of my intention.’
On this point Madeline did not feel it to be necessary to say any-
thing. Of course her father knew of the intention. Had she not
received her father’s sanction for listening to Mr. Graham she would
not have been alone with him in the library. It might be that the
time would come in which she would explain all this to her lover,
but that time had not come yet. So when he spoke of her father
she remained silent, and allowing her eyes to fall to the ground she
stood before him, waiting to hear his question.
* Miss Staveley,’ he said ;—and he was conscious himself of being
very awkward. Much more so, indeed, than there was any need,
for Madeline was not aware that he was awkward. In her eyes
he was quite master of the occasion, and seemed to have every-
thing his own way. He had already done all that was difficult in
the matter, and had done it without any awkwardness. He had
already made himself master of her heart, and it was only necessary
now that he should enter in and take possession. The ripe fruit
had fallen, as Miss Furnival had once chosen to express it, and there
he was to pick it up,—if only he considered it worth his trouble to do
so. That manner of the picking would not signify much, as Madeline
thought. That he desired to take it into his garner and preserve it
for his life’s use was everything to her, but the method of his words
at the present moment was not much. He was her lord and master.
He was the one man who had conquered and taken possession of her
spirit; and as to his being awkward, there was not much in
that. Nor do I say that he was awkward. He spoke his mind in
honest, plain terms, and I do not know he could have done better.
‘Miss Staveley,’ he said, ‘in asking you to see me alone, I have
made a great venture. Iam indeed risking all that I most value.’
And then he paused, as though he expected that she would speak.
But she still kept her eyes upon the ground, and still stood silent
before him. ‘I cannot but think you must guess my purpose,’ he
said, ‘though I acknowledge that I have had nothing that can
warrant me in hoping for a favourable answer. There is my hand;
if you can take it you need not doubt that you have my heart with
it. And then he held out to her his broad, right hand.
Madeline still stood silent before him and still fixed her eyes
upon the ground, but very slowly she raised her little hand and
allowed her soft slight fingers to rest upon his open palm. It was
as though she thus affixed her legal signature and seal to the deed
of gift. She had not said a word to him; not a word of love or a
word of assent; but no such word was now necessary.
‘Madeline, my own Madeline, he said; and then taking unfair
YOUNG LOCHINVAR, : 269
advantage of the fingers which she had given him he drew her to his
breast and folded her in his arms.
It was nearly an hour after this when he returned to the drawing-
room. ‘Do go in now,’ she said. ‘You must not wait any longer ;
indeed you must go.’
‘ And you 3 you will come in presently.’
“It is already nearly eleven. No, I will not show myself again
to-night. Mamma will soon come up to me, I know. Good-night,
Felix. Do you go now, and I will follow you.’ And then after
some further little ceremony he left her.
When he entered the drawing-room Lady Staveley was there, and
the judge with his teacup beside him, and Augustus standing with
his back to the fire. Felix walked up to the circle, and taking a
chair sat down, but at the moment said nothing.
‘You didn’t get any wine after your day’s toil, Master Graham,’
said the judge.
‘ Indeed I did, sir. We had some champagne.’
‘Champagne, had you? Then I ought to have waited for my
guest, for I got none. You had a long day of it in court.’
‘Yes, indeed, sir.’
‘And I am afraid not very satisfactory.’ To this Graham made
no immediate answer, but he could not refrain from thinking that
the day, taken altogether, had been satisfactory to him.
And then Baker came into the room, and going close up to Lady
Staveley, whispered something in her ear. ‘ Oh, ah, yes,’ said Lady
Staveley. ‘I must wish you good night, Mr. Graham.” And she
took his hand, pressing it very warmly. But though she wished
him good night then, she saw him again before he went to bed. It
was a family in which all home affairs were very dear, and a new
son could not be welcomed into it without much expression of
affection.
‘Well, sir! and how have you sped since dinner?’ the judge
asked as soon as the door was closed behind his wife.
‘I have proposed to your daughter and she has accepted me.’
And as he said so he rose from the chair in which had just now
seated himself.
‘Then, my boy, I hope you will make her a good husband ;’ and
the judge gave him his hand,
‘I will try to do so. I cannot but feel, however, how little right
I had to ask her, seeing that I am likely to be so poor a man.’
‘Well, well, well—we will talk of that another time. At present
we will only sing your triumphs—
*So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.’
‘ Felix, my dear fellow, I congratulate you with all my heart,’
said Augustus. ‘ But I did not know you were good as a warrior.’
270 ORLEY FARM.
‘ Ah, but he is though,’ said the judge. ‘ What do you think of
his wounds? And if all that I hear be true, he has other battles on
hand. But we must not speak about that till this poor lady’s trial
1s over.
‘I need hardly tell you, sir,’ said Graham, with that sheep-like
air which a man always carries on such occasions, ‘ that I regard
myself as the most fortunate man in the world.’
“Quite unnecessary,’ said the judge. ‘On such occasions that is
taken asa matter of course.’ And then the conversation between
them for the next ten minutes was rather dull and flat.
Up-stairs the same thing was going on, in a manner somewhat
more animated, between the mother and daughter,—for ladies on
such occasions can be more animated than men.
‘Oh, mamma, you must love him,’ Madeline said.
‘Yes, my dear; of course I shall love him now. Your papa says
that he is very clever.’
‘I know papa likes him. I knew that from the very first. I
think that was the reason why 7
‘ And I suppose clever people are the best,—that is to say, if they
are good.’
‘ And isn’t he good’?
‘Well—I hope so. Indeed, I’m sure he is. Mr. Orme was a
very good young man too ;—but it’s no good talking about him now.’
‘Mamma, that never could have come to pass.’
‘Very well, my dear. It’s over now, and of course all that I
looked for was your happiness.’
‘I know that, mamma; and indeed I am very happy. I’m sure
I could not ever have liked any once else since I first knew him.’
Lady Staveley still thought it very odd, but she had nothing else
to say. As regarded the pecuniary considerations of the affair she
left them altogether to her husband, feeling that in this way she
could relieve herself from misgivings which might otherwise make
her unhappy. ‘And after all I don’t know that his ugliness sig-
nifies,’ she said to herself. And so she made up her mind that she
would be loving and affectionate to him, and sat up till she heard
his footsteps in the passage, in order that she might speak to him,
and make him welcome to the privileges of a son-in-law.
‘Mr. Graham,’ she said, opening her door as he passed by.
‘Of course she has told you,’ said Felix.
«Oh yes, she has told me. We don’t have many secrets in this
house. And I’m sure I congratulate you with all my heart; and I
think you have got the very best girl in all the world. Of course
I’m her mother ; but I declare, if I was to talk of her for a week, I
could not say anything of her but good.’
« I know how fortunate I am.’
‘Yes, you are fortunate. For there is nothing in the world equal
YOUNG LOCHINVAR. 271
to 4 loving wife who will do her duty. And I’m sure you'll be good
to her.’
‘I will endeavour to be so.’
‘A man must be very bad indeed who would be bad to her,—and
I don’t think that of you. And it’s a great thing, Mr. Graham, that
Madeline should have loved a man of whom her papa is so fond. I
don’t know what you have done to the judge, I’m sure.’ This she
said, remembering in the innocence of her heart that Mr. Arbuthnot
had been a son-in-law rather after her own choice, and that the
judge always declared that his eldest daughter’s husband had seldom
much to say for himself.
‘And I hope that Madeline’s mother will receive me as kindly
as Madeline’s father,’ said he, taking Lady Staveley’s hand and
pressing it.
‘Indeed I will. I will love you very dearly if you will let me.
My girls’ husbands are the same to me as sons.’ Then she put up
her face and he kissed it, and so they wished each other good night.
He found Augustus in his own room, and they two had hardly sat
themselves down over the fire, intending to recall the former scenes
which had taken place in that very room, when a knock was heard
at the door, and Mrs. Baker entered.
‘ And so it’s all settled, Mr. Felix,’ said she.
‘Yes,’ said he; ‘all settled.’
‘Well now! didn’t I know it from the first?
‘Then what a wicked old woman you were not to tell,’ said
Augustus.
‘That’s all very well, Master Augustus. How would you like
me to tell of you ;—for I could, you know?’
* You wicked old woman, you couldn’t do anything of the kind.’
. Oh, couldn't 1? But I defy all the world to say a word of Miss
Madeline but what’s good,—only £ did know all along which way
the wind was blowing. Lord love you, Mr. Graham, when you
came in here all of a smash like, I knew it wasn’t for nothing.’
‘You think he did it on purpose then,’ said Staveley.
‘ Did it on purpose? What; make up to Miss Madeline? Why,
of course he did it on purpose. He’s been a-thinking of it ever
since Christmas night, when I saw you, Master Augustus, and a
certain young lady when you came out into the dark passage
together.’
‘ That’s a downright falsehood, Mrs. Baker.’
‘Oh—very well. Perhaps I was mistaken. But now, Mr.
Graham, if you don’t treat our Miss Madeline well——’
‘That’s just what I’ve been telling him,’ said her brother. ‘If
he uses her ill, as he did his former wife—breaks her heart as he
did with that one——’
‘ His former wife !’ said Mrs. Baker.
272 ORLEY FARM.
‘ Haven’t you heard of that? Why, he’s had two already.’
‘Two wives already! Oh now, Master Augustus, what an old
fool I am ever to believe a word that comes out of your mouth.’
Then having uttered her blessing, and having had her hand cor-
dially grasped by this new scion of the Staveley family, the old
woman left the young men to themselves, and went to her bed.
* Now that it is done——,’ said Felix.
‘ You wish it were undone.’
‘No, by heaven! I think I may venture to say that it will never
come to me to wish that. But now that it is done, Iam astonished
at my own impudence almost as much as at my success. Why
should your father have welcomed me to his house as his son-in-law,
seeing how poor are my prospects ?
‘Just for that reason; and because he is so different from other
men. I have no doubt that he is proud of Madeline for having
liked a man with an ugly face and no money.’
«If I had been beautiful like you, I shouldn’t have had a chance
with him.’
‘Not if you’d been weighted with money also. Now, as for
myself, I confess I’m not nearly so magnanimous as my father, and.
for Mad’s sake, I do hope you will get rid of your vagaries. An
income, I know, is a very commonplace sort of thing; but when a
man has a family there are comforts attached to it.’
‘ Lamat any rate willing to work,’ said Graham somewhat moodily.
‘Yes, if you may work exactly in your own way. But men in
the world can’t do that. A man, as I take it, must through life
allow himself to be governed by the united wisdom of others around
him. He cannot take upon himself to judge as to every step by his
own lights. If he does, he will be dead before he has made up his
mind as to the preliminaries.’ And in this way Augustus Staveley
from the depth of his life’s experience spoke words of worldly
wisdom to his future brother-in-law.
On the next morning before he started again for Alston and his
now odious work, Graham succeeded in getting Madeline to himselt
for five minutes. ‘ I saw both your father and mother last night,’
said he, ‘and I shall never forget their goodness to me.’
‘Yes, they are good.’
‘ It seems like a dream to me that they should have accepted me
as their son-in-law.’
‘But it is no dream to me, Felix ;—or if so, I do not mean to wake
any more. [I used to think that I should never care very much for
anybody out of my own family ;—but now——’ And she then
pressed her little hand upon his arm.
‘And Felix,’ she said, as he prepared to leave her, ‘ you are not
to go away from Noningsby when the trial is over. I wanted
mamma to tell you, but she said I’d better do it.’
CHAPTER XXXV
THE LAST DAY.
Mrs. ORME was up very early on that last morning of the trial, and
had dressed herself before Lady Mason was awake. It was now
March, but yet the morning light was hardly sufficient for her as
she went through her toilet. They had been told to be in the court
very punctually at ten, and in order to do so they must leave Orley
Farm at nine. Before that, as had been arranged over night,
Lucius was to see his mother.
‘You haven’t told him! he doesn’t know!’ were the first words
which Lady Mason spoke as she raised her head from the pillow.
But then she remembered. ‘Ah! yes,’ she said, as she again sank
back and hid her face, ‘ he knows it all now.’
“Yes, dear; he knows it all; and is it not better so? He will
come and see you, and when that is over you will be more comfort-
able than you have been for years past.’
Lucius also had been up early, and when he learned that Mrs.
Orme was dressed, he sent up to her begging that he might see her.
Mrs. Orme at once went to him, and found him seated at the break-
fast-table with his head resting on his arm. His face was pale and
haggard, and his hair was uncombed. He had not been undressed
that night, and his clothes hung on him as they always do hang on
a man who has passed a sleepless night in them. To Mrs. Orme’s
inquiry after himself he answered not aword, nor did he at first ask
after his mother. ‘That was all true that you told me last night ”
“Yes, Mr. Mason ; it was true.’ —
‘And she and I must be outcasts for ever. I will endeavour to
bear it, Mrs. Orme. As I did not put an end to my life last night I
suppose that I shall live and bear it. Does she expect to see me”
‘I told her that you would come to her this morning.’
+ And what shall I say? I would not'condemn my own mother ;
but how can I not condemn her ?
‘Tell her at once that you will forgive her.’
‘But it will be a lie. I have not forgiven her. I loved my
mother and esteemed her as a pure and excellent woman. I was
proud of my mother. How can I forgive her for having destroyed
such feelings as those ”
VOL. I. T
274 ORLEY FARM.
‘There should be nothing that a son would not forgive his
mother.’
‘Ah! that is so easily spoken. Men talk of forgiveness when
their anger rankles deepest in their hearts. In the course of years
{shall forgive her. I hope I shall. But to say that I can forgive
her now would be a farce. She has broken my heart, Mrs. Orme.’
* And has not she suffered herself? Is not her heart broken ?”
“TI have been thinking of that all night. I cannot understand
how she should have lived for the last six months. Well; is it
time that I should go to her?” a
Mrs. Orme again went up stairs, and after another interval of half
an hour returned to fetch him. She almost regretted that she had
undertaken to bring them together on that morning, thinking that
it might have been better to postpone the interview till the trial
should be over. She had expected that Lucius would have been
softer in his manner. But it was too late for any such thought.
‘You will find her dressed now, Mr. Mason,’ said she; ‘but I
conjure you, as you hope for mercy yourself, to be merciful to her.
She is your mother, and though she has injured you by her folly,
her heart has heen true to you through it all. Go now, and
remember that harshness to any woman is unmanly,’
‘I can only act as I think best,’ he replied in that low stern voice
which was habitual to him; and then with slow steps he went up
to his mother’s room.
When he entered it she was standing with her eyes fixed upon
the door and her hands clasped together. So she stood till he had
closed the door behind him, and had taken a few steps on towards
the centre of the room. Then she rushed forward, and throwing
herself on the ground before him clasped him round the knees with
her arms. ‘My boy, my’boy!’ she said. And then she lay there
bathing his feet with her tears.
‘Oh! mother, what is this that she has told me ?’
But Lady Mason at the moment spoke no further words. It
seemed as though her heart would have burst with sobs, and when
for a moment she lifted up her face to his, the tears were streaming
down her cheeks. Had it not been for that relief she could not
have borne the sufferings which were heaped upon her.
‘Mother, get up,’ he said. ‘Let me raise you. It is dreadful
that you should lie there. Mother, let me lift you.’ But she still
clung to his knees, grovelling on the ground before him. ‘ Lucius,
Lucius,’ she said, and she then sank away from him as though the
strength of her muscles would no longer allow her to cling to him.
She sank away from him and lay along the ground hiding her face
upon the floor.
‘Mother,’ he said, taking her gently by the arm as he knelt at
her side, ‘if you will rise I will speak to you,’
THE LAST DAY. 275
‘Your words will kill me,’ she said. ‘Ido not dare to look at
you. Oh! Lucius, will you ever forgive me?
And yet she had done it all for him. She had done a rascally
deed, an hideous cut-throat deed, but it had been done altogether
for him. No thought of her own aggrandisement had touched her
mind when she resolved upon that forgery. As Rebekah had de-
ceived her lord and robbed Esau, the first-born, of his birthright, so
had she robbed him who was as Esau to her. How often had she
thought of that, while her’ conscience was pleading hard against
her! Had it been imputed as a crime to Rebekah that she had loved
her own son well, and loving him had put a crown upon his head
by means of her matchless guile? Did she love Lucius, her babe,
less than Rebekah had loved Jacob? And had she not striven with
the old man, struggling that she might do this just thing without
injustice, till in his anger he had thrust her from him, ‘I will
not break my promise for the brat,’ the old man had said ;—and
then she did the deed. But all that was as nothing now. She felt
no comfort now from that Bible story which had given her such
encouragement before the thing was finished. Now the result of
evil-doing had come full home to her, and she was seeking pardon
with a broken heart, while burning tears furrowed her cheeks,—not
from him whom she had thought to injure, but from the child of her
own bosom, for whose prosperity she had been so anxious.
Then she slowly arose and allowed him to place her upon the
sofa. ‘Mother,’ he said, ‘it is all over here.’
‘Ah! yes.’
‘Whither we had better go, I cannot yet say,—or when. We
must wait till this day is ended.’
‘Lucius, I care nothing for myself,—nothing. It is nothing to
me whether or no they say that I am guilty. It is of you only that
I am thinking.’
«Our lot, mother, must still be together. If they find you guilty
you will be imprisoned, and then I will go, and come back when
they release you. For you and me the future world will be very
different from the past.’
«Tt need not be so,—for you, Lucius. I do not wish to keep you
near me now.’
«But I shall be near you. Where you hide your shame there
will I hide mine. In this world there is nothing left for us. But
there is another world before you,—if you can repent of your sin.’
This too he said very sternly, standing somewhat away from her,
and frowning the while with those gloomy eyebrows. Sad as was
her condition he might have given her solace, could he have taken
her by the hand and kissed her. Peregrine Orme would have done
so, or Augustus Staveley, could it have been possible that they
should have found themselves in that position. Though Lucius
T2
276 ORLEY FARM.
Mason could not do so, he was not less just than they, and, it may
be, not less loving in his heart. He could devote himself for his
mother’s sake as absolutely as could they. But to some is given
and to some is denied that cruse of heavenly balm with which all
wounds can be assuaged and sore hearts ever relieved of some
portion of their sorrow. Of all the virtues with which man can
endow himself surely none other is so odious as that justice which
can teach itself*to look down upon mercy almost as a vice!
‘TI will not ask you to forgive me,’ she said, plaintively.
‘Mother,’ he answered, ‘were I to say that I forgave you my
words would be a mockery. Ihave no right either to condemn or
to forgive. I accept my position as it has been made for me, and
will endeavour to do my duty.’
It would have been almost better for her that he should have
upbraided her for her wickedness. She would then have fallen
again prostrate before him, if not in body at least in spirit, and her
weakness would have stood for her in the place of strength. But
now it was necessary that she should hear his words and bear his
looks,—bear them like a heavy burden on her back without abso-
lutely sinking. It had been that necessity of bearing and never
absolutely sinking which, during years past, had so tried and tested
the strength of her heart and soul. Seeing that she had not sunk,
we may say that her strength had been very wonderful.
And then she stood up and came close to him. ‘But you will
give me your hand, Lucius ?
‘ Yes, mother; there is my hand. I shall stand by you through
it all.” But he did not offer to kiss her; and there was still some
pride in her heart which would not allow her to ask him for an
embrace.
‘And now,’ he said, ‘it is time that you should prepare to go.
Mrs. Orme thinks it better that I should not accompany you.’
‘No, Lucius, no; you must not hear them proclaim my guilt in
court.’
‘ That would make but little difference. But nevertheless I will
not go. Had I known this before I should not have gone there. It
was to testify my belief in your innocence; nay, my conviction——
‘Oh, Lucius, spare me !’
‘Well, I will speak of it no more. I shall be here to-night when
you come back.’
‘But if they say that I am guilty they will take me away.’
‘If so I will come to you,—in the morning if they will let me.
But, mother, in any case I must leave this house to-morrow.’ Then
again he gave her his hand, but he left her without touching her
with his lips.
When the two ladies appeared in court together without Lucius
Mason there was much question among the crowd as to the cause of
THE LAST DAY. 277
his absence. Both Dockwrath and Joseph Mason looked at it in the
right light, and accepted it as a ground for renewed hope. ‘He
dare not face the verdict,’ said Dockwrath. And yet when they had
left the court on the preceding evening, after listening to Mr.
Furnival’s speech, their hopes had not been very high. Dockwrath
had not admitted with words that he feared defeat, but when Mason
had gnashed his teeth as he walked up and down his room at
Alston, and striking the table with his clenched fist had declared
“ his fears, ‘By heavens they will escape me again! Dockwrath had
not been able to give him substantial comfort. ‘The jury are not
such fools as to take all that for gospel,’ he had said. But he had not
said it with that tone of assured conviction which he had always
used till Mr. Furnival’s speech had been made. There could have
been no greater attestation to the power displayed by Mr. Furnival
than Mr. Mason’s countenance as he left the court on that evening.
‘I suppose it will cost me hundreds of pounds,’ he said to Dockwrath
that evening. ‘Orley Farm will pay for it all,’ Dockwrath had
answered; but his answer had shown no confidence. And, if we
think well of it, Joseph Mason was deserving of pity. He wanted
only what was his own; and that Orley Farm ought to be his own
he had no smallest doubt. Mr. Furnival had not in the least shaken
him; but he had made him feel that others would be shaken. ‘ If
it could only be left to the judge,’ thought Mr. Mason to himself.
And then he began to consider whether this British palladium of
an unanimous jury had not in it more of evil than of good.
Young Peregrine Orme again met his mother at the door of the
court, and at her instance gave his arm to Lady Mason. Mr. Aram
was also there; but Mr. Aram had great tact, and did not offer his
arm to Mrs. Orme, contenting himself with making a way for her
and walking beside her. ‘I am glad that her son has not come to-
day,’ he said, not bringing his head suspiciously close to hers, but
still speaking so that none but she might hear him. ‘He has done
all the good that he could do, andas there is only the judge’s charge
to hear, the jury will not notice his absence. Of course we hope
for the best, Mrs. Orme, but it is doubtful.’
As Felix Graham took his place next to Chaffanbrass, the old
lawyer scowled at him, turning his red old savage eyes first on him
and then from him, growling the while, so that the whole court
might notice it. The legal portion of the court did notice it and
were much amused. ‘Good morning, Mr. Chaffanbrass,’ said
Graham quite aloud as he took his seat; and then Chaffanbrass
‘ growled again. Considering the lights with which he had been
lightened, there was a species of honesty about Mr. Chaffanbrass
which certainly deserved praise. He was always true to the man
whose money he had taken, and gave to his customer, with all the
power at his command, that assistance which he had professed to
278 ORLEY FARM.
sell. But we may give the same praise to the hired bravo who
goes through with truth and courage the task which he has under-
taken. I knew an assassin in Ireland who professed that during
twelve years of practice in Tipperary he had never failed when he
had once engaged himself. For truth and honesty to their cus-
tomers—which are great virtues—I would bracket that man and
Mr. Chaffanbrass together.
And then the judge commenced his charge, and as he went on
with it he repeated all the evidence that was in any way of moment,
pulling the details to pieces, and dividing that which bore upon the
subject from that which did not. This he did with infinite talent
and with a perspicuity beyond all praise. But to my thinking it
was remarkable that he seemed to regard the witnesses as a dissect-
ing surgeon may be supposed to regard the subjects on which he
operates for the advancement of science. With exquisite care he
displayed what each had said and how the special saying of one bore
on that special saying of another. But he never spoke of them as
though they had been live men and women who were themselves as
much entitled to justice at his hands as either the prosecutor in
this matter or she who was being prosecuted; who, indeed, if
anything, were better entitled unless he could show that they were
false and suborned ; for unless they were suborned or false they
were there doing a painful duty to the public, for which they were
to receive no pay and from which they were to obtain no benefit.
Of whom else in that court could so much be said? The judge
there had his ermine and his canopy, his large salary and his seat of
honour. And the lawyers had their wigs, and their own loud
voices, and their places of precedence. The attorneys had their
seats and their big tables, and the somewhat familiar respect of the
tipstaves. The jury, though not much to be envied, were addressed
with respect and flattery, had their honourable seats, and were
invariably at least called gentlemen. But why should there be no
seat of honour for the witnesses? ‘To stand in a box, to be bawled
after by the police, to be scowled at and scolded by the judge, to be
browbeaten and accused falsely by the barristers, and then to be
condemned as perjurers by the jury,—that is the fate of the one
person who during the whole trial is perhaps entitled to the greatest
respect, and is certainly entitled to the most public gratitude. Let
the witness have a big arm-chair, and a canopy over him, and a man
behind him with a red cloak to do him honour and keep the flies
off; let him be gently invited to come forward from some inner
room where he can sit before a fire. Then he will be able to speak
out, making himself heard without scolding, and will perhaps be
able to make a fair fight with the cocks who can crow so loudly on
their own dunghills.
The judge in this case did his work with admirable skill, blowing
THE LAST DAY. 279
aside the froth of Mr. Furnival’s eloquence, and upsetting the
sophistry and false deductions of Mr: Chaffanbrass. The case for the
jury, as he said, hung altogether upon the evidence of Kenneby and
the woman Bolster. As far as he could see, the evidence of Dock-
wrath had little to do with it; and alleged malice and greed on the
part of Dockwrath could have nothing to do with it. The jury
might take it as proved that Lady Mason at the former trial had
sworn that she had been present when her husband signed the
codicil and had seen the different signatures affixed to it. They
might also take it as proved, that that other deed—the deed pur-
porting to close a partnership between Sir Joseph Mason and
Mr. Martock,—had been executed on the 14th of July, and that it
had been signed by Sir Joseph, and also by those two surviving
witnesses, Kenneby and Bolster. The question, therefore, for the
consideration of the jury had narrowed itself to this: had two deeds
been executed by Sir Joseph Mason, both bearing the same date?
If this had not been done, and if that deed with reference to the
partnership were a true deed, then must the other be false and
fraudulent; and if false and fraudulent, then must Lady Mason
have sworn falsely, and been guilty of that perjury with which she
was now charged. There might, perhaps, be one loophole to this
argument by which an escape was possible. Though both deeds
bore the date of 14th July, there might have been error in this. It
was possible, though no doubt singular, that that date should have
been inserted in the partnership deed, and the deed itself be
executed afterwards. But then the woman Bolster told them that
she had -been called to act as witness but once in her life, and if
they believed her in that statement, the possibility of error as to the
date would be of little or no avail on behalf of Lady Mason. For
himself, he could not say that adequate ground had been shown for
charging Bolster with swearing falsely. No doubt she had been
obstinate in her method of giving her testimony, but that might
have arisen from an honest resolution on her part not to allow her-
self to be shaken. The value of her testimony must, however, be
judged by the jury themselves. As regarded Kenneby, he must say
that the man had been very stupid. No one who had heard him
would accuse him for a moment of having intended to swear falsely,
but the jury might perhaps think that the testimony of such a
man could not be taken as having much value with reference to
circumstances which happened more than twenty years since.
The charge took over two hours, but the substance of it has been
stated.. Then the jury retired to consider their verdict, and the
judge, and the barristers, and some other jury proceeded to the
business of some other and less important trial. Lady Mason and
Mrs. Orme sat for a while in their seats—perhaps for a space of
twenty minutes—and then, as the jury did not at once return into
280 ORLEY FARM.
court, they retired to the sitting-room in which they had first been
placed. Here Mr. Aram accompanied them, and here they were of
course met by Peregrine Orme.
‘His lordship’s charge was very good—very good, indeed,’ said
Mr. Aram,
‘Was it? asked Peregrine.
‘ And very much in our favour,’ continued the attorney.
‘You think then,’ said Mrs. Orme, looking up into his face, ‘ you
think that——’ But she did not know how to go on with her
question.
‘Yes, Ido, Ithink we shall have a verdict; I do, indeed. I
would not say so before Lady Mason if my opinion was not very
strong, The jury may disagree. That is not improbable. But I
cannot anticipate that the verdict will be against us.’
There was some comfort in this; but how wretched was the
nature of the comfort! Did not the attorney, in every word which
he spoke, declare his own conviction of his client’s guilt. Even
Peregrine Orme could not say out boldly that he felt sure of an
acquittal because no other verdict could be justly given. And then
why was not Mr. Furnival there, taking his friend by the hand and
congratulating her that her troubles were so nearly over? Mr.
Furnival at this time did not come near her; and had he done so,
what could he have said to her?
He and Sir Richard Leatherham left the court together, and the
latter went at once back to London without waiting to hear the
verdict. Mr. Chaffanbrass also, and Felix Graham retired from the
scene of their labours, and as they did s0, a few words were spoken
between them.
‘Mr. Graham,’ said the ancient hero of the Old Bailey, ‘you are
too great for this kind of work I take it. If 1 were you, I would
keep out of it for the future.’
“Iam very much of the same way of thinking, Mr. Chaffanbrass,’
said the other.
‘If a man undertakes a duty, he should do it. That’s my
opinion, though I confess it’s a little old fashioned; especially if he
takes money for it, Mr, Graham.’ And then the old man glowered
at him with his fierce eyes, and nodded his head and went on.
What could Graham say to him? His answer would have been
ready enough had there been time or place in which to.give it.
But he had no answer ready which was fit for the crowded hall of
the court-house, and so Mr. Chaffanbrass went on his way. He will
now pass out of our sight, and we will say of him, that he did his
duty well according to his lights.
There, in that little room, sat Lady Mason and Mrs. Orme till
late in the evoning, and there, with them, remained Peregrine.
Some sort of refreshment was procured for them, but of the three
I LOVE HER STILL. 281
days they passed in the court, that, perhaps, was the most oppres-
sive. There was no employment for them, and then the suspense
was terrible! That suspense became worse and worse as the hours
went on, for it was clear that at any rate some of the jury were
anxious to give a verdict against her. ‘They say that there’s eight
and four,’ said Mr, Aram, at one of the many visits which he made
to them; ‘but there’s no saying how true that may be.’
‘Hight and four!’ said Peregrine.
‘ Hight to acquit, and four for guilty,’ said Aram. ‘If so, we’re
safe, at any rate, till the next assizes.’ :
But it was not fated that Lady Mason should be sent away from
the court in doubt. At eight o’clock Mr. Aram came to them, hot
with haste, and told them that the jury had sent for the judge. The
judge had gone home to his dinner, but would return to court at
once when he heard that the jury had agreed.
‘ And must we go into court again? said Mrs. Orme.
‘Lady Mason must do so.’
‘ Then of course I shall go with her. Are you ready now, dear”
Lady Mason was unable to speak, but she signified that she was
ready, and then they went into court. The jury were already in
the box, and as the two ladies took their seats, the judge entered.
But few of the gas-lights were lit, so that they in the court could
hardly see each other, and the remaining ceremony did not take
five minutes.
‘Not guilty, my lord,’ said the foreman. Then the verdict was
recorded, and the judge went back to hisdinner. Joseph Mason and
Dockwrath were present and heard the verdict. I will leave the reader
to imagine with what an appetite they returned to their chamber.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
I LOVE HER STILL.
Tr was all over now, and as Lucius had said to his mother, there
was nothing left for them but to go and hide themselves. The
verdict had reached him before his mother’s return, and on the
moment of his hearing it he sat down and commenced the following
letter to Mr. Furnival :—
‘Orley Farm, March —, 18—.
«Dear Sir,
‘I beg to thank you, in my mother’s name, for your great
exertions in the late trial. I must acknowledge that I have been
wrong in thinking that you gave her bad advice, and am now con-
vinced that you acted with the best judgment on her behalf. May I
282 ORLEY FARM.
beg that you will add to your great kindness by inducing the gen-
tlemen who undertook the management of the case as my mother’s
attorneys to let me know as soon as possible in what sum I am
indebted to them ? 2
‘I believe I need trouble you with no preamble as to my reasons
when I tell you that I have resolved to abandon immediately any
title that I may have to the possession of Orley Farm, and to make
over the property at once, in any way that may be most efficacious,
to my half-brother, Mr. Joseph Mason, of Groby Park. 1 so strongly
feel the necessity of doing this at once, without even a day’s delay,
that I shall take my mother to lodgings in London to-morrow, and
shall then decide on what steps it may be best that we shall take.
My mother will be in possession of about 2001. a year, subject to
such deduction as the cost of the trial may make from it.
‘T hope that you will not think that I intrude upon you too far
when I ask you to communicate with my brother’s lawyers on the
subject of this surrender. I do not know how else to do it; and of
course you will understand that I wish to screen my mother’s name
as much as may be in my power with due regard to honesty. I
hope I need not insist on the fact,—for it is a fact,—that nothing will
change my purpose as to this. If I cannot have it done through
you, I must myself go to Mr. Round. Jam, moreover, aware that
in accordance with strict justice my brother should have upon me a
claim for the proceeds of the estate since the date of our father’s
death. If he wishes it I will give him such claim, making myself
his debtor by any form that may be legal. He must, however, in
such case be made to understand that his claim will be against
a beggar; but, nevertheless, it may suit his views to have sucha
claim upon me. I cannot think that, under the circumstances, I
should be justified in calling on my mother to surrender her small
income; but should you be of a different opinion, it shall be done.
‘I write thus to you at once as I think that not a day should be
lost. I will trouble you with another line from London, to let you
know what is our immediate address.
‘Pray believe me to be
‘ Yours, faithfully and obliged,
‘Lucius Mason.
‘T. Furnival, Esq.,
‘Old Square, Lincoln’s Inn Fields.’
As soon as he had completed this letter, which was sufficiently
good for its purpose, and clearly explained what was the writer's
will on the subject of it, he wrote another, which I do not think was
equally efficacious. The second was addressed to Miss Furnival,
and being a love letter, was not so much within the scope of the
writer’s peculiar powers.
I LOVE HER STILL. 283
* Dearest SopHia,
‘IT hardly know how to address you; or what J should tell
you or what conceal. Were we together, and was that promise re-.
newed which you once gave me, I should tell you all;—but this I
cannot do by letter. My mother’s trial is over, and she is acquitted ;
but that which I have learned during the trial has made me feel
that Iam bound to relinquish to my brother-in-law all my title to
Orley Farm, and I have already taken the first steps towards doing
so. Yes, Sophia, Iam now a beggar on the face of the world. J
have nothing belonging to me, save those powers of mind and body
which God has given me; and I am, moreover, a man oppressed
with a terribly heavy load of grief. For some short time I must
hide myself with my mother; and then, when I shall have been
able to brace my mind to work, I shall go forth and labour in what-
ever field may be open to me,
‘But before I go, Sophia, I wish to say a word of farewell to
you, that I may understand on what terms we part. Of course I
make no claim. I am aware that that which I now tell you must
be held as giving you a valid excuse for breaking any contract that
there may have been between us. But, nevertheless, I have hope.
That I love you very dearly I need hardly now say; and I still
venture to think that the time may come when I shall again prove
myself to be worthy of your hand. If you have ever loved me you
cannot cease to do so merely because I am unfortunate; and if you
love me still, perhaps you will consent to wait. If you will do so,—
if you will say that I am rich in that respect,—I shall go to my
banishment not altogether a downcast man.
‘May I say that I am still your own
‘Lucius Mason?
No; he decidedly might not say so. But as the letter was not
yet finished when his mother and Mrs. Orme returned, I will not
anticipate matters by giving Miss Furnival’s reply.
Mrs. Orme came back that night to Orley Farm, but without the
intention of remaining there. Her task was over, and it would be
well that she should return to the Cleeve. Her task was over; and
as the hour must come in which she should leave the mother in the
hands of her son, the present hour would be as good as any.
They again went together to the room which they had shared for
the last night or two, and there they parted. They had not been
there long when the sound of wheels was heard on the gravel, and
Mrs. Orme got up from her seat. ‘There is Peregrine with the
carriage,’ said she.
« And you are going? said Lady Mason.
‘If I could do you good, I would stay,’ said Mrs. Orme.
284 ORLEY FARM.
‘No, no; of course you must go. Oh, my darling, oh, my friend,
and she threw herself into the other’s arms.
‘ Of course I will write to you,’ said Mrs. Orme, ‘I will do so
regularly.’
‘May God bless you for ever. But it is needless to ask for
blessings on such as you. You are blessed.’
‘ And you too ;—if you will turn to Him you will be blessed.’
‘Ah me. Well, I can try now. I feel that I can at any rate
try.’
‘ And none who try ever fail, And now, dear, good-bye.’
‘ Good-bye, my angel. But, Mrs. Orme, I have one word I must
first say; a message that I must send to him. Tell him this, that
never in my life have I loved any man as well as I have loved him
and as I do love him. That on my knees I beg his pardon for the
wrong I have done him.’
‘ But he knows how great has been your goodness to him.’
‘ When the time came I was not quite a devil to drag him down
with me to utter destruction !’
‘ He will always remember what was your conduct then.’
‘ But tell him, that though I loved him, and though I loved you
with all my heart,—with all my heart, I knew through it all, as I
know now, that I was not a fitting friend for him or you. No;
do not interrupt me, I always knew it; and though it was so sweet
to me tosee your faces, I would have kept away; but that he would
not have it. I came to him to assist me because he was great and
strong, and be took me to his bosom with his kindness, till I
destroyed his strength; though his greatness nothing can destroy.’
‘ No, no; he does not think that you have injured him.’
‘But tell him what I say; and tell him that a poor bruised,
broken creature, who knows at least her own vileness, will pray for
him night and morning. And now good-bye. Of my heart towards
you I cannot speak.’
‘Good-bye then, and, Lady Mason, never despair. There is
always room for hope ; and where there is hope there need not be
unhappiness.’
Then they parted, and Mrs. Orme went down to her son.
‘ Mother, the carriage is here,’ he said.
© Yes, I heard it. Where is Lucius? Good-bye, Mr. Mason.’
‘God bless you, Mrs. Orme. Believe me I know how good you
have been to us.’
As she gave him her hand, she spoke a few words to him. ‘My
last request to you, Mr. Mason, is to beg that you will be tender to
your mother.’
‘ I will do my best, Mrs. Orme.’
* All her sufferings and your own, have come from her great love
for you.’
I LOVE HER STILL. 285
‘ That I know and feel, but had her ambition for me been less it
would have been better for both of us.’ And there he stood
bare-headed. at the door while Peregrine Orme handed his mother
into the carriage. Thus Mrs. Orme took her last leave of Orley
Farm, and was parted from the woman she had loved with so much
truth and befriended with so much loyalty.
Very few words were spoken in the carriage between Peregrine
and his mother while they were being taken back through Hamworth
to the Cleeve. To Peregrine the whole matter was unintelligible.
He knew that the verdict had been in favour of Lady Mason, and
yet there had been no'signs of joy at Orley Farm, or even of con-
tentment. He had heard also from Lucius, while they had been
together for a few minutes, that Orley Farm was to be given up.
* You'll let it I suppose,’ Peregrine had asked.
‘It will not be mine to let. It will belong to my brother,
Lucius had answered. Then Peregrine had asked no further
question ; nor had Lucius offered any further information.
But his mother, as he knew, was worn out with the work she had
done, and at the present moment he felt that the subject was one
which would hardly bear questions. So he sat by her side in
silence; and before the carriage had reached the Cleeve his mind
had turned away from the cares and sorrows of Lady Mason, and
was once more at Noningsby. After all, as he said to himself,
who could be worse off than he was. He had nothing to hope.
They found Sir Peregrine standing in the hall to receive them,
and Mrs. Orme, though she had been absent only three days, could
not but perceive the havoc which this trial had made upon him.
It was not that the sufferings of those three days had broken him
down, but that now, after that short absence, she was able to
perceive how great had been upon him the effect of his previous
sufferings. He had never held up his head since the day on which
Lady Mason had made to him her first confession. Up to that time
he had stood erect, and though as he walked his steps had shown
that he was no longer young, he had walked with a certain air
of strength and manly bearing. Till Lady Mason had come to
the Cleeve no one would have said that Sir Peregrine looked as
though his energy and life had passed away. But now, as he put
his arm round his daughter’s waist, and stooped down to kiss her
cheek, he was a worn-out, tottering old man.
During these three days he had lived almost altogether alone, and
had been ashamed to show to those around him the intense interest
which he felt in the result of the trial. His grandson had on each
day breakfasted alone, and had left the house before his grandfather
was out of his room; and on each evening he had returned late,
as he now returned with his mother,—and had dined alone. Then
he had sat with his grandfather for an hour or two, and had been
286 ORLEY FARM.
constrained to talk over the events of the day without being allowed
to ask Sir Peregrine’s opinion as to Lady Mason’s innocence or to
express his own. ‘hese three days had been dreadful to Sir Pere-
grine. He had not left the house, but had crept about from room to
room, ever and again taking up some book or paper and putting it
down unread, as his mind reverted to the one subject which now
for him bore any interest. On the second of these three days a
note had been brought to him from his old friend Lord Alston.
‘ Dear Orme,’ the note had run, ‘I am not quite happy as I think of
the manner in which we parted the other day. If I offended in any
degree, I send this as a peacemaker, and beg to shake your hand
heartily. Let me have a line from you to say that it is all right
between us. Neither you nor I can afford to lose an old friend at
our time of life. Yours always, Alston.’ But Sir Peregrine had
not answered it. Lord Alston’s servant had been dismissed with a
promise that an answer should be sent, but at the end of the three
days it had not yet been written. His mind indeed was still sore
towards Lord Alston. The counsel which his old friend had given
him was good and true, but it had been neglected, and its very
truth and excellence now made the remembrance of it unpalatable.
He had, nevertheless, intended to write; but the idea of such exer-
tion from hour to hour had become more distressing to him.
He had of course heard of Lady Mason’s acquittal; and indeed
tidings of the decision to which the jury had come went through
the country very quickly. There is a telegraphic wire for such
tidings which has been very long in use, and which, though always
used, is as yet but very little understood. How is it that informa-
tion will spread itself quicker than men can travel, and make its
way like water into all parts of the world? It was known all
through the country that night that Lady Mason was acquitted; and
before the next night it was as well known that she had acknow-
ledged her guilt by giving up the property.
Little could be said as to the trial while Peregrine remained in
the room with his mother and his grandfather; but this he had the
tact to perceive, and soon left them together. ‘I shall see you,
mother, up stairs before you go to bed,’ he said as he sauntered out.
‘But you must not keep her up, said his grandfather. ‘ Re-
member all that she has gone through.’ With this injunction he
went off, and as he sat alone in his mother’s room he tried to come
to some resolution as to Noningsby. He knew he had no ground
for hope;—no chance, as he would have called it. And if so,
would it not be better that he should take himself off? Neverthe-
less he would go to Noningsby once more. He would not be such
a coward but that he would wish her good-bye before he went, and
hear the end of it all from her own lips.
When he had left the room Lady Mascn’s last message was given
r
I LOVE HER 8TILL. 287
to Sir Peregrine. ‘Poor soul, poor soul!’ he said, as Mrs. Orme
began her story. ‘ Her son knows it all then now.’
‘I told him last night,—with her consent ; so that he should not
go into the court to-day. It would have been very bad, you know,
if they had—found her guilty.’
‘Yes, yes; very bad—very bad indeed. Poor creature! And go
you told him. Hew did he bear it °”
‘On the whole, well. At first he would not believe me.’
‘ As for me, I could not have doneit. I could not have told him.’
‘Yes, sir, you would ;—you would, if it had been required of you.’
‘I think it would have killed me. But a woman can do things
for which a man’s courage would never be sufficient. And he bore
it manfully.’
‘ He was very stern.’
‘Yes ;—and he will be stern. Poor soul!—I pity her from my
very heart. But he will not desert her; he will do his duty by her.’
‘Tam sure he will. In that respect he is a good young man,’
‘Yes, my dear. He is one of those who seem by nature created
to bear adversity. No trouble or sorrow would I think crush him.
But had prosperity come to him, it would have made him odious to
all around him. You were not present when they met ”
‘ No—I thought it better to leave them.’
‘Yes, yes. And he will give up the place at once.’
* To-morrow he will do so. In that at any rate he has true spirit.
To-morrow early they will go to London, and she I suppose will
never see Orley Farm again.’ And then Mrs. Orme gave Sir Pere-
grine that last message.— I tell you everything as she told me.’
Mrs. Orme said, seeing how deeply he was affected. ‘ Perhaps I
am wrong.’
‘No, no, no;’ he said.
‘ Coming at such a moment, her words seemed to be almost
sacred.’
‘ They are sacred. They shall be sacred. Poor soul, poor soul!’
* She did a great crime.’
* Yes, yes.’
‘ But if a crime can be forgiven,—can be excused on account of
its motives-——’
‘It cannot, my dear. Nothing can be forgiven on that ground,’
‘ No; we know that; we all feel sure of that. But yet how can
one help loving her? For myself, I shall love her always.’
‘ And I also love her.’ And then the old man made his confession.
‘ T loved her well ;—hbetier than I had ever thought to love any one
again, but you and Perry. I loved her very dearly, and felt that I
should have been proud to have called her my wife. How beautiful
she was in her sorrow, when we thought that her life had been
pure and good !’
288 ORLEY FARM.
‘And it had been good,—for many years past.’
‘No; for the stolen property was still there. But yet how
graceful she was, and how well her sorrows sat upon her ! What
might she not have done had the world used her more kindly, and
not sent in her way that sore temptation! She was a woman for a
man to have loved to madness.’
‘ And yet how little can she have known of love!’
“I loved her.’ And as the old man said so he rose to his feet
with some show of his old energy. ‘I loved her,—with all my
heart! Jt is foolish for an old man so to say; but I did love her;
nay, I love her still. But that I knew that it would be wrong,—for
your sake, and for Perry’s » And then he stopped himself, as
though he would fain hear what she might say to him.
‘Yes; it is all over now,’ she said in the softest, sweetest, lowest
voice. She knew that she was breaking down a last hope, but she
knew also.that that hope was vain. And then there was silence in
the room for some ten minutes’ space.
‘It is all over,’ he then said, repeating her last words.
‘But you have us still,—Perry and me. Can any one love you
better than we do?” And she got up and went over to him and
stood by him, and leaned upon him.
‘ Edith, my love, since you came to my house there has been an
angel in it watching over me. I shall know that always; and when
I turn my face to the wall, as I soon shall, that shall be my last
earthly thought.’ And so in tears they parted for that night. But
the sorrow that was bringing him to his grave came from the love
of which he had spoken. It is seldom that a young man may die
from a broken heart; but if an old man have a heart still left to
him, it is more fragile,
CHAPTER XXXVIL
JOHN KENNEBY’S DOOM.
On the evening but one after the trial was over Mr. Moulder enter-
tained a few friends to supper at his apartments in Great St. Helen’s,
and it was generally understood that in doing so he intended to
celebrate the triumph of Lady Mason. Through the whole affair
he had been a strong partisan on her side, had expressed a very
loud opinion in favour of Mr. Furnival, and had hoped that that
scoundrel Dockwrath would get all that he deserved from the hands
of Mr. Chaffanbrass. When the hour of Mr. Dockwrath’s punish-
ment had come he had been hardly contented, but the inadequacy
of Kenneby’s testimony had restored him to good humour, and the
verdict had made him triumphant.
‘ Didn’t I know it, old fellow? he had said, slapping his friend
Snengkeld on the back. When such a low scoundrel as Dockwrath
is pitted against a handsome woman like Lady Mason he’ll not find
a jury in England to give a verdict in his favour.’ Then he asked
Snengkeld to come to his little supper; and Kantwise also he
invited, though Kantwise had shown Dockwrath tendencies through-
out the whole affair ;-—but Moulder was fond of Kantwise as a butt
for his own sarcasm. Mrs. Smiley, too, was asked, as was natural,
seeing that she was the betrothed bride of one of the heroes of the
day; and Moulder, in the kindness of his heart, swore that he never
was proud, and told Bridget Bolster that she would be welcome to
take a share of what was going.
‘ Laws, M.,’ said Mrs. Moulder, when she was told of this. ‘A
chambermaid from an inn! What will Mrs. Smiley say?”
‘J aint going to trouble myself with what Mother Smiley may
say or think about my friends. If she don’t like it, she may do the
other thing. What was she herself when you first knew her?
* Yes, Moulder ; but then money do make a difference, you know.’
Bridget Bolster, however, was invited, and she came in spite of
the grandeur of Mrs. Smiley. Kenneby also of course was there,
but he was not in a happy frame of mind. Since that wretched
hour in which he had heard himself described by the judge as too
stupid to be held of any account by the jury he had become a
melancholy, misanthropic man. The treatment which he received
from Mr. Furnival had been very grievous to him, but he had borne
VOL. IL. U
290 ORLEY FARM.
with that, hoping that sonie word of eulogy from the judge would
set him right in the public mind. But no such word had come, and
poor John Kenneby felt that the cruel hard world was too much for
him. He had been with his sister that morning, and words had
dropped from him which made her fear that he would wish to post-
pone his marriage for another space of ten years or 80. * Brick-
fields!’ he had said. ‘What can such a one asI have to do with
landed property? I am better as Iam.’
Mrs. Smiley, however, did not at all seem to think so, and wel-
comed John Kenneby back from Alston very warmly in spite of the
disgrace to which he had been subjected. It was nothing to her
that the judge had called her future lord a fool; nor indeed was it
anything to any one but himself. According to Moulder’s views it
was a matter of course that a witness should be abused. For what
other purpose was he had into the court? But deep in the mind
of poor Kenneby himself the injurious words lay festering. He had
‘struggled hard to tell the truth, and in doing so had simply proved
himself to be an ass. ‘I aint fit to live with anybody else but
myself,’ he said to himself, as he walked down Bishopsgate Street.
At this time Mrs. Smiley was not yet there. Bridget had arrived,
and had been seated in a chair at one corner of the fire. Mrs. Moulder
occupied one end of a sofa opposite, leaving the place of honour at
the other end for Mrs. Smiley. Moulder sat immediately in front
of the fire in his own easy chair, and Snengkeld and Kantwise were
on each side of him. They were of course discussing the trial when
Mrs. Smiiey was announced ; and it was well that she made a diver-
sion by her arrival, for words were beginning to run high.
« A jury of her countrymen has found her innocent,’ Moulder had
said with much heat; ‘and any one who says she’s guilty after that
is a libeller and a coward, to my way of thinking. If a jury of her
countrymen don’t make a woman innocent, what does”
‘Of course she’s innocent,’ said Snengkeld; ‘from the very
moment the words was spoken by the foreman. If any newspaper
was to say she wasn’t she'd have her action.’
‘ That’s all very well,’ said Kantwise, looking up to the ceiling
with his eyes nearly shut. ‘But you'll see. What’ll you bet
me, Mr. Moulder, that Joseph Mason don’t get the property ”
‘Gammon!’ answered Moulder.
‘ Well, it may be gammon; but you'll see.’
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen!’ said Mrs. Smiley, sailing into the room;
‘upon my word one hears all you say ever so far down the street.’
‘And I didn’t care if they heard it right away to the Mansion
House,’ said Moulder. ‘ We aint talking treason, nor yet highway
robbery.’
Then Mrs. Smiley was welcomed ;—her bonnet was taken from
her and her umbrella, and she was encouraged to spread herself out
JOUN KENNEBY’S DOOM. 251
over the sofa. ‘Oh, Mrs. Bolster; the witness!’ she said, when Mrs,
Moulder went through some little ceremony of introduction. And
from the tone of her voice it appeared that she was not quite satis-
fied that Mrs. Bolster should be there as a companion for herself.
‘Yes, ma’am. I was the witness as had never signed but once,’
said Bridget, getting up and curtsying. Then she sat down again,
folding her hands one over the other on her Jap.
‘ Oh, indeed!’ said Mrs. Smiley. ‘ But where’s the other witness,
Mrs. Moulder? He's the one who is a deal more interesting to me.
Ha, ha, ha! But as you all know it here, what’s the good of not
telling the truth? Ha, ha, ha!’
‘ John’s here,’ said Mrs. Moulder. ‘Come, John, why don’t you
show yourself ?’
‘ He’s just alive, and that’s about all you can say for him,’ said
Moulder.
‘ Why, what’s there been to kill him” said Mrs. Smiley. ‘ Well,
John, I must say you're rather backward in coming forward, con-
sidering what there’s been between us, You might have come and
taken my shawl, I’m thinking.’
“ Yes, I might,’ said Kenneby gloomily. ‘I hope I see you pretty
well, Mrs. Smiley.’
‘ Pretty bobbish, thank you. Only I think it might have been
Maria between friends like us.’
‘ He’s sadly put about by this trial,’ whispered Mrs. Moulder.
‘You know he is so tender-hearted that he can’t bear to be put
upon like another.’
‘ But you didn’t want her to be found guilty; did you, John?
‘ That I’m sure he didn’t,’ said Moulder. ‘Why it was the way
he -gave his evidence that brought her off,’
‘It wasn’t my wish to bring her off,’ said Kenneby; ‘nor was it
my wish to make her guilty. All I wanted was to tell the truth and
do my duty. But it was no use. I believe it never is any use.’
‘I think you did very well,’ said Moulder.
‘Tm sure Lady Mason ought to be very much obliged to you,’
said Kantwise.
‘ Nobody needn’t care for what's ‘said to them in a court,’ said
Snengkeld. ‘I remember when once they wanted to make out that
I'd taken a parcel of teas——’
‘Stolen, you mean, sir,’ suggested Mrs. Smiley.
‘Yes; stolen. But it was only done by the opposite side in
court, and I didn’t think a halfporth of it, ‘They knew where the
teas was well enough.’
‘ Speaking for myself,’ said Kenneby, ‘I must say I don’t like it.’
‘ But the paper as we signed,’ said Bridget, ‘wasn’t the old
gentleman’s will,—no more than this is;’ and she lifted up her
apron. ‘I’m rightly sure of that.’
u2
292 ORLEY FARM.
Then again the battle raged hot and furious, and Moulder became
angry with his guest, Bridget Bolster. Kantwise finding himself
supported in his views by the principal witness at the trial took
heart against the tyranny of Moulder and expressed his opinion,
while Mrs. Smiley, with a woman’s customary dislike to another
woman, sneered ill-naturedly at the idea of Lady Mason’s inno-
cence. Poor Kenneby had been forced to take the middle seat on
the sofa between his bride and sister; but it did not appear that the
honour of his position had any effect in lessening his gloom or miti-
gating the severity of the judgment which had been passed on him.
* Wasn't the old gentleman’s will!’ said Moulder, turning on poor
Bridget in his anger with a growl. ‘But I say it was the old
gentleman’s will. You never dared say as much as that in court.’
‘I wasn’t asked,’ said Bridget.
‘You weren’t asked! Yes, you was asked often enough.’
‘ T'll tell you what it is,’ said Kantwise, ‘Mrs. Bolster’s right in
what she says as sure as your name’s Moulder.’
‘Then as sure as my name’s Moulder she’s wrong. I suppose
we're to think that a chap like you knows more about it than the
jury! We all know who your friend is in the matter. I haven’t
forgot our dinner at Leeds, nor sha’n’t in a hurry.’
‘ Now, John,’ said Mrs. Smiley, ‘nobody can know the truth of
this so well as you do. ‘You've been as close as wax, as was all
right till the lady was out of her troubles. That’s done and over,
and let us hear among friends how the matter really was.’ And
then there was silence among them in order that his words might
come forth freely.
‘Come, my dear,’ said Mrs. Smiley with a tone of encouraging
love. * There can’t be any harm now; can there?
‘ Out with it, John,’ said Moulder. ‘ You’re honest, anyways.’
‘ There aint no gammon about you,’ said Snengkeld.
‘Mr. Kenneby can speak if he likes, no doubt,’ said Kantwise;
‘though maybe it mayn’t be very pleasant to him to do so after all
that’s come and gone.’
‘ There’s nothing that’s come and gone that need make our John
hold his tongue,’ said Mrs. Moulder. ‘He mayn’t be just as bright
as some of those lawyers, but he’s a deal more true-hearted.’
‘But he can’t say as how it was the old gentleman’s will as we
signed. I’m well assured of that,’ said Bridget,
But Kenneby, though thus called upon by the united strength of
the company to solve all their doubts, still remained silent. ‘Come,
lovey,’ said Mrs. Smiley, putting forth her hand and giving his arm
a tender squeeze.
‘If you've anything to say to clear that woman’s character,’ said
Moulder, ‘ you owe it to society to say it; becauses she is a woman,
and because her enemies is villains.’ And then again there was
silence while they waited for him
JOHN KENNEBY’S DOOM. 293
«I think it will go with him to his grave,’ said Mrs. Smiley, very
solemnly.
‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Snengkeld.
‘ Then he must give up all idea of taking a wife,’ said Moulder.
‘ He won't do that I’m sure,’ said Mrs. Smiley.
‘ That he won't. , Will you, Jobn?’ said his sister.
‘ There’s no knowing what may happen to me in th‘s world,’ said
Kenneby, ‘but sometimes I almost think I aint fit to live in it,
along with anybody else.’
‘ You'll make him fit, won’t you, my dear? said Mrs. Moulder.
‘I don’t exactly know what to say about it,’ said Mrs. Smiley. ‘If
Mr. Kenneby aint willing, I’m not the ‘woman to bind him to his
word, because I’ve had his promise over and over again, and could
prove it by a number of witnesses before any jury in the land.
I’m a independent woman as needn’t be beholden to any man, and I
should never think of damages. Smiley left me comfortable before
ail the world, and I don’t know but what I’m a fool to think of
changing. Anyways if Mr. Kenneby——
‘Come, John. Why don’t you speak to her” said Mrs. Moulder.
‘ And what am I to say? said Kenneby, thrusting himself forth
from between the ample folds of the two ladies’ dresses. ‘I’m a
blighted man; one on whom the finger of scorn has been pointed.
His lordship said that I was——stupid; and perhaps I am.’
‘ She don’t think nothing of that, John.’
‘ Certainly not,’ said Mrs. Smiley.
‘ As long as a man can pay twenty shillings in the pound and a
trifle over, what does it matter if all the judges i in the land was to
call him stupid ?’ said Snengkeld.
‘ Stupid is as stupid does,’ said Kantwise. \
‘ Stupid be d——,’ said Moulder.
‘Mr. Moulder, there’s ladies present,’ said Mrs. Smiley,
‘Come, John, rouse yourself a bit,’ said his sister. ‘Nobody
here thinks the worse of you for what the judge said.’
‘ Certainly not,’ said Mrs. Smiley. ‘And as it becomes me to
speak, Ill say my mind. | I’m accustomed to speak freely before
friends, and as we are all friends here, why should I be ashamed?’
‘ For the matter of that nobody says you are,’ said Moulder.
* And I don’t mean, Mr. Moulder. Why should I? I can pay my
way, and do what I like with my own, and has people to mind me
when I speak, and needn’t mind nobody else myself ;—and that’s
more than everybody can say. Here’s John Kenneby and I, is en-
gaged as man and wife. He won’t say as it’s not so, I’ll be bound.’
‘ No,’ said Kenneby, ‘ I’m engaged I know.’
‘ When I accepted John Kenneby’s hand and heart,—and well I
remember the beauteous language in which he expressed his
feelings, and always shall,—I told him, that I respected him as a
294 ORLEY FARM.
man that would do his duty by a woman, though perhaps he mightn’t
be so cute in the way of having much to say for himself as some
others. ‘“ What’s the good,” said I, “ of a man’s talking, if so be he’s
ashamed to meet the baker at the end of the week?” So I listened
to the vows he made me, and have considered that he and I was as
good as one. Now that he’s been put upen by them lawyers, ’m
not the woman to turn my back upon him.’
‘ That you’re not,’ said Moulder.
“No I aint, Mr. Moulder, and so, John, there’s my hand again,
and you're free to take it if you like.’ And so saying she put forth
her hand almost into his lap.
‘Take it, John!’ said Mrs. Moulder. But poor Kenneby himself
did not seem to. be very quick in availing himself of the happiness
offered to him. He did raise his right arm slightly; but then
he hesitated, and allowed it to fall again between him and his
sister.
* Come, John, you know you mean it,’ said Mrs. Moulder. And
then with both her hands she lifted his, and placed it bodily within
the grasp of Mrs. Smiley’s, which was still held forth to receive it.
‘I know I’m engaged,’ said Kenneby.
* There’s no mistake about it,’ said Moulder.
‘ There needn’t be none,’ said Mrs. Smiley, softly blushing ; ‘ and I
will say this of myself—as I have been tempted to give a promise,
T’m not the woman to go back from my word. There’s my hand,
John; and I don’t care though all the world hears me say so.’
And then they sat hand in hand for some seconds, during which
poor Kenneby was unable to escape from the grasp of his bride
elect. One may say that all chance of final escape for him was
now gone by.
‘ But he can’t say as how it was the old gentlemen’s will as we
signed,’ said Bridget, breaking the silence which ensued.
‘ And now, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Kantwise, ‘as Mrs. Bolster
has come back to that matter, I'll tell you something that will
surprise you. My friend Mr. Moulder here, who is as hospitable a
gentleman as I know anywhere wouldn’t just let me speak before.’
‘ That’s gammon, Kantwise. I never hindered you from speaking.
‘How I do hate that word. If you knew my aversion, Mr
Mouider—
‘JI can’t pick my words for you, old fellow.’
«But what were you going to tell us, Mr. Kantwiso ” said Mrs.
Smiley.
* Something that will make all your hairs stand on end, I think.’
And then he paused and looked round upon them all. It was at
this moment that Kenneby succecded in getting his hand once more
to himself. “Something that will surprise you all, or I’m very
much mistaken. Lady Mason has confessed her guilt.’
JOHN KENNEBY’S DOOM. 295
He had surprised them all. ‘You don’t say so,’ exclaimed
Mrs. Moulder. i
‘Confessed her guilt,’ said Mrs. Smiley. ‘But what guilt, Mr.
Kantwise ?”
‘ She forged the will,’ said Kantwise.
‘ IT knew that all along,’ said Bridget Bolster,
‘Tmd if I believe it,’ said Moulder.
* You can do as you like about that,’ said Kantwise ; ‘ but she has.
And T’'ll tell you what’s more: she and young Mason have already
left Orley Farm and given it all up into Joseph Mason’s hands.
‘But didn’t she get a verdict? asked Snengkeld.
‘ Yes, she got a verdict. There’s no doubt on earth about that.’
‘ Then it’s my opinion she can’t make herself guilty if she wished
it; and as for the property, she can’t give it up. The jury has
found a verdict, and nobody can go o beyond that. If anybody tries
she'll have her action against ’em.” That was tlie law as laid down
by Srengkeld.
‘I don’t believe a word of it,”said Moulder. ‘Dockwrath has told
him. 1'll beta hat that Kantwise got it from Dockwrath.’
It tummed “out that Kantwise had received his information from
Dockwrath; but nevertheless, there was that in his manner, and in
the nature of the story as it was told to them, that did produce
belief. Moulder for a long time held out, but it became clear at
last that even he was shaken: and now, even Kenneby acknow-
ledged his conviction that the signature to the will was not his
own.
‘ I know’d very well that I never did it twice,’ said Bridget Bolster
triumphantly, as she sat down to the supper table.
I am inclined to think, that upon the whole the company in
Great St. Helen’s became more happy as the conviction grew upon
them that a great, and mysterious crime had been committed,
which had baffled two courts of law, and had at last thrust itself.
forth into the open daylight through the workings of the criminal’s
conscience. When Kantwise had completed his story, the time had
come in which it behoved Mrs. Moulder to descend to the lower
regions, and give some aid in preparation of the supper. During
her absence the matter was discussed in every way, and on-her return,
when she was laden with good things, she found that all the party
was contented except Moulder and her brother.
‘ It’s a very terrible thing,’ said Mrs. Smiley, later in the evening,
as she sat with her steaming glass of rum and water before her.
‘Very terrible indeed ; aint it, John? I do wish now I'd gone down
and see’d her, I du indeed. Don’t you, Mrs. Moulder ”
‘ If allthis is true I should like just to have had a peep at her.’
« At any rate we shall have. pictures of her in all the papexs,’ said
Mrs. Smiley.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE LAST OF THE LAWYERS.
‘I sHoutp have done my duty by you, Mr. Mason, which those
men have not, and you would at this moment have been the owner
of Orley Farm?
It will easily be known that these words were spoken by Mr.
Dockwrath, and that they were addressed to Joseph Mason. The
two men were seated together in Mr. Mason’s lodgings at Alston,
late on the morning after the verdict had been given, and Mr.
Dockwrath was speaking out his mind with sufficient freedom. On
the -previous evening he had been content to put up with the
misery of the unsuccessful man, and had not added any reproaches
of his own. He also had been cowed by the verdict, and the two
had been wretched and crestfallen together. But the attorney since
that had slept upon the matter, and had bethought himself that he at
any rate would make out hislittle bill. He could show that Mr.
Mason had ruined their joint affairs by his adherence to those London
attorneys. Had Mr. Mason listened to the advice of his new
adviser all would have been well. So at least Dockwrath was
prepared to declare, finding that by so doing he would best pave
the way for his own important claim.
But Mr. Mason was not a man to be bullied with tame endurance.
‘The firm bears the highest name in the profession, sir,’ he said ;
‘and I had just grounds for trusting them.’
‘And what has come of your just grounds, Mr. Mason?
Where are you? That’s the question. I say that Round and
Crook have thrown you over. They have been hand and glove with
old Furnival through the whole transaction ; and I’ll tell you what's
more, Mr, Mason. I told you how it would be from the beginning.’
‘ Tl move for a new trial.’
‘ A new trial; and this a criminal prosecution! She’s free of you
now for ever, and Orley Farm will belong to that son of hers till he
chooses to sell it. It’s a pity; that’s all. I did my duty by you
in a professional way, Mr. Mason; and you won't put the loss on
my shoulders.’
“T’ve been robbed ;—damnably robbed, that’s all that I know.’
‘ There’s no mistake on earth about that, Mr. Mason; you have
been robbed ; and the worst of it is, the costs will be so heavy !
You'll be going down to Yorkshire soon I suppose, sir.’
‘1 don’t know where I shall go? said the squire of Groby,
not content to be cross-questioned by the attorney from Hamworth.
THE LAST OF THE LAWYERS. 297
* Because it’s as well, I suppose, that we should settle something
about the costs before you leave. I don’t want to press for my
money exactly now, but I shall be glad to know when I’m to get it’
« If you have any claim on me, Mr. Dockwrath, you can send it to
Mr. Round.’
‘If I have any claim! What do you mean by that, sir? And I
shall send nothing in to Mr. Round. I have had quite enough of
Mr. Round already. I told you from the beginning, Mr. Maen that
I would have nothing to do with this affair as connected ‘with
Mr. Round. I have devoted myself entirely to this matter since
you were pleased to engage my services at Groby Park. It is not
by my fault that you have failed. I think, Mr. Mason, you will do me
the justice to acknowledge that.’ And then Dockwrath was silent
for a moment, as though waiting for an answer.
‘I have nothing to say upon the subject, Mr. Dockwrath,’ said
Mason.
* But, by heaven, something must be said. That won’t do at all,
Mr. Mason. I presume you do not think that I have been working
like a slave for the last four months for nothing,’
Mr. Mason was in truth an honest man, and did not wish that
any one should work on his account for nothing ;—much less did he
wish that such a one as Dockwrath should do so. But then, on the
other side, in his present frame of mind he was by no means willing
to yield anything to any one. ‘I neither deny nor allow your
claim, Mr. Dockwrath,’ said he. ‘ But I shall pay nothing except
through my regular lawyers. You can send your account to me if you
please, but I shall send it on to Mr. Round without looking at it.’
‘Oh, that’s to be the way, is it? That’s your gratitude. Very
well, Mr. Mason ; Ishall now know what to do. And I think you'll
find——’
Here Mr. Dockwrath was interrupted by the lodging-house-ser-
vant, who brought in a note for Mr. Mason. It was from Mr.
Furnival, and the girl who delivered it said that the gentleman’s
messenger was waiting for an answer.
¢ Sir,’ said the note,
‘A communication has been made to me this morning on
the part of your brother, Mr. Lucius Mason, which may make it
desirable that I should have an interview with you. If not incon-
venient to you, I would ask you to meet me to-morrow morning at
eleven o’clock at the chambers of your own lawyer, Mr. Round, in
Bedford Row. I have already seen Mr. Round, and find that he
can meet us.
‘J am, sir,
‘J. Mason, Esq., J.P. ‘Your very obedient servant,
(of Groby Park).’ ‘Tuomas FornivaL.
298 ORLEY FARM.
Mr. Furnival when he wrote this note had already been over to
Orley Farm, and had seen Lucius Mason. He had been at the farm
almost before daylight, and had come away with the assured con-
viction that the property must be abandoned by his elient.
‘We need not talk about it, Mr. Furnival,’ Lucius had said. ‘lt
must be so.’
‘You have discussed the matter with your mother?
‘No discussion is necessary, but she is quite aware of my inten-
tion. She is prepared to leave the place—for ever.’
‘ But the income
‘Belongs to my brother Joseph. Mr. Furnival, I think you may
understand that the matter is one in which it is necessary that I
should act, but as to which I trust I may not have to say many
words. If you cannot arrange this for me, I must go to Mr. Round.’
Of course Mr. Furnival did understand it all. His client had
been acquitted, and he had triumphed; but he had known for many
a long day that the estate did belong of right to Mr. Mason of
Groby; and though he had not suspected that Lucius would have
been so told, he could not be surprised. at the result of such telling.
It was clear to him that Lady Mason had confessed, and that resti-
tution would therefore be made.
«I will do your bidding,’ said he.
‘ And, Mr. Furnival,—if it be possible, spare my mother.’ Then
the meeting was over, and Mr. Furnival. returning to Hamworth
wrote his note to Mr. Joseph Mason.
Mr. Dockwrath had been interrupted by the messenger in the
middle of his threat, but he caught the name of Furnival as the
note was delivered. Then he watched Mr. Mason as he read. it and
read it again.
“If you please, sir, I was to wait for an answer,’ said the girl.
Mr. Mason did not know what answer it would behove him to
give. He felt that he was among Philistines while dealing with all
these lawyers, and yet he-was at a loss in what way to reply to one
without leaning upon another. ‘Look at that,’ he said, sulkily
handing the note to Dockwrath.
‘You must see Mr. Furnival, by all means,’ said Dockwrath.
‘But u
‘But what”
‘In your place I should not see him in the presence of Mr.
Round,—unless I was attended by an adviser on whom I could
rely. Mr. Mason, having given a few moments’ consideration to
the matter, sat himself down and wrote a line to Mr. Furnival,
saying that he would be in Bedford Row at the appointed time.
‘I think you are quite right,’ said Dockwrath.
‘ But I shall go alone,’ said Mr. Mason.
‘Oh, very well; you will of course judge for yourself. I cannot
THE LAST OF THE LAWYERS. 299
say what may be the nature cf the communication to be made; but
if it be anything touching the property, you will no doubt jeopardize
your own interests by your imprudence.’
‘Good morning, Mr. Dockwrath,’ said Mr. Mason,
‘Oh, very well. Good morning, sir. You shall hear from me very
shortly, Mr. Mason ; and I must say that, considering everything, I
do not know that I ever came across a gentleman who behaved
himself worse in a peculiar position than you: have done in yours.’
And so they parted.
Punctually at eleven o’clock on the following day Mr. Mason was
in Bedford Row. ‘ Mr. Furnival is with Mr. Round,’ said; the clerk,
‘and will see you in two minutes.’ Then he was shown into the
dingy office waiting-room, where he sat with his hat in his hand,
for rather more than two minutes.
At that moment Mr. Round was describing to. Mr. Furnival, the
manner in which he had been visited some weeks since by Sir
Peregrine Orme. ‘Of course, Mr. Furnival, I knew which way. the
wind blew when I heard that.’
‘She must have told him everything.’
“No doubt, no doubt. At any rato he knew it all.’
‘ And what did you say to him ”
‘I promised to hold my tongue ;—and I kept my promise. Mat
knows nothing about it to this day.’
The whole history thus became gradually clear to Mx.. Furnival’s
mind, and he could understand in what manner that marriage had
been avoided. Mr. Round also understood it, and the two. lawyers
confessed together, that though the woman had deserved the punish-
ment which had come upon her, her character was one which might
have graced a better destiny. ‘And now, I suppose, my fortunate
client may come in,’ said Mr. Round. Whereupon the fortunate
client was released from his captivity, and brought into the sitting-
room of the senior partner.
‘Mr. Mason, Mr. Furnivalj-said the attorney, as soon as he had
shaken hands with his client. ‘You know each other very well by
name, gentlemen.”
Mr. Mason was very stiff in his bearing and demeanour, but
remarked that he had heard of Mr. Furnival before.
‘ All the world has heard of him,’ said Mr. Round. ‘ He hasn’t
hid his light under a bushel.’ Whereupon Mr. Mason bowed, not
quite understanding what was said to him.
‘Mr. Mason,” began the barrister, ‘I hawe a communication. to
make to you, very singular in its nature, and of great importance.
It is one which I believe you will regard as being of considerable
importance to yourself, and which is of still higher moment. to
my—my friend, Lady Mason.”
‘ Lady Mason, sir—’ began the other; but Mr. Furnival stopped him,
300 ORLEY FARM.
‘Allow me to interrupt you, Mr. Mason. I think it will be
better that you should hear me before you commit yourself to any
expression as to your relative.’
‘She is no relative of mine.’
‘But her son is. However,—if you will allow me, I will go on.
Having this communication to make, I thought it expedient for
your own sake that it should be done in the presence of your own
legal adviser and friend.’
‘Umph !’ grunted the disappointed litigant.
“I have already explained to Mr. Round that which I am about
to explain to you, and he was good enough to express himself as
satisfied with the step which I am taking.’
“Quite so, Mr. Mason. Mr. Furnival is behaving, and I bélieve
has behaved throughout, in a manner becoming the very high posi-
tion which he holds in his profession.’
‘I suppose he has done his best on his side,’ said Mason.
* Undoubtedly I have,—as I should have done on yours, had it so
chanced that I had been honoured by holding a brief from your
attorneys. But the communication which I am going to make now
I make not as a lawyer but as a friend. Mr. Mason, my client Lady
Mason, and her son Lucius Mason, are prepared to make over to
you the full possession of the estate which they have held under the
name of Orley Farm.’
The tidings, as so given, were far from conveying to the
sense of the hearer the full information which they bore. He
heard the words, and at the moment conceived that Orley Farm was
intended to come into his hands by some process to which it was
thought desirable that he should be brought to agree. He was to
be induced to buy it, or to be bought over from further opposition
by some concession of an indefinitely future title. But that the
estate was to become his at once, without purchase, and by the
mere free will of his hated relatives, was an idea that he did not
realize.
‘Mr. Furnival,’ he said, ‘ what ae steps I shall take I do not
yet know. That I have been robbed of my property I am as
firmly convinced now as ever. But I tell you fairly, and I tell Mr.
Round so too, that I will have no dealings with that woman.’
‘Your father’s widow, sir,’ said Mr. Furnival, ‘is an unhappy
lady, who is now doing her best to atone for the only fault of
which I believe her to have been guilty. If you were not un-
reasonable as well as angry, you would understand that the propo-
sition which I am now making to you is one which should force
you to forgive any injury which she may hitherto have done to
you. Your half-brother Lucius Mason has instructed me to make
over to you the possession of Orley Farm.’ These last words Mr.
Furnival uttered very slowly, fixing his keen grey eyes full upon
THE LAST OF THE LAWYERS. 201
the face of Joseph Mason as he did so, and then turning round to
the attorney he said, ‘I presume your client will understand me
now.’
‘The-estate is yours, Mr. Mason,’ said Round. ‘You have nothing
to do but to take possession of it.’
‘What do you mean? said Mason, turning round upon Fur.
nival.
‘ Exactly what I say. Your half brother Lucius surrenders to you
the estate.’
‘ Without payment ?”
‘Yes; without payment. On his doing so you will of course
absolve him from all liability on account of the proceeds of the
property while in his hands.’
- © That will be a matter of course,’ said Mr. Round.
‘Then she has robbed me,’ said Mason, jumping up to his feet.
“By , the will was forged after all.’ .
‘Mr. Mason,’ said Mr. Round, ‘if you have a spark of generosity
in you, you will accept the offer made to you without asking any
question. By no such questioning can you do yourself any good,—
nor can you do that poor lady any harm.’
‘I knew it was so,’ he said loudly, and as he spoke he twice
walked the length of the room. ‘I knew it was so ;—twenty years
ago I said the same. She forged the will. I ask you, as my lawyer,
Mr. Round,—did she not forge the will herself”
- ‘J shall answer no such question, Mr. Mason.’
‘Then by heavens I'll expose you. IfI spend the whole value of
the estate in doing it Pll expose you, and have her punished yet.
The slippery villain! For twenty years she has robbed me.’
‘Mr. Mason, you are forgetting yourself in your passion,’ said
Mr. Furnival. ‘What you have to look for now is the recovery of
the property.’ But here Mr. Furnival showed that he had not
made himself master of Joseph Mason’s character.
‘No,’ shouted the angry man ;—‘no, by heaven. What I have
first to look to is her punishment, and that of those who have
assisted her. I knew she had done it,—and Dockwrath knew it.
Had I trusted him, she would now have been in gaol.’
Mr. Furnival and Mr. Round were both desirous of having the
matter quietly arranged, and with this view were willing to put up
with much. The man had been ill used. When he declared for
the fortieth time that he had been robbed for twenty years, they
could not deny it. When with horrid oaths he swore that that will
had been a forgery, they could not contradict him. When he reviled
the laws of his country, which had done so much to facilitate the
escape of a criminal, they had no arguments to prove that he was
wrong. They bore with him in his rage, hoping that a sense of his
own self-interest might induce him to listen to reason. But it was
302 ORLEY FARM.
all in vain. The property was sweet, but that sweetness was laste-
less when compared to the sweetness of revenge. '
‘ Nothing shall make me tamper with justice ;—nothing,’ said he.
‘ But even if it were as you say, you cannot do anything to her,’
said Round.
‘Til try,’ said Mason. ‘You nave been my attorney, and what.
you know in the matter you are bound to tell. And J’'ll make
you tell, sir.’
‘Upon my word,’ said Round, ‘this is beyond bearing. Mr.
Mason, I must trouble you to walk out of my office.’ And then he
rang the bell. ‘Tell Mr. Mat I want to see him,’ But before that
younger partner had joined his father Joseph Mason had gone.
‘ Mat,’ said the old man, ‘I don’t interfere with you in many things,
but on this I must insist. As long as my name is in the firm Mr.
Joseph Mason of Groby shall not be among our customers.’
‘The man’s a fool,’ said Mr. Furnival. ‘The end of all that will
be that two years will go by before he gets his property; and, in
the meantime, the house and all about it will go to ruin.’
In these days there was a delightful family concord between
Mr. Furnival and his wife, and perhaps we may be allowed to hope
that the peace was permanent. Martha Biggs had not been in
Harley Street since we last saw her there, and was now walking
round Red Lion Square by the hour with some kindred spirit, com-
plaining bitterly ofthe return which had been made for her friend-
ship. ‘What I endured, and what I was prepared to endure for
that woman, no breathing creature can ever know,’ said Martha
Biggs, to that other Martha; ‘and fow——’
‘I suppose the fact is he don’t like to see you there,’ said the
other.
‘And is that a reason? said our Martha. ‘Had I been in her
place I would not have put my foot in his house again till I was
assured that my friend should be as welcome there as myself. But
then, perhaps, my ideas of friendship may be called romantic.’
But though there were heart-burnings and war in Red Lion
Square, there was sweet peace in Harley Street. Mrs. Furnival had
learned that beyond all doubt Lady Mason was an unfortunate
‘woman on whose behalf her husband was using his best energies as
a lawyer; and though rumours had begun to reach her that were
very injurious to the lady’s character, she did not on that account
feel animosity against her. Had Lady Mason been guilty of all the
sins in the calendar except one, Mrs. Furnival could find it within
her heart to forgive her.
But Sophia was now more interested about Lady Mason than was
her mother, and during those days of the trial was much more eager
to learn the news as it became known. She had said nothing to her
mother about Lucius, nor had she said anything as to Augustus
THE LAST OF THE LAWYERS. 303
Staveley. Miss Furnival-was a lady who on such subjects did not
want the assistance of a mother’s counsel. Then, early on the
morning that followed the trial, they heard the verdict and knew
that Lady Mason was free.
‘I am so glad,’ said Mrs. Furnival; ‘and I am gure it was ‘your
papa’s doing.’
«But we will hope that she was really innocent,’ said Sophia.
‘Oh, yes; of course; and so I suppose she was. Iam sure l hope
so. But, nevertheless, we all know that it'was going very much
against her.’
‘I believe papa never thought she was guilty for a moment.’
*I don’t know, my dear; your papa never talks of the clients for
whom he is engaged. But what a thing it is for Lucius! He
would have lost every acre of the property.’
‘Yes; it’s a great thing for him, certainly.” And then she began
to consider whether the standing held by Lucius Mason in the world
was not even yet somewhat precarious.
It was on the same day—in the evening—that she received her
lover’s letter. She was alone when she read it, and she made her-
self quite master of its contents before she sat herself to think in
what way it would be expedient that she should act. *I am bound
to relinquish to my brother-in-law my title to Orley Farm.’ Why
should he be so bound, unless—? And then she also came to that
conclusion which Mr. Round had reached, and which Joseph Mason
had reached, when they heard that the property was to be given up.
‘Yes, Sophia, Iam a beggar, the letter went on to say. She was
very sorry, deeply sorry ;—so, at least, she said to herself. As she
sat there alone, she took out her handkerchief and pressed it to
her eyes. Then, having restored it to her pocket, after moderate
use,. she refolded her letter, and put that into the same re-
ceptacle.
‘Papa,’ said she, that evening, ‘what will Mr. Lucius Mason do
now ? will he remain at Orley Farm?
‘No, my dear. He will leave Oxley Farm, and, I think, will go
abroad with his mother.’
‘And who will have Orley Farm?”
‘His brother Joseph, I believe.’
«And what will Lucius have ?”
‘I cannot say. I do not know that he will have anything. His
mother has an income of her own, and he, I suppose, will go into
some profession.’
‘Oh, indeed. Is not that very sad for him, poor fellow? In
answer to which her father made no remark.
That night, in her own room, she answered her lover's letter, and
her answer was as follows :—
304 ORLEY FARM.
‘ Harley Street, Marck, 18—.
‘My vrear Mr. Mason,
‘I need hardly tell you that I was grieved to the heart
by the tidings conveyed in your letter. I will not ask you for
that secret which you withhold from me, feeling that I have no title
to inquire into it; nor will I attempt to guess at the cause which
induces you to give up to your brother the property which you were
always taught to regard as your own. That you are actuated by
noble motives I am sure; and you may be sure of this, that I shall
respect you quite as highly in your adversity as I have ever done
in your prosperity. That you will make your way in the world,
I shall never doubt ; and it may be that the labour which you will
now encounter will raise you to higher standing than any you could
have achieved, had the property remained in your possession.
‘I think you are right in saying, with reference to our mutual
regard for each other, that neither should be held as having any
claim upon the other. Under present circumstances, any such
claim would be very silly. Nothing would hamper you in your
future career so much as a long marriage engagement; and for
myself, I am aware that the sorrow and solicitude thence arising
would be more than I could support. Apart from this, also, I feel
certain that I should never obtain my father’s sanction for such an
engagement, nor could I make it, unless he sanctioned it. I feel so
satisfied that you will see the truth of this, that I need not trouble
you, and harass my own heart by pursuing the subject any further.
‘ My feelings of friendship for you—of affectionate friendship—
will be as true as ever. I shall look to your future career with great
hope, and shall hear of your success with the utmost satisfaction.
And I trust that the time may come, at no very distant date, when
we may all welcome your return to London, and show you that our
regard for you has never been diminished.
‘May God bless and preserve you in the trials which are before
you, and carry you through them with honour and safety. Wher-
ever you may be I shall watch for tidings of you with anxiety, and
always hear them with gratification. I need hardly bid you re-
member that you have no more affectionate friend
‘ Than yours always most sincerely,
‘ Soru1a Fornivat.
‘P.S.—I believe that a meeting between us at the present moment
would only cause pain to both of us. It might drive you to speak
of things which should be wrapped in silence, At any rate, I am
sure that you will not press it on me.’
Lucius, when he received this letter, was living with his mother
in lodgings near Finsbury Circus, and the letter had been redirected
from Hamworth to a post-office in that neighbourhood. It was his
Farewell!
FAREWELL, - 3805
intention to take his mother with him to a small town on one of the
rivers that feed the Rhine, and there remain hidden till he could
find some means by which he might earn his bread. He was
sitting with her in the evening, with two dull tallow candles on the
table between them, when his messenger brought the letter to him.
He read it in silence very deliberately, then crushed it in his hand,
and threw it from him with violence into the fire. .
“I hope there is nothing further to distress you, Lucius,’ said his
mother, looking up into his face as though she were imploring his
confidence. .
‘No, nothing ; nothing that matters. It is an affair quite private
to myself.’ ‘
Sir Peregrine had spoken with great truth when he declared that
Lucius Mason was able to bear adversity. This last blow had now
come upon him, but he made no wailings as to his misery, nor did
he say a word further on the subject. His mother watched the
paper as the flame caught it and reduced it to anash; but she
asked no further question.’ She knew that her position with him did
not permit of her asking, or even hoping, for his confidence.
‘T had no right to expect it would be otherwise,” he said to him-
self. But even to himself ‘he spoke no word of reproach against
Miss Furnival. He had realized the circumstances by which he
was surrounded, and had made up his mind to bear their result.
As for Miss Furnival, we may as well declare ‘here that she did
not become Mrs. Staveley. Our old friend Augustus conceived that
he had received a sufficient answer on the occasion’ of his last visit
to Harley Street; and did not’ repeat’ it. immédiately. ‘Such little
scenes as that which took place there had not been uncommon in
his life; and when in after months he looked back upon the affair,
he counted it up as one of those miraculous escapes which had
marked his career. Re
CHAPTER XXXIX.
. FAREWELL.
*Tuar letter you got this morning, my dear, was it not from Lady
Mason ? . ae
«It was from Lady Mason, father; they go on Thursday.’
“On. Thursday; so soon as that.’ And then Sir Peregrine, wlio
had asked the question, remained silent for a while. ‘The letter,
according to the family custom, had been handed to Mrs. Orme over
the breakfast-table; but he had made no remark respecting it till
they were alone together and free from the servants. It had been a
farewell letter, full of love and gratitude, and full also of repentance.
x
VoL. II
306 ORLEY FARM.
Lady Mason had now been for three weeks in London, and once
during that time Mrs. Orme had gone up to visit her. She had then
remained with her friend for hours, greatly to Lady Mason’s
comfort, and now this letter had come, bringing a last adieu.
‘You may read it, sir, if you like,’ said Mrs. Orme, handing him
the letter. It was evident, by his face, that he was gratified by the
privilege; and he read it, not once only, but over and over again.
As he did so, he placed himself in the shade, and sat with his back
to Mrs. Orme; but nevertheless she could see that from time to time
he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, and gradually raised
his handkerchief to his face.
‘Thank you, dearest,’ he said, as he gave the letter back to her.
“T think that we may forgive her now, even all that she has done,’
said Mrs. Orme.
‘Yes—yes—yes,’ he answered. ‘For myself, I forgave her from
the first.’
‘I know you did. But as regards the property,—it has been
given up now.’ And then again they were silent.
‘ Edith,’ he said, after a while, ‘I have forgiven her altogether.
To me she is the same as though she had never done that deed.
Are we not all sinners ?”
‘Surely, father.’
‘And can I say because she did one startling thing that the total
of her sin is greater than mine? Was I ever tempted as she was
tempted? Was my youth made dangerous for me as was hers?
And then she did nothing for herself; she did it all for another.
We may think of that now.’
‘T have thought of it always.’
“It did not make the sin the less; but among her fellow-mortals
’ And then he stopped himself, wanting words to express his
meaning. The sin, till it was repented, was damning; but now
that it was repented, he could almost love the sinner for the sin.
‘Edith,’ he said, again. And he looked at her so wishfully! She
knew well what was the working of his heart, and she knew also
that she did not dare to encourage him.
“T trust,’ said Mrs. Orme, ‘that she will bear her present lot for a
few years; and then, perhaps
‘Ah! then I shall be in my grave. A few months will do that,’
‘Oh, sir!’
‘Why should I not save her from such a life as that?
‘ From that which she had most to fear she has been saved.’
* Had she not so chosen it herself, she could now have demanded
from me a home, Why should I not give it to her now?”
«A home here, sir?
‘Yes; why not? But I know what you would say. It would '
be wrong,—to you and Parry.’
.
FAREWELL. 307
“It would le wrong to yourself, sir. Think of it, father. It is
the fact that she did that thing. We may forgive her, but others
will not do so on that account. It would not be right that you
should bring her here.’ :
Sir Peregrine knew that it would not be right. Though he was
old, and weak in body, and infirm in purpose, his judgment had not
altogether left him. He was well aware that he would offend all
social laws if he were to do that which he contemplated, and ask
the world around him to respect as Lady Orme—as his wife, the
woman who had so deeply disgraced herself. But yet he could
hardly bring himself to confess that it was impossible. He was as a
child who knows that a coveted treasure is beyond his reach, but
still covets it, still longs for it, hoping against hope that it may yet
be his own. It seemed to him that he might yet regain his old
vitality if he could wind his arm once more about her waist, and
press her to his side, and call her his own. It would be so sweet to
forgive her; to make her sure that she was absolutely forgiven; to
teach her that there was one at least who would not bring up against
her her past sin, even in his memory. As for his grandson, the
property should be abandoned to him altogether. *T'was thus he
argued with himself; but yet, as he argued, he knew that it could
not be so.
‘I was harsh to her when she told me,’ he said, after another
pause—‘ cruelly harsh.’
‘ She does not think so.”
‘No. IfI had spurned her from me with my foot, she would not
have thought so. She had condemned herself, and therefore I should
have spared her.’
‘But you did spare her. I am sure she feels that from the first
to the last your conduct to her has been more than kind.’
‘And I owed her more than kindness, for Iloved her ;—yes, I
Joved her,and I do love her. ‘Though I am a feeble old man, totter-
ing to my grave, yet I love her—love her as that boy loves the fair
girl for whom he longs. He will overcome it, and forget it, and
some other one as fair will take her place. But for me it is all
over.’
What could she say to him? In truth, it was all over,—such love
at least as that of which his old heart was dreaming in its dotage.
There is no Medea’s caldron from which our limbs can come out
young and fresh; and it were well that the heart should grow old
as does the body.
‘It is not all over while we are with you,’ she said, caressing
him. But she knew that what she said was a subterfuge.
‘Yes, yes; I have you, dearest,’ he answered. But he also knew
that that pretence at comfort was false and hollow.
‘ And she starts on Thursday,’ he said ; ‘on next Thursday.’
‘ x2
308 ORLEY FARM.
‘Yes, on Thursday, It will be much better for her to be away
from London. . While she is there she never ventures even into the
street.’
* Edith, I shall see her before she goes.’
‘ Will that be wise, sir?”
‘ Perhaps not, It may be foolish,—very foolish; but still I shall
see her. I think you forget, Edith, that I have never yet bidden
her farewell. I have not spoken to her since that day when she
behaved so generously.’
‘I do not think that she expects it, father.’
“No; she expects nothing for herself. Had it been in her nature
to expect such a visit, I should not have been anxious to make it. I
will go to-morrow. She is always at home you say ”
“Yes, she is always at home.’
‘ And, Lucius i
‘You will not find him there in the daytime.’
« I shall go to-morrow, dear. You need not tell Peregrine.’
Mrs. Orme still thought that he was wrong, but she had nothing
further to say. She could not hinder his going, and therefore, with
his permission she wrote a line to Lady Mason, telling her of his
purpose. And then, with all the care in her power, and with infinite
softness of manner, she warned him against the danger which she
so much feared. What might be the resuit, if, overcome by tender-
ness, he should again ask Lady Mason to become his wife? Mrs.
Orme firmly believed that Lady Mason would again refuse; but,
nevertheless, there would be danger.
* No,’ said he, ‘I will not do that. When I have said so you may
accept my word.’ Then she hastened to apologize to him, but he
assured her with a kiss that he was in nowise angry with her.
He held by his purpose, and on the following day he went up to,
London. There was nothing said on the matter at breakfast, nor
did she make any further endeavour to dissuade him. He was
infirm, but still she knew that the actual fatigue would not be of a
nature to injure him. Indeed her fear respecting him was rather
an regard to his staying at home than to bis going abroad. It would
have been well for him could he have been induced to think himself
fit for more active movement.
Lady Mason was alone when he reached the dingy little room
near Finsbury Circus, and received him standing. She was the first
to speak, and this she did before she had even touched his hand.
She stood to meet him, with her eyes turned to the ground, and her
hands tightly folded together before her. ‘Sir Peregrine,’ she said,
‘ T did not expect from you this mark of your—kindness.’
‘ Of my esteem and affection, Lady Mason,’ he said. ‘We have
known each other too well to allow of our parting without a word.
Tam an old man, and it will probably be for over.’
FAREWELL. 309
Then she gave him her hand, and gradually lifted her eyes to his
face. ‘Yes,’ she said; ‘it will be for ever. There will be no
coming back for me.’
‘ Nay, nay; we will not say that. That’s as may be hereafter.
But it will not be at once. It had better not be quite at once.
Edith tells me that you go on Thursday.’
‘ Yes, sir; we go on Thursday.’
She had still allowed her hand to remain in his, but now she
withdrew it, and asked him to sit down. ‘ Lucius is not here,’ she
said. ‘He never remains at home after breakfast. He has much to
settle as to our journey; and then he has lawyers to see.’
Sir Peregrine had not at all wished to see Lucius Mason, but he
did not say so. ‘ You will give him my regards,’ he said, ‘ and tell
him that I trust that he may prosper.’
‘Thank you. I will do so.. It is very kind of you to think of
him?
‘I have always thought highly of him as an excellent young,
man.’
* And he is excellent. Where is there any one who could suffer
without a word as he suffers? No complaint ever comes from him;
and yet—TI have ruined him.’
“No, no. He has his youth, his intellect, and his education. If
such a one as he cannot earn his bread in the world—ay, and more
than his bread—who can do so? Nothing ruins a young man but
ignorance, idleness, and depravity.’
‘ Nothing ;—unless those of whom he should be proud disgrace
him before the eyes of the world. Sir Peregrine, I sometimes
wonder at my own calmness. I wonder that I can live. But,
believe me, that never for a moment do I forget what I have done.
I would have poured out for him my blood like water, if it would
have served him; but instead of that I have given him cause to
‘curse me till the day of his death. Though I still live, and eat,
and sleep, I think of that always. The remembrance is never
away from me, They bid those who repent put on sackcloth, and
cover themselves with ashes. That is my sackcloth, and it is very
sore. Those thoughts are ashes to me, and they are very bitter
between my teeth,’
He did not know with what words to comfort her. It all was as
she said, and he could not bid her even try to free herself from that
sackcloth and from those ashes. It must be so. Were it not so
with her, she would not have been in any degree worthy of that
love wltich he felt for her. ‘God tempers the wind to the shorn
lamb,’ he said. .
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘for the shorn Jamb—’ And then she was silent
again. But could that bitter, biting wind be tempered for ane she
wolf who, in the dead of night, had broken into the fold, ana with
210 ORLEY FARM.
prowling steps and cunning clutch had stolen the fodder from the
sheep? That was the question as it presented itself to her; but
she sat silent, and refrained from putting it into words. She sat
silent, but he read her heart. ‘For the shorn lamb—’ she had said,
and he had known her thoughts, as they followed, quick, one upon
another, through her mind. ‘Mary,’ he said, seating himself now
close beside her on the sofa, ‘if his heart be as true to you as mine,
he will never remember these things against you.’
‘It is my memory, not his, that is my punishment,’ she said.
Why could he not take her home with him, and comfort her, and
heal that festering wound, and stop that ever-running gush of her
heart’s blood? But he could not. He had pledged his word and
pawned his honour. All the comfort that could be his to bestow
must be given in those few minutes that remained to him in that
room. And it must be given, too, without falsehood. He could
not bring himself to tell her that the sackcloth need not be sore to
her poor lacerated body, nor the ashes bitter between her teeth.
He could not tell her that the cup of which it was hers to drink
might yet be pleasant to the taste, and cool to the lips! What
could he tell her? Of the only source of true comfort others, he
knew, had spoken,—others who had not spoken in vain. He could
not now take up that matter, and press it on her with available
strength. For him there was but one thing to say. He had for-
given her; he still loved her; he would have cherished her in his
bosom had it been possible. He was a weak, old, foolish man; and
there was nothing of which he could speak but of his own heart.
‘Mary,’ he said, again taking her hand, ‘I wish—I wish that I
could comfort you.’
‘And yet on you also have I brought trouble, and misery—and—
all but disgrace !’
' ‘No, my love, no; neither misery nor disgrace,—except this
misery, that I shall be no longer near to you. Yes, I will tell you
all now. Were I alone in the world, I would still beg you to go
back with me,’
‘It cannot be; it could not possibly be sv.’
‘No; for Iam not alone. She who loves you so well, has told
meso. It must not be. But that is the source of my misery. I
have learned to. love you too well, and do not know how to part
with you. If this had not been so, I would have done all that an
o.d man might to comfort you.’
‘But it has been so,’ she said. ‘I cannot wash out the past.
Knowing what I did of myself, Sir Peregrine, I should never have
put my foot over your threshold.’
‘I wish I might hear its step again upon my floors. I wish I
might hear that light step once again.’
‘Never, Sir Peregrine. No one again ever shall rejoice to hear
le A eee
Sir Peregrine Orme’s great Love.
FAREWELL. 311
either my step or my voice, or to see my form, or to grasp my hand.
The world is over for me, and may God soon grant me talieg from
my sorrow. But to you—in return for your goodness
‘ For my love.’
‘Tn return for your love, what am I to say? I could have loved
you with all my heart had it been so permitted. Nay, I did do go.
Had that dream been carried out, I should not have sworn falsely
when I gave youmy hand. I bade her tell you so, from me, when I
parted with her.’
‘ She did tell me.’
“I have known but little love. He—Sir Joseph—was my master
rather than my husband. He was a good master, and I served him
truly—except in that one thing. ButI never loved him. But I
am wrong to talk of this, and I ail not talk of it longer. May God
bless you, Sir Peregrine! It will be well for both of us now that
you should leave me.’
“May God bless you, Mary, and preserve you, and give back to
you the comforts of a quiet spirit, and a heart at rest! Till you
hear that Iam under the’ ground’ you will know that there is one
living who loves you well.’ Then he took her in his arms, twice
kissed her on the forehead, and left the room without further speech
on either side.
Lady Mason, as soon as she was alone, sat herself down, and her
thoughts ran back over the whole course of her life. Early i in her
Bays, when the world was yet beginning to her, she had done one
evil deed, and from that’ time up to those days of her trial she had,
been the victim of one incessant struggle to appear before the world
as though that deed had not been done,—to appear innocent of it
before the world, but, beyond all things, innocent of it before her
son. For twenty years she had striven with a labour that had been
all but unendurable ; and now she had failed, and every one knew
‘her for what she was. Such had been her life; and then she
thought of the life which might have been hers. In her earlier days
she had known what it was to be poor, and had seen and heard those
battles after money which harden our hearts, and quench the poetry
of our natures. But it had not heen altogether so with her. Had
things gone differently with her it might afterwards have been said
that she had gone through the fire unscathed. But the beast had
set his foot upon her, and when the temptation came it was ‘too
much for her. Not for herself would she have sinned, or have
robbed that old man, who had been to her a kind master, But
when a child was born to her, her eyes were blind, and she could
not see that wealth ill gotten for her child would be as sure a
curse as wealth ill gotten for herself. She remembered Rebekah,
and with the cunning of a second Rebekah she filched a world’s
blessing for her baby. ‘Now she thought of all this as pictures of
812 ORLEY FARM.
that life which might have been hers passed before her mind’s
eye.
And they were pleasant pictures, had they not burnt into her
very soul as she looked at them. How sweet had been that draw-
ing-room at the Cleeve, as she sat there in luxurious quiet with her
new friend! How sweet had been that friendship with a woman
pure in all her thoughts, graceful to the eye, and delicate in all her
ways! She knew now, as she thought of this, that to her had been
given the power to appreciate such delights as these. How full
of charm to her would have been that life, in which there had been
so much of true, innocent affection ;—had the load ever been absent
from her shoulders! And then she thought of Sir Peregrine, with
his pleasant, ancient manner and truth of heart, and told herself
that she could have been happy with the love of even so old a
man as that,—had that burden been away from her! But the
burden had never been away—never could be away. Then she
thought once more of her stern but just son, and as she bowed her
head and kissed the rod, she prayed that her release might come to
her soon.
And now we will say farewell to her, and as we do so the chief
interest of our tale will end. I may, perhaps, be thought to owe
an apology to my readers in that I have asked their sympathy for a
woman who had so sinned as to have placed her beyond the general
sympathy of the world at large. If so, I tender my apology, and
perhaps feel that I should confess a fault. But as I have told her
story that sympathy has grown upon myself till I have learned to:
forgive her, and to feel that I too could have regarded her as a
friend. Of her future life I will not venture to say anything. But
no lesson is truer than that which teaches us to believe that God
does temper the wind to the shorn lamb. To how many has it not
seemed, at some one period of their lives, that all was over for
them, and that to them in their afflictions there was nothing left but
to die! And yet they have lived to laugh again, to feel that the air
was warm and the earth fair, and that God in giving them ever-
springing hope had given everything. How many a sun may seem
to set on an endless night, and yet rising again on some morrow—
‘He tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the momming sky |"
For Lady Mason let us hope that the day will come in which she
also may once again trick her beams in some modest, unassuming
way, and that for her the morning may even yet be sweet with a
glad warmth. For us, here in these pages, it must be sufficient to
say this last kindly farewell.
As to Lucius Mason and the arrangement of his affairs with his
step-brother a very few concluding words will suffice. When Joseph
Mason left the office of Messrs. Round and Crook he would gladly
FAREWELL. 313
have sacrificed all hope of any eventual pecuniary benefit from the
possession of Orley Farm could he by doing so have secured the
condign punishment of her who had so long kept him out of his
inheritance. But he soon found that he had no means of doing this.
In the first place he did not know where to turn for advice. He
had quarrelled absolutely with Dockwrath, and though he now
greatly distrusted the Rounds, he by no means put implicit trust in
him of Hamworth. Of the Rounds he suspected that they were
engaged to serve his enemy, of Dockwrath he felt sure that he was
anxious only to serve himself. Under these circumstances he was
driven into the arms of a third attorney, and learned from him, after
a delay that cut him to the soul, that he could take no further
criminal proceeding against Lady Mason. It would be impossible
to have her even indicted for the forgery,—seeing that two juries,
at the interval of twenty years, had virtually acquitted her,—unless
new evidence which should be absolute and positive in its kind
should be forthcoming. But there was no new evidence of any
kind. The offer made to surrender the property was no evidence
for a jury whatever it might be in the mind of the world at large.
* And what am I to do? asked Mason.
‘Take the goods the gods provide you,’ said the attorney.
* Accept the offer which your half-brother has very generously
made you.’
© Generously !’ shouted Mason of Groby.
* Well, on his part it is generous. It is quite within his power
to keep it; and were he to do so no one would say he was wrong.
Why should he judge his mother”
Then Mr. Joseph Mason went to another attorney ; but it was of
no avail. The time was passing away, and he learned that Lady
Mason and Lucius had actually started for Germany. In his agony
for revenge he had endeavoured to obtain some legal order that
should prevent her departure ;—‘ ne exeat regno,’ as he repeated
over and over again to his advisers learned in the law. But it was
of no avail. Lady Mason had been tried and acquitted, and no
judge would interfere. ;
‘We should soon have her back again, you know, if we had
evidence of forgery,’ said the last attorney.
‘Then, by ——! we will have her back again,’ said Mason.
But the threat was vain; nor could he get any one even to
promise him that she could be prosecuted and convicted. And by
degrees the desire for vengeance slackened as the desire for gain
resumed its sway. Many men have threatened to spend a property
upon a lawsuit who have afterwards felt grateful that their threats
were made abortive. And so it was with Mr. Mason. After
yemaining in town over a month he took the advice of the first of
those new lawyers and allowed that gentleman to put himself in
bit ORLEY FARM. ,
communication with Mr. Furnival. The result was that by the
end of six months he again came out of Yorkshire to take upon
himself the duties and privileges of the owner of Orley Farm.
And then came his great fight with Dockwrath, which in
the end ruined the Hamworth attorney, and cost Mr. Mason
more money than he ever liked to confess. Dockwrath claimed to
be put in possession of Orley Farm at an exceedingly moderate rent,
as to the terms of which he was prepared to prove that Mr. Mason
had already entered into a contract with him. Mr. Mason utterly
ignored such contract, and contended that the words contained in a
, certain note produced by Dockwrath amounted only to a proposi-
tion to let him the Jand in the event of certain circumstances and
results—which circumstances and results never took place.
This lawsuit Mr. Joseph Mason did win, and Mr. Samuel Dock-
wrath was, as I have said, ruined. What the attorney did to make
it necessary that he should leave Hamworth I do not know; but
Miriam, his wife, is now the mistress of that lodging-house to
which her own mahogany furniture was so ruthlessly removed.
CHAPTER XL.
SHOWING HOW AFFAIRS SETTLED THEMSELVES AT NONINGSBY.
We must now go back to Noningsby for one concluding chapter,
and then our work will be completed.
“You are not to go away from Noningsby when the trial is over,
you know. Mamma said that I had better tell you so.’ It was
thus that Madeline had spoken to Felix Graham as he was going
out to the judge’s carriage on the last morning of the celebrated
gréat Orley Farm case, and as she did so she twisted one of her
little fingers into one of his buttonholes. This she did with a
prettiness of familiarity, and the assumption of a right to give him
orders and hold him to obedience, which was almost intoxicating in
its sweetness. And why should she not be familiar with him?
Why should she not hold him to obedience by his buttonhole ?
Was he not herown? MHad she not chosen him and taken him up
to the exclusion of all other such choosings and takings ?
‘I shall not go till you send me,’ he said, putting up his hand as
though to protect his coat, and just touching her fingers as he
did so.
‘Mamma says it will be stupid for you in the mornings, but it
will not be worse for you than for Augustus. He stays till after
Hastey.’
‘And I shall stay till after Whitsuntide unless I am turned out.’
HOW AFFAIRS SETTLED THEMSELVES AT NONINGSBY. 3815
‘Ob! but you will be turned out. I am not going to make
myself answerable for any improper amount of idleness. Papa says
you have got all the law courts to reform.’
‘There must be a double Hercules for such a set of stables as
that,’ said Felix; and then with the slight ceremony to which I
have before adverted he took his leave for the day.
“I suppose there will be no use in delaying it,’ said Lady Staveley
on the same morning as she and her daughter sat together in the
drawing-room. They had already been talking over the new
engagement by the hour, together; but that is a subject on which
mothers with marriageable daughters never grow tired, as all
mothers and marriageable daughters know full well.
‘Oh! mamma, I think it must be delayed.’
‘But why, my love? Mr. Graham has not said so ”
‘ You must call him Felix, mamma. I’m sure it’s a nice name.’
‘Very well, my dear, I will’
“No; he has said nothing yet. But of course he means to wait
till,—till it will be prudent.’
‘Men never care for prudence of that kind when they are really
in love ;—and I’m sure he is.’
‘Ts he, mamma ”
‘He will marry on anything or nothing. And if you speak to
him he tells you of how the young ravens were fed. But he always
forgets that he’s not a young raven himself,’
‘ Now you're only joking, mamma.’
‘Indeed I’m quite in earnest. But I think your papa means
to make up an income for you,—only you must not expect to
be rich.’
‘I do not want to be rich. I never did.’
‘I suppose you will live in London, and then you can come down
here when the courts are up. Ido hope he won't ever want to
take a situation in the colonies,’
‘Who, Felix? Why should he go to the colonies”
‘They always do,—the clever young barristers who marry before
they have made their way. That would be very dreadful. I really
think it would kill me.’
«Oh! mamma, he sha’n’t go to any colony.’
«To be sure there are the county courts now, and they are better
I suppose you wouldn’t like to live at Leeds or Merthyr-Tydvil?
«Of course I shall live wherever he goes ; but I don’t know why
vou should send him to Merthyr-Tydvil.’ ;
‘Those are the sort of places they do go to. There is young
Mrs. Bright Newdegate,—she had to go to South Shields, and her
pabies are all dreadfully delicate. She lost-two, you know. Ido
think the Lord Chancellor ought to think about that. Reigate, or
Maidstone, or anywhere about Great Marlow would not be so bad.
316 ORLEY FARM.
And in this way they discussed the coming event and the happy
future, while Pelix himself was listening to the judge’s charge and
thinking of his client’s guilt.
Then there were two or three days passed at Noningsby of almost
unalloyed sweetness. It seemed that they had all agreed that
Prudence should go by the board, and that Love with sweet pro-
mises, and hopes bright as young trees in spring, should have it
all her own way. Judge Staveley was a man who on such an
occasion—knowing with whom he had to deal—could allow ordinary
prudence to go by the board. There are men, and excellent men
too, from whose minds the cares of life never banish themselves,
who never seem to remember that provision is made for the young
ravens. They toil and spin always, thinking sternly of the worst
and rarely hoping for the best. They are ever making provision
for rainy days, as though there were to be no more sunshine. So
anxious are they for their children that they take no pleasure in
them, and their fear is constant that the earth will cease to produce
her fruits. Of such was not the judge. ‘Dulce est desipere in
locis’ he would say, ‘and let the opportunities be frequent and the
occasions many.’ Such a love-making opportunity as this surely
should be one.
So Graham wandered about through the dry March winds with
his future bride by his side, and never knew that the blasts came
from the pernicious east. And she would lean on his arm as though
he bad been the friend of her earliest years, listening to and trust-
ing him in all things. That little finger, as they stood together,
would get up to his buttonhole, and her bright frank eyes would
settle themselves on his, and then her hand would press closely
upon his arm, and he knew that she was neither ashamed nor afraid
of her love. Her love to her was the same as her religion. When
it was once acknowledged by her to be a thing good and trust-
worthy, all the world might know it. Was it not a glory to her
that he had chosen her, and why should she conceal her glory ?
Had it been that some richer, greater man had won her love,—some
one whose titles were known and high place in the world approved,
—it may well be that then she would have been less free with him.
‘Papa would like it best if you would give up your writing,
and think of nothing but the law,’ she said to him. In answer to
which he told her, with many compliments to the special fox in
question, that story of the fox who had lost his tail and thought it
well that other foxes should dress themselves as he was dressed.
‘ At any rate papa looks very well without his tail,’ said Madeline
with somewhat of a daughter’s pride. ‘ But you shall wear yours
all the same, if you like it,’ she added with much of a young
maiden’s love.
As they were thus walking near the house on the afternoon of
HOW AFFAIRS SETTLED THEMSELVES AT NONINGSBY. 317
the third or fourth day after the trial, one of the maids came to
them and told Madeline that 4 gentleman was in the house who
wished to see her.
‘ A gentleman !’ said Madeline.
‘ Mr. Orme, miss. My lady told me to ask you up if you were
anywhere near.’
‘T suppose I must go,’ said Madeline, from whom all her pretty
freedom of manner and light happiness of face departed on the
moment. She had told Felix everything as to poor Peregrine in
return for that story of his respecting Mary Snow. To her it
seemed as though that had made things equal between them,—for .
she was too generous to observe that though she had given nothing
to her other lover, Felix had been engaged for many months to
marry his other love. But girls, I think, have no objection to
this. They do not desire first fruits, or even early fruits, as men
do. Indeed, Iam not sure whether experience on the part of a
gentleman in his use of his heart is not supposed by most young
ladies to enhance the value of the article. Madeline was not in the
least jealous of Mary Snow; but with great goodnature promised
to look after her, and patronize her when she should have become
Mrs. Albert Fitzallen. ‘But I don’t think I should like that Mrs.
Thomas,’ she said.
‘ You would have mended the stockings for her all the same.’
*O yes, I would have done that;—and so did Miss Snow.
But I would have kept my box locked. She should never have
seen my letters.’
It was now absolutely necessary that she should return to the
house, and say to Peregrine Orme what words of comfort might be
possible for her. If she could have spoken simply with her heart,
she would have said much that was friendly, even though it might
not be comfortable. But it was necessary that she should express
herself in words, and she felt that the task was very difficult. ‘ Will
you come in? she said to Felix.
«No, I think not. But he’s a splendid fellow, and to me was
a stanch friend. If I can catch him as he comes out I will speak
to him.’ And then Madeline, with hesitating steps, with her
hat still on her head, and her gloves on her hands, walked
through the hall into the drawing-room. There she found her
mother seated on the sofa, and Peregrine Orme standing before her.
Madeline walked up to him with extended hand and a kindly
welcome, though she felt*that the colour was high in her cheeks.
Of course it would be impossible to come out from such an inter-
view as this without having confessed her position, or hearing it
confessed by her mother in her presence. That, however, had
been already done, and Peregrine knew that the prize was gone.
« How do you do, Miss Staveley?’ said he. ‘As I am going to
318 ORLEY FARM.
leave the Cleeve for a long time, I have come over to say good-bye
to Lady Staveley—and to you.’
‘Are you going away, Mr. Orme ?”
‘Yes, I shall go abroad,—to Central Africa, I think. It seems a
wild sort of place with plenty of animals to kill.’
‘ But isn’t it very dangerous ”
“No, I don’t think so. The people always come back alive.
I’ve a sort of idea that nothing will killme. Atany rate I couldn’t
stay here.’
‘ Madeline, dear, I’ve told Mr. Orme that you have accepted Mr.
Graham. With a friend such as he is I know that you will not be
anxious to keep this a secret.’
‘No, mamma.’
“I was sure of that; and now that your papa has consented to it,
and that it is quite fixed, I am sure that it is better that he should
know it. We shall always look upon him as a very dear friend—
if he will allow us.’
Then it was necessary that Peregrine should speak, which he
did as follows, holding Madeline’s hand for the first three or four
seconds of the time:—‘ Miss Staveley, I will say this of myself,
that if ever a fellow loved a girl truly, I loved you;—and I do so
now as well or better than ever. It is no good my pretending to
be contented, and all that sort of thing. I am not contented, but
very unhappy. I have never wished for but one thing in my life;
and for that I would have given all that I have in the world.
I know that I cannot have it, and that I am not fit to have it.’
‘Oh, Mr. Orme, it is not that.’
‘ But it is that. I knew yéu before Graham did, and loved you
quite as soon. I believe—though of course I don’t mean to ask any
questions—but I believe I told you so before he ever did.’
* Marriages, they say, are planned in heaven,’ said Lady Staveley.
‘ Perhaps they are. I only wish this one had not been planned
there. I cannot help it,—I cannot express my satisfaction, though
I will heartily wish for your happiness. I knew from the first
how it would be, and was always sure that I was a fool to love
you. I should have gone away when I first thought of it, for I
used to feel that you never cared to speak to me.’
‘Oh, indeed I did,’ said poor Madeline.
‘No, you did not. And why should you when I had nothing to
say for myself? I ought to have fallen in love with some foolish
chit with as little wit about her as I have myself.’
“I hope you will fall in love with some very nice girl,’ said
Lady Staveley; ‘and that we shall know her and love her very much.”
‘ Oh, I dare say I shall marry some day. I feel now as though
I should like to break my neck, but I don’t suppose I shall. Good-
bye, Lady Staveley.’
HOW AFFAIRS SETTLED THEMSELVES AT NONINGSBY. 9319
* Good-bye, Mr. Orme ; and may God send that you may be happy.’
‘ Good-bye, Madeline. Ishall never call you so again,—except to
myself. I do wish you may be happy,—I do indeed. As for him,—
he has been before me, and taken away all that I wanted to win.’
By this time the tears were in his eyes, and his voice was not
free from their effect. Of this he was aware, and therefore,
pressing her hand, he turned upon his heel and abruptly left the
room. He had been unable to say that he wished also that Felix
might be happy; but this omission was forgiven him by both the
ladies. Poor Madeline, as he went, muttered a kind farewell, but
her tears had mastered her also, so that she could hardly speak.
He went directly to the stables, there got upon his horse, and
then walked slowly down the avenue towards the gate. He had
got the better of that tear-compelling softness as soon as he found
himself beyond the presence of the girl he loved, and was now
stern in his mood, striving to harden his heart. He had confessed
himself a fool in comparison with Felix Graham; but yet,—he
asked himself,—in spite of that, was it not possible that he would
have made her a better husband than the other? It was not to his
title or his estate that he trusted as he so thought, but to a feeling
that he was more akin to her in circumstances, in ways of life, and
in tenderness of heart. As all this was passing through his mind,
Felix Graham presented himself to him in the road.
‘ Orme,’ said he, ‘ I heard that you were in the house, and have
come to shake hands with you. I suppose you‘have heard what has
taken place. Will you not shake hands with me?’
‘No,’ said Peregrine, ‘ I will not.’
«I am sorry for that, for we were good friends, and I owe you
much for your kindness. It was a fair stand-up fight, and you
should not be angry.’ ;
‘I am angry, and I don’t want your friendship. Go and tell her
that I say so, if you like.’
‘No, I will not do that.’
‘ [wish with all my heart that we had both killed ourselves at
that bank.’
« For shame, Orme, for shame !
«Very well, sir; let it be for shame.’ And then he passed on
meaning to go through the gate, and leaving Graham on the grast
by the road-side. But before he had gone a hundred yards down
the road his better feelings came back upon him, and he returned.
«J am unhappy,’ he said, ‘ and sore at heart. You must not
mind what words I spoke just now.’
éNo, no; I am sure you did not mean them,’ said Felix, putting
his hand on the horse’s mane.
‘ [ did mean them then, but I do not mean them now. I won't
say anything about wishes. Of course you will be happy with her
820 : ORLEY FARM.
Anybody would be happy with her. I suppose you won’t die, and
give a fellow another chance.’
‘ Not if I can help it,’ said Graham.
‘ Well, if you are to live, I don’t wish you any evil. I do wish
you hadn’t come to Noningsby, that’s all. Good-bye to you.’ And
he held out his hand, which Graham took,
‘We shall be good friends yet, for all that is come and gone,’ said
Graham ; and then there were no more words between them.
Peregrine did as he said, and went abroad, extending his travels
to many wild countries, in which, as he used to say, any one else
would have been in danger. No danger ever came to him,—so at
least he frequently wrote word to his mother. Gorillas he slew by
scores, lions by hundreds, and elephants sufficient for an ivory
palace. The skins, and bones, and other trophies, he sent home in
various ships; and when he appeared in London as a lion, no man
doubted his word. But then he did not write a book, nor even give
lectures; nor did he presume to know much about the huge brutes
he had slain, except that they were pervious to powder and ball.
Sir Peregrine had endeavoured to keep him at home by giving
up the property into his hands; but neither for grandfather, nor for
mother, nor for lands and money would he remain in the neigh-
bourhood of Noningsby. ‘ No, mother,’ he said; ‘ it will be better
for me to be away.’ And away he went.
The old baronet lived to see him return, though with plaintive
wail he often declared to his daughter-in-law that this was impossible.
He lived, but he never returned to that living life which had been
his before he had taken up the battle for Lady Mason. He would
sometimes allow Mrs. Orme to drive him about the grounds, but
otherwise he remained in the house, sitting solitary over his fire,—
with a book, indeed, open before him, but rarely reading. He was
waiting patiently, as he said, till death should come to him.
Mrs. Orme kept her promise, and wrote constantly to Lady
Mason,—hearing from her as constantly. When Lucius had been
six months in Germany, he decided on going to Australia, leaving
his mother for the present in the little German town in which they
were staying. For her, on the whole, the change was for the
better. As to his success in a thriving colony, there can be but
‘Little doubt.
Felix Graham was soon married to Madeline ; and as yet I have not
heard of any banishment either to Patagonia or to Merthyr-Tydvil.
And now I may say, Farewell.
|
LONDON: PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS,
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