

E-text prepared by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.




Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file
      which includes the 40 illustrations by John Everett Millais
      used in the First Edition of _Orley Farm_ (Chapman and Hall,
      London, 1862).
      See 23000-h.htm or 23000-h.zip:
      (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/23000/23000-h/23000-h.htm)
      or
      (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/23000/23000-h.zip)





ORLEY FARM

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

First published in serial form March, 1861, through October, 1862,
and in book form in 1862, both by Chapman and Hall.


[Illustration: ORLEY FARM. (Frontispiece)]






CONTENTS

   VOLUME I

            I. THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE GREAT ORLEY FARM CASE.
           II. LADY MASON AND HER SON.
          III. THE CLEEVE.
           IV. THE PERILS OF YOUTH.
            V. SIR PEREGRINE MAKES A SECOND PROMISE.
           VI. THE COMMERCIAL ROOM, BULL INN, LEEDS.
          VII. THE MASONS OF GROBY PARK.
         VIII. MRS. MASON'S HOT LUNCHEON.
           IX. A CONVIVIAL MEETING.
            X. MR., MRS., AND MISS FURNIVAL.
           XI. MRS. FURNIVAL AT HOME.
          XII. MR. FURNIVAL'S CHAMBERS.
         XIII. GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY.
          XIV. DINNER AT THE CLEEVE.
           XV. A MORNING CALL AT MOUNT PLEASANT VILLA.
          XVI. MR. DOCKWRATH IN BEDFORD ROW.
         XVII. VON BAUHR.
        XVIII. THE ENGLISH VON BAUHR.
          XIX. THE STAVELEY FAMILY.
           XX. MR. DOCKWRATH IN HIS OWN OFFICE.
          XXI. CHRISTMAS IN HARLEY STREET.
         XXII. CHRISTMAS AT NONINGSBY.
        XXIII. CHRISTMAS AT GROBY PARK.
         XXIV. CHRISTMAS IN GREAT ST. HELENS.
          XXV. MR. FURNIVAL AGAIN AT HIS CHAMBERS.
         XXVI. WHY SHOULD I NOT?
        XXVII. COMMERCE.
       XXVIII. MONKTON GRANGE.
         XXIX. BREAKING COVERT.
          XXX. ANOTHER FALL.
         XXXI. FOOTSTEPS IN THE CORRIDOR.
        XXXII. WHAT BRIDGET BOLSTER HAD TO SAY.
       XXXIII. THE ANGEL OF LIGHT.
        XXXIV. MR. FURNIVAL LOOKS FOR ASSISTANCE.
         XXXV. LOVE WAS STILL THE LORD OF ALL.
        XXXVI. WHAT THE YOUNG MEN THOUGHT ABOUT IT.
       XXXVII. PEREGRINE'S ELOQUENCE.
      XXXVIII. OH, INDEED!
        XXXIX. WHY SHOULD HE GO?
           XL. I CALL IT AWFUL.

   VOLUME II

          XLI. HOW CAN I SAVE HIM?
         XLII. JOHN KENNEBY GOES TO HAMWORTH.
        XLIII. JOHN KENNEBY'S COURTSHIP.
         XLIV. SHOWING HOW LADY MASON COULD BE VERY NOBLE.
          XLV. SHOWING HOW MRS. ORME COULD BE VERY WEAK MINDED.
         XLVI. A WOMAN'S IDEA OF FRIENDSHIP.
        XLVII. THE GEM OF THE FOUR FAMILIES.
       XLVIII. THE ANGEL OF LIGHT UNDER A CLOUD.
         XLIX. MRS. FURNIVAL CAN'T PUT UP WITH IT.
            L. IT IS QUITE IMPOSSIBLE.
           LI. MRS. FURNIVAL'S JOURNEY TO HAMWORTH.
          LII. SHOWING HOW THINGS WENT ON AT NONINGSBY.
         LIII. LADY MASON RETURNS HOME.
          LIV. TELLING ALL THAT HAPPENED BENEATH THE LAMP-POST.
           LV. WHAT TOOK PLACE IN HARLEY STREET.
          LVI. HOW SIR PEREGRINE DID BUSINESS WITH MR. ROUND.
         LVII. THE LOVES AND HOPES OF ALBERT FITZALLEN.
        LVIII. MISS STAVELEY DECLINES TO EAT MINCED VEAL.
          LIX. NO SURRENDER.
           LX. WHAT REBEKAH DID FOR HER SON.
          LXI. THE STATE OF PUBLIC OPINION.
         LXII. WHAT THE FOUR LAWYERS THOUGHT ABOUT IT.
        LXIII. THE EVENING BEFORE THE TRIAL.
         LXIV. THE FIRST JOURNEY TO ALSTON.
          LXV. FELIX GRAHAM RETURNS TO NONINGSBY.
         LXVI. SHOWING HOW MISS FURNIVAL TREATED HER LOVERS.
        LXVII. MR. MOULDER BACKS HIS OPINION.
       LXVIII. THE FIRST DAY OF THE TRIAL.
         LXIX. THE TWO JUDGES.
          LXX. HOW AM I TO BEAR IT?
         LXXI. SHOWING HOW JOHN KENNEBY AND BRIDGET BOLSTER BORE
               THEMSELVES IN COURT.
        LXXII. MR. FURNIVAL'S SPEECH.
       LXXIII. MRS. ORME TELLS THE STORY.
        LXXIV. YOUNG LOCHINVAR.
         LXXV. THE LAST DAY.
        LXXVI. I LOVE HER STILL.
       LXXVII. JOHN KENNEBY'S DOOM.
      LXXVIII. THE LAST OF THE LAWYERS.
        LXXIX. FAREWELL.
         LXXX. SHOWING HOW AFFAIRS SETTLED THEMSELVES AT NONINGSBY.



ILLUSTRATIONS

   VOLUME I

      ORLEY FARM.                                  FRONTISPIECE
      SIR PEREGRINE AND HIS HEIR.                  CHAPTER III
      THERE WAS SORROW IN HER HEART,
         AND DEEP THOUGHT IN HER MIND.             CHAPTER V
      "THERE IS NOTHING LIKE IRON, SIR; NOTHING."  CHAPTER VI
      AND THEN THEY ALL MARCHED OUT OF THE ROOM,
         EACH WITH HIS OWN GLASS.                  CHAPTER IX
      MR. FURNIVAL'S WELCOME HOME.                 CHAPTER XI
      "YOUR SON LUCIUS DID SAY--SHOPPING."         CHAPTER XIII
      OVER THEIR WINE.                             CHAPTER XIV
      VON BAUHR'S DREAM.                           CHAPTER XVII
      THE ENGLISH VON BAUHR AND HIS PUPIL.         CHAPTER XVIII
      CHRISTMAS AT NONINGSBY--MORNING.             CHAPTER XXII
      CHRISTMAS AT NONINGSBY--EVENING.             CHAPTER XXII
      "WHY SHOULD I NOT?"                          CHAPTER XXV
      MONKTON GRANGE.                              CHAPTER XXVIII
      FELIX GRAHAM IN TROUBLE.                     CHAPTER XXIX
      FOOTSTEPS IN THE CORRIDOR.                   CHAPTER XXXI
      THE ANGEL OF LIGHT.                          CHAPTER XXXIII
      LUCIUS MASON IN HIS STUDY.                   CHAPTER XXXVI
      PEREGRINE'S ELOQUENCE.                       CHAPTER XXXVII
      LADY STAVELY INTERRUPTING HER SON
         AND SOPHIA FURNIVAL.                      CHAPTER XXXIX

   VOLUME II

      JOHN KENNEBY AND MIRIAM DOCKWRATH.           CHAPTER XLII
      GUILTY.                                      CHAPTER XLIV
      LADY MASON AFTER HER CONFESSION.             CHAPTER XLV
      "BREAD SAUCE IS SO TICKLISH."                CHAPTER XLVII
      "NEVER IS A VERY LONG WORD."                 CHAPTER L
      "TOM," SHE SAID, "I HAVE COME BACK."         CHAPTER LI
      LADY MASON GOING BEFORE THE MAGISTRATES.     CHAPTER LIII
      SIR PEREGRINE AT MR. ROUND'S OFFICE.         CHAPTER LVI
      "TELL ME, MADELINE, ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?"      CHAPTER LVIII
      "NO SURRENDER."                              CHAPTER LIX
      MR. CHAFFANBRASS AND MR. SOLOMON ARAM.       CHAPTER LXII
      THE COURT.                                   CHAPTER LXIV
      THE DRAWING-ROOM AT NONINGSBY.               CHAPTER LXV
      "AND HOW ARE THEY ALL AT NONINGSBY?"         CHAPTER LXVI
      LADY MASON LEAVING THE COURT.                CHAPTER LXX
      "HOW CAN I BEAR IT?"                         CHAPTER LXX
      BRIDGET BOLSTER IN COURT.                    CHAPTER LXXI
      LUCIUS MASON, AS HE LEANED ON THE GATE
         THAT WAS NO LONGER HIS OWN.               CHAPTER LXXIII
      FAREWELL!                                    CHAPTER LXXIX
      FAREWELL!                                    CHAPTER LXXIX




VOLUME I.

CHAPTER I.

THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE GREAT ORLEY FARM CASE.


It is not true that a rose by any other name will smell as sweet.
Were it true, I should call this story "The Great Orley Farm Case."
But who would ask for the ninth number of a serial work burthened
with so very uncouth an appellation? Thence, and therefore,--Orley
Farm.

I say so much at commencing in order that I may have an opportunity
of explaining that this book of mine will not be devoted in any
special way to rural delights. The name might lead to the idea that
new precepts were to be given, in the pleasant guise of a novel, as
to cream-cheeses, pigs with small bones, wheat sown in drills, or
artificial manure. No such aspirations are mine. I make no attempts
in that line, and declare at once that agriculturists will gain
nothing from my present performance. Orley Farm, my readers, will be
our scene during a portion of our present sojourn together, but the
name has been chosen as having been intimately connected with certain
legal questions which made a considerable stir in our courts of law.

It was twenty years before the date at which this story will be
supposed to commence that the name of Orley Farm first became known
to the wearers of the long robe. At that time had died an old
gentleman, Sir Joseph Mason, who left behind him a landed estate in
Yorkshire of considerable extent and value. This he bequeathed, in a
proper way, to his eldest son, the Joseph Mason, Esq., of our date.
Sir Joseph had been a London merchant; had made his own money, having
commenced the world, no doubt, with half a crown; had become, in
turn, alderman, mayor, and knight; and in the fulness of time was
gathered to his fathers. He had purchased this estate in Yorkshire
late in life--we may as well become acquainted with the name, Groby
Park--and his eldest son had lived there with such enjoyment of the
privileges of an English country gentleman as he had been able to
master for himself. Sir Joseph had also had three daughters, full
sisters of Joseph of Groby, whom he endowed sufficiently and gave
over to three respective loving husbands. And then shortly before his
death, three years or so, Sir Joseph had married a second wife, a
lady forty-five years his junior, and by her he also left one son, an
infant only two years old when he died.

For many years this prosperous gentleman had lived at a small country
house, some five-and-twenty miles from London, called Orley Farm.
This had been his first purchase of land, and he had never given up
his residence there, although his wealth would have entitled him to
the enjoyment of a larger establishment. On the birth of his youngest
son, at which time his eldest was nearly forty years old, he made
certain moderate provision for the infant, as he had already made
moderate provision for his young wife; but it was then clearly
understood by the eldest son that Orley Farm was to go with the Groby
Park estate to him as the heir. When, however, Sir Joseph died, a
codicil to his will, executed with due legal formalities, bequeathed
Orley Farm to his youngest son, little Lucius Mason.

Then commenced those legal proceedings which at last developed
themselves into the great Orley Farm Case. The eldest son contested
the validity of the codicil; and indeed there were some grounds
on which it appeared feasible that he should do so. This codicil
not only left Orley Farm away from him to baby Lucius, but also
interfered in another respect with the previous will. It devised a
sum of two thousand pounds to a certain Miriam Usbech, the daughter
of one Jonathan Usbech who was himself the attorney who had attended
upon Sir Joseph for the making out of this very will, and also of
this very codicil. This sum of two thousand pounds was not, it is
true, left away from the surviving Joseph, but was to be produced out
of certain personal property which had been left by the first will to
the widow. And then old Jonathan Usbech had died, while Sir Joseph
Mason was still living.

All the circumstances of the trial need not be detailed here. It was
clearly proved that Sir Joseph had during his whole life expressed
his intention of leaving Orley Farm to his eldest son; that he was a
man void of mystery, and not given to secrets in his money matters,
and one very little likely to change his opinion on such subjects. It
was proved that old Jonathan Usbech at the time in which the will was
made was in very bad circumstances, both as regards money and health.
His business had once not been bad, but he had eaten and drunk it,
and at this period was feeble and penniless, overwhelmed both by gout
and debt. He had for many years been much employed by Sir Joseph in
money matters, and it was known that he was so employed almost up to
the day of his death. The question was whether he had been employed
to make this codicil.

The body of the will was in the handwriting of the widow, as was also
the codicil. It was stated by her at the trial that the words were
dictated to her by Usbech in her husband's hearing, and that the
document was then signed by her husband in the presence of them both,
and also in the presence of two other persons--a young man employed
by her husband as a clerk, and by a servant-maid. These two last,
together with Mr. Usbech, were the three witnesses whose names
appeared in the codicil. There had been no secrets between Lady Mason
and her husband as to his will. She had always, she said, endeavoured
to induce him to leave Orley Farm to her child from the day of the
child's birth, and had at last succeeded. In agreeing to this Sir
Joseph had explained to her, somewhat angrily, that he wished to
provide for Usbech's daughter, and that now he would do so out of
moneys previously intended for her, the widow, and not out of the
estate which would go to his eldest son. To this she had assented
without a word, and had written the codicil in accordance with the
lawyer's dictation, he, the lawyer, suffering at the time from gout
in his hand. Among other things Lady Mason proved that on the date of
the signatures Mr. Usbech had been with Sir Joseph for sundry hours.

Then the young clerk was examined. He had, he said, witnessed in
his time four, ten, twenty, and, under pressure, he confessed to
as many as a hundred and twenty business signatures on the part of
his employer, Sir Joseph. He thought he had witnessed a hundred
and twenty, but would take his oath he had not witnessed a hundred
and twenty-one. He did remember witnessing a signature of his
master about the time specified by the date of the codicil, and he
remembered the maid-servant also signing at the same time. Mr. Usbech
was then present; but he did not remember Mr. Usbech having the
pen in his hand. Mr. Usbech, he knew, could not write at that time,
because of the gout; but he might, no doubt, have written as much
as his own name. He swore to both the signatures--his own and his
master's; and in cross-examination swore that he thought it probable
that they might be forgeries. On re-examination he was confident that
his own name, as there appearing, had been written by himself; but
on re-cross-examination, he felt sure that there was something wrong.
It ended in the judge informing him that his word was worth nothing,
which was hard enough on the poor young man, seeing that he had done
his best to tell all that he remembered. Then the servant-girl came
into the witness-box. She was sure it was her own handwriting. She
remembered being called in to write her name, and seeing the master
write his. It had all been explained to her at the time, but she
admitted that she had not understood the explanation. She had also
seen the clerk write his name, but she was not sure that she had seen
Mr. Usbech write. Mr. Usbech had had a pen in his hand; she was sure
of that.

The last witness was Miriam Usbech, then a very pretty, simple girl
of seventeen. Her father had told her once that he hoped Sir Joseph
would make provision for her. This had been shortly before her
father's death. At her father's death she had been sent for to Orley
Farm, and had remained there till Sir Joseph died. She had always
regarded Sir Joseph and Lady Mason as her best friends. She had known
Sir Joseph all her life, and did not think it unnatural that he
should provide for her. She had heard her father say more than once
that Lady Mason would never rest till the old gentleman had settled
Orley Farm upon her son.

Not half the evidence taken has been given here, but enough probably
for our purposes. The will and codicil were confirmed, and Lady Mason
continued to live at the farm. Her evidence was supposed to have been
excellently given, and to have been conclusive. She had seen the
signature, and written the codicil, and could explain the motive. She
was a woman of high character, of great talent, and of repute in the
neighbourhood; and, as the judge remarked, there could be no possible
reason for doubting her word. Nothing also could be simpler or
prettier than the evidence of Miriam Usbech, as to whose fate and
destiny people at the time expressed much sympathy. That stupid young
clerk was responsible for the only weak part of the matter; but if
he proved nothing on one side, neither did he prove anything on the
other.

This was the commencement of the great Orley Farm Case, and having
been then decided in favour of the infant it was allowed to slumber
for nearly twenty years. The codicil was confirmed, and Lady Mason
remained undisturbed in possession of the house, acting as guardian
for her child till he came of age, and indeed for some time beyond
that epoch. In the course of a page or two I shall beg my readers to
allow me to introduce this lady to their acquaintance.

Miriam Usbech, of whom also we shall see something, remained at the
farm under Lady Mason's care till she married a young attorney, who
in process of time succeeded to such business as her father left
behind him. She suffered some troubles in life before she settled
down in the neighbouring country town as Mrs. Dockwrath, for she had
had another lover, the stupid young clerk who had so villainously
broken down in his evidence; and to this other lover, whom she had
been unable to bring herself to accept, Lady Mason had given her
favour and assistance. Poor Miriam was at that time a soft, mild-eyed
girl, easy to be led, one would have said; but in this matter Lady
Mason could not lead her. It was in vain to tell her that the
character of young Dockwrath did not stand high, and that young
Kenneby, the clerk, should be promoted to all manner of good things.
Soft and mild-eyed as Miriam was, Love was still the lord of all. In
this matter she would not be persuaded; and eventually she gave her
two thousand pounds to Samuel Dockwrath, the young attorney with the
questionable character.

This led to no breach between her and her patroness. Lady Mason,
wishing to do the best for her young friend, had favoured John
Kenneby, but she was not a woman at all likely to quarrel on such a
ground as this. "Well, Miriam," she had said, "you must judge for
yourself, of course, in such a matter as this. You know my regard for
you."

"Oh yes, ma'am," said Miriam, eagerly.

"And I shall always be glad to promote your welfare as Mrs.
Dockwrath, if possible. I can only say that I should have had more
satisfaction in attempting to do so for you as Mrs. Kenneby." But,
in spite of the seeming coldness of these words, Lady Mason had
been constant to her friend for many years, and had attended to her
with more or less active kindness in all the sorrows arising from
an annual baby and two sets of twins--a progeny which before the
commencement of my tale reached the serious number of sixteen, all
living.

Among other solid benefits conferred by Lady Mason had been the
letting to Mr. Dockwrath of certain two fields, lying at the
extremity of the farm property, and quite adjacent to the town of
Hamworth in which old Mr. Usbech had resided. These had been let by
the year, at a rent not considered to be too high at that period, and
which had certainly become much lower in proportion to the value of
the land, as the town of Hamworth had increased. On these fields Mr.
Dockwrath expended some money, though probably not so much as he
averred; and when noticed to give them up at the period of young
Mason's coming of age, expressed himself terribly aggrieved.

"Surely, Mr. Dockwrath, you are very ungrateful," Lady Mason had said
to him. But he had answered her with disrespectful words; and hence
had arisen an actual breach between her and poor Miriam's husband. "I
must say, Miriam, that Mr. Dockwrath is unreasonable," Lady Mason had
said. And what could a poor wife answer? "Oh! Lady Mason, pray let
it bide a time till it all comes right." But it never did come right;
and the affair of those two fields created the great Orley Farm Case,
which it will be our business to unravel.

And now a word or two as to this Orley Farm. In the first place let
it be understood that the estate consisted of two farms. One, called
the Old Farm, was let to an old farmer named Greenwood, and had been
let to him and to his father for many years antecedent to the days
of the Masons. Mr. Greenwood held about three hundred acres of land,
paying with admirable punctuality over four hundred a year in rent,
and was regarded by all the Orley people as an institution on the
property. Then there was the farm-house and the land attached to it.
This was the residence in which Sir Joseph had lived, keeping in
his own hands this portion of the property. When first inhabited by
him the house was not fitted for more than the requirements of an
ordinary farmer, but he had gradually added to it and ornamented
it till it was commodious, irregular, picturesque, and straggling.
When he died, and during the occupation of his widow, it consisted
of three buildings of various heights, attached to each other,
and standing in a row. The lower contained a large kitchen, which
had been the living-room of the farm-house, and was surrounded
by bake-house, laundry, dairy, and servants' room, all of fair
dimensions. It was two stories high, but the rooms were low, and the
roof steep and covered with tiles. The next portion had been added by
Sir Joseph, then Mr. Mason, when he first thought of living at the
place. This also was tiled, and the rooms were nearly as low; but
there were three stories, and the building therefore was considerably
higher. For five-and-twenty years the farm-house, so arranged, had
sufficed for the common wants of Sir Joseph and his family; but when
he determined to give up his establishment in the City, he added on
another step to the house at Orley Farm. On this occasion he built
a good dining-room, with a drawing-room over it, and bed-room over
that; and this portion of the edifice was slated.

The whole stood in one line fronting on to a large lawn which fell
steeply away from the house into an orchard at the bottom. This
lawn was cut in terraces, and here and there upon it there stood
apple-trees of ancient growth; for here had been the garden of the
old farm-house. They were large, straggling trees, such as do not
delight the eyes of modern gardeners; but they produced fruit by the
bushel, very sweet to the palate, though probably not so perfectly
round, and large, and handsome as those which the horticultural skill
of the present day requires. The face of the house from one end to
the other was covered with vines and passion-flowers, for the aspect
was due south; and as the whole of the later addition was faced by
a verandah, which also, as regarded the ground-floor, ran along the
middle building, the place in summer was pretty enough. As I have
said before, it was irregular and straggling, but at the same time
roomy and picturesque. Such was Orley Farm-house.

There were about two hundred acres of land attached to it, together
with a large old-fashioned farm-yard, standing not so far from the
house as most gentlemen farmers might perhaps desire. The farm
buildings, however, were well hidden, for Sir Joseph, though he would
at no time go to the expense of constructing all anew, had spent more
money than such a proceeding would have cost him doctoring existing
evils and ornamenting the standing edifices. In doing this he had
extended the walls of a brewhouse, and covered them with creepers, so
as to shut out from the hall door the approach to the farm-yard, and
had put up a quarter of a mile of high ornamental paling for the same
purpose. He had planted an extensive shrubbery along the brow of the
hill at one side of the house, had built summer-houses, and sunk a
ha-ha fence below the orchard, and had contrived to give to the place
the unmistakable appearance of an English gentleman's country-house.
Nevertheless, Sir Joseph had never bestowed upon his estate, nor had
it ever deserved, a more grandiloquent name than that which it had
possessed of old.

Orley Farm-house itself is somewhat more than a mile distant from
the town of Hamworth, but the land runs in the direction of the
town, not skirting the high road, but stretching behind the cottages
which stand along the pathway; and it terminates in those two fields
respecting which Mr. Dockwrath the attorney became so irrationally
angry at the period of which we are now immediately about to treat.
These fields lie on the steep <DW72> of Hamworth Hill, and through
them runs the public path from the hamlet of Roxeth up to Hamworth
church; for, as all the world knows, Hamworth church stands high, and
is a landmark to the world for miles and miles around.

Within a circuit of thirty miles from London no land lies more
beautifully circumstanced with regard to scenery than the country
about Hamworth; and its most perfect loveliness commences just
beyond the <DW72>s of Orley Farm. There is a little village called
Coldharbour, consisting of some half-dozen cottages, situated
immediately outside Lady Mason's gate,--and it may as well be stated
here that this gate is but three hundred yards from the house, and is
guarded by no lodge. This village stands at the foot of Cleeve Hill.
The land hereabouts ceases to be fertile, and breaks away into heath
and common ground. Round the foot of the hill there are extensive
woods, all of which belong to Sir Peregrine Orme, the lord of the
manor. Sir Peregrine is not a rich man, not rich, that is, it being
borne in mind that he is a baronet, that he represented his county in
parliament for three or four sessions, and that his ancestors have
owned The Cleeve estate for the last four hundred years; but he is by
general repute the greatest man in these parts. We may expect to hear
more of him also as the story makes its way.

I know many spots in England and in other lands, world-famous in
regard to scenery, which to my eyes are hardly equal to Cleeve Hill.
From the top of it you are told that you may see into seven counties;
but to me that privilege never possessed any value. I should not
care to see into seventeen counties, unless the country which spread
itself before my view was fair and lovely. The country which is so
seen from Cleeve Hill is exquisitely fair and lovely;--very fair,
with glorious fields of unsurpassed fertility, and lovely with oak
woods and brown open heaths which stretch away, hill after hill, down
towards the southern coast. I could greedily fill a long chapter with
the well-loved glories of Cleeve Hill; but it may be that we must
press its heather with our feet more than once in the course of our
present task, and if so, it will be well to leave something for those
coming visits.

"Ungrateful! I'll let her know whether I owe her any gratitude.
Haven't I paid her her rent every half-year as it came due? what more
would she have? Ungrateful, indeed! She is one of those women who
think that you ought to go down on your knees to them if they only
speak civilly to you. I'll let her know whether I'm ungrateful."

These words were spoken by angry Mr. Samuel Dockwrath to his wife, as
he stood up before his parlour-fire after breakfast, and the woman to
whom he referred was Lady Mason. Mr. Samuel Dockwrath was very angry
as he so spoke, or at any rate he seemed to be so. There are men who
take a delight in abusing those special friends whom their wives
best love, and Mr. Dockwrath was one of these. He had never given
his cordial consent to the intercourse which had hitherto existed
between the lady of Orley Farm and his household, although he had not
declined the substantial benefits which had accompanied it. His pride
had rebelled against the feeling of patronage, though his interest
had submitted to the advantages thence derived. A family of sixteen
children is a heavy burden for a country attorney with a small
practice, even though his wife may have had a fortune of two thousand
pounds; and thus Mr. Dockwrath, though he had never himself loved
Lady Mason, had permitted his wife to accept all those numberless
kindnesses which a lady with comfortable means and no children is
always able to bestow on a favoured neighbour who has few means and
many children. Indeed, he himself had accepted a great favour with
reference to the holding of those two fields, and had acknowledged as
much when first he took them into his hands some sixteen or seventeen
years back. But all that was forgotten now; and having held them for
so long a period, he bitterly felt the loss, and resolved that it
would ill become him as a man and an attorney to allow so deep an
injury to pass unnoticed. It may be, moreover, that Mr. Dockwrath was
now doing somewhat better in the world than formerly, and that he
could afford to give up Lady Mason, and to demand also that his wife
should give her up. Those trumpery presents from Orley Farm were very
well while he was struggling for bare bread, but now, now that he had
turned the corner,--now that by his divine art and mystery of law
he had managed to become master of that beautiful result of British
perseverance, a balance at his banker's, he could afford to indulge
his natural antipathy to a lady who had endeavoured in early life
to divert from him the little fortune which had started him in the
world.

Miriam Dockwrath, as she sat on this morning, listening to her
husband's anger, with a sick little girl on her knee, and four or
five others clustering round her, half covered with their matutinal
bread and milk, was mild-eyed and soft as ever. Hers was a nature in
which softness would ever prevail;--softness, and that tenderness of
heart, always leaning, and sometimes almost crouching, of which a
mild eye is the outward sign. But her comeliness and prettiness were
gone. Female beauty of the sterner, grander sort may support the
burden of sixteen children, all living,--and still survive. I have
known it to do so, and to survive with much of its youthful glory.
But that mild-eyed, soft, round, plumpy prettiness gives way beneath
such a weight as that: years alone tell on it quickly; but children
and limited means combined with years leave to it hardly a chance.

"I'm sure I'm very sorry," said the poor woman, worn with her many
cares.

"Sorry; yes, and I'll make her sorry, the proud minx. There's an old
saying, that those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones."

"But, Samuel, I don't think she means to be doing you any harm. You
know she always did say-- Don't, Bessy; how can you put your fingers
into the basin in that way?"

"Sam has taken my spoon away, mamma."

"I'll let her know whether she's doing any harm or no. And what
signifies what was said sixteen years ago? Has she anything to show
in writing? As far as I know, nothing of the kind was said."

"Oh, I remember it, Samuel; I do indeed!"

"Let me tell you then that you had better not try to remember
anything about it. If you ain't quiet, Bob, I'll make you, pretty
quick; d'ye hear that? The fact is, your memory is not worth a curse.
Where are you to get milk for all those children, do you think, when
the fields are gone?"

"I'm sure I'm very sorry, Samuel."

"Sorry; yes, and somebody else shall be sorry too. And look here,
Miriam, I won't have you going up to Orley Farm on any pretence
whatever; do you hear that?" and then, having given that imperative
command to his wife and slave, the lord and master of that
establishment walked forth into his office.

On the whole Miriam Usbech might have done better had she followed
the advice of her patroness in early life, and married the stupid
clerk.




CHAPTER II.

LADY MASON AND HER SON.


I trust that it is already perceived by all persistent novel readers
that very much of the interest of this tale will be centred in the
person of Lady Mason. Such educated persons, however, will probably
be aware that she is not intended to be the heroine. The heroine, so
called, must by a certain fixed law be young and marriageable. Some
such heroine in some future number shall be forthcoming, with as
much of the heroic about her as may be found convenient; but for the
present let it be understood that the person and character of Lady
Mason is as important to us as can be those of any young lady, let
her be ever so gracious or ever so beautiful.

In giving the details of her history, I do not know that I need go
back beyond her grandfather and grandmother, who were thoroughly
respectable people in the hardware line; I speak of those relatives
by the father's side. Her own parents had risen in the world,--had
risen from retail to wholesale, and considered themselves for a
long period of years to be good representatives of the commercial
energy and prosperity of Great Britain. But a fall had come upon
them,--as a fall does come very often to our excellent commercial
representatives--and Mr. Johnson was in the "Gazette." It would be
long to tell how old Sir Joseph Mason was concerned in these affairs,
how he acted as the principal assignee, and how ultimately he took
to his bosom as his portion of the assets of the estate, young Mary
Johnson, and made her his wife and mistress of Orley Farm. Of the
family of the Johnsons there were but three others, the father, the
mother, and a brother. The father did not survive the disgrace of his
bankruptcy, and the mother in process of time settled herself with
her son in one of the Lancashire manufacturing towns, where John
Johnson raised his head in business to some moderate altitude, Sir
Joseph having afforded much valuable assistance. There for the
present we will leave them.

I do not think that Sir Joseph ever repented of the perilous deed he
did in marrying that young wife. His home for many years had been
desolate and solitary; his children had gone from him, and did not
come to visit him very frequently in his poor home at the farm. They
had become grander people than him, had been gifted with aspiring
minds, and in every turn and twist which they took, looked to do
something towards washing themselves clean from the dirt of the
counting-house. This was specially the case with Sir Joseph's son, to
whom the father had made over lands and money sufficient to enable
him to come before the world as a country gentleman with a coat of
arms on his coach-panel. It would be inconvenient for us to run off
to Groby Park at the present moment, and I will therefore say no more
just now as to Joseph junior, but will explain that Joseph senior was
not made angry by this neglect. He was a grave, quiet, rational man,
not however devoid of some folly; as indeed what rational man is so
devoid? He was burdened with an ambition to establish a family as the
result of his success in life; and having put forth his son into the
world with these views, was content that that son should act upon
them persistently. Joseph Mason, Esq., of Groby Park, in Yorkshire,
was now a county magistrate, and had made some way towards a footing
in the county society around him. With these hopes, and ambition such
as this, it was probably not expedient that he should spend much of
his time at Orley Farm. The three daughters were circumstanced much
in the same way: they had all married gentlemen, and were bent on
rising in the world; moreover, the steadfast resolution of purpose
which characterised their father was known by them all,--and by
their husbands: they had received their fortunes, with some settled
contingencies to be forthcoming on their father's demise; why, then,
trouble the old gentleman at Orley Farm?

Under such circumstances the old gentleman married his young
wife,--to the great disgust of his four children. They of course
declared to each other, corresponding among themselves by letter,
that the old gentleman had positively disgraced himself. It was
impossible that they should make any visits whatever to Orley Farm
while such a mistress of the house was there;--and the daughters did
make no such visits. Joseph, the son, whose monetary connection with
his father was as yet by no means fixed and settled in its nature,
did make one such visit, and then received his father's assurance--so
at least he afterwards said and swore--that this marriage should by
no means interfere with the expected inheritance of the Orley Farm
acres. But at that time no young son had been born,--nor, probably,
was any such young son expected.

The farm-house became a much brighter abode for the old man, for the
few years which were left to him, after he had brought his young
wife home. She was quiet, sensible, clever, and unremitting in her
attention. She burthened him with no requests for gay society, and
took his home as she found it, making the best of it for herself, and
making it for him much better than he had ever hitherto known it. His
own children had always looked down upon him, regarding him merely
as a coffer from whence money might be had; and he, though he had
never resented this contempt, had in a certain measure been aware of
it. But there was no such feeling shown by his wife. She took the
benefits which he gave her graciously and thankfully, and gave back
to him in return, certainly her care and time, and apparently her
love. For herself, in the way of wealth and money, she never asked
for anything.

And then the baby had come, young Lucius Mason, and there was of
course great joy at Orley Farm. The old father felt that the world
had begun again for him, very delightfully, and was more than ever
satisfied with his wisdom in regard to that marriage. But the very
genteel progeny of his early youth were more than ever dissatisfied,
and in their letters among themselves dealt forth harder and still
harder words upon poor Sir Joseph. What terrible things might he not
be expected to do now that his dotage was coming on? Those three
married ladies had no selfish fears--so at least they declared, but
they united in imploring their brother to look after his interests at
Orley Farm. How dreadfully would the young heir of Groby be curtailed
in his dignities and seignories if it should be found at the last day
that Orley Farm was not to be written in his rent-roll!

And then, while they were yet bethinking themselves how they might
best bestir themselves, news arrived that Sir Joseph had suddenly
died. Sir Joseph was dead, and the will when read contained a codicil
by which that young brat was made the heir to the Orley Farm estate.
I have said that Lady Mason during her married life had never asked
of her husband anything for herself; but in the law proceedings which
were consequent upon Sir Joseph's death, it became abundantly evident
that she had asked him for much for her son,--and that she had been
specific in her requests, urging him to make a second heir, and to
settle Orley Farm upon her own boy, Lucius. She herself stated that
she had never done this except in the presence of a third person. She
had often done so in the presence of Mr. Usbech the attorney,--as to
which Mr. Usbech was not alive to testify; and she had also done so
more than once in the presence of Mr. Furnival, a barrister,--as to
which Mr. Furnival, being alive, did testify--very strongly.

As to that contest nothing further need now be said. It resulted in
the favour of young Lucius Mason, and therefore, also, in the favour
of the widow;--in the favour moreover of Miriam Usbech, and thus
ultimately in the favour of Mr. Samuel Dockwrath, who is now showing
himself to be so signally ungrateful. Joseph Mason, however, retired
from the battle nothing convinced. His father, he said, had been
an old fool, an ass, an idiot, a vulgar, ignorant fool; but he was
not a man to break his word. That signature to the codicil might be
his or might not. If his, it had been obtained by fraud. What could
be easier than to cheat an old doting fool? Many men agreed with
Joseph Mason, thinking that Usbech the attorney had perpetrated this
villainy on behalf of his daughter; but Joseph Mason would believe,
or say that he believed--a belief in which none but his sisters
joined him,--that Lady Mason herself had been the villain. He was
minded to press the case on to a Court of Appeal, up even to the
House of Lords; but he was advised that in doing so he would spend
more money than Orley Farm was worth, and that he would, almost to a
certainty, spend it in vain. Under this advice he cursed the laws of
his country, and withdrew to Groby Park.

Lady Mason had earned the respect of all those around her by the way
in which she bore herself in the painful days of the trial, and also
in those of her success,--especially also by the manner in which she
gave her evidence. And thus, though she had not been much noticed
by her neighbours during the short period of her married life, she
was visited as a widow by many of the more respectable people round
Hamworth. In all this she showed no feeling of triumph; she never
abused her husband's relatives, or spoke much of the harsh manner
in which she had been used. Indeed, she was not given to talk about
her own personal affairs; and although, as I have said, many of her
neighbours visited her, she did not lay herself out for society. She
accepted and returned their attention, but for the most part seemed
to be willing that the matter should so rest. The people around by
degrees came to know her ways, they spoke to her when they met her,
and occasionally went through the ceremony of a morning call; but did
not ask her to their tea-parties, and did not expect to see her at
picnic and archery meetings.

Among those who took her by the hand in the time of her great trouble
was Sir Peregrine Orme of The Cleeve,--for such was the name which
had belonged time out of mind to his old mansion and park. Sir
Peregrine was a gentleman now over seventy years of age, whose family
consisted of the widow of his only son, and the only son of that
widow, who was of course the heir to his estate and title. Sir
Peregrine was an excellent old man, as I trust may hereafter be
acknowledged; but his regard for Lady Mason was perhaps in the first
instance fostered by his extreme dislike to her stepson, Joseph Mason
of Groby. Mr. Joseph Mason of Groby was quite as rich a man as Sir
Peregrine, and owned an estate which was nearly as large as The
Cleeve property; but Sir Peregrine would not allow that he was a
gentleman, or that he could by any possible transformation become
one. He had not probably ever said so in direct words to any of the
Mason family, but his opinion on the matter had in some way worked
its way down to Yorkshire, and therefore there was no love to spare
between these two county magistrates. There had been a slight
acquaintance between Sir Peregrine and Sir Joseph; but the ladies of
the two families had never met till after the death of the latter.
Then, while that trial was still pending, Mrs. Orme had come forward
at the instigation of her father-in-law, and by degrees there had
grown up an intimacy between the two widows. When the first offers
of assistance were made and accepted, Sir Peregrine no doubt did
not at all dream of any such result as this. His family pride, and
especially the pride which he took in his widowed daughter-in-law,
would probably have been shocked by such a surmise; but,
nevertheless, he had seen the friendship grow and increase without
alarm. He himself had become attached to Lady Mason, and had
gradually learned to excuse in her that want of gentle blood and
early breeding which as a rule he regarded as necessary to a
gentleman, and from which alone, as he thought, could spring many of
those excellences which go to form the character of a lady.

It may therefore be asserted that Lady Mason's widowed life was
successful. That it was prudent and well conducted no one could
doubt. Her neighbours of course did say of her that she would not
drink tea with Mrs. Arkwright of Mount Pleasant villa because she was
allowed the privilege of entering Sir Peregrine's drawing-room; but
such little scandal as this was a matter of course. Let one live
according to any possible or impossible rule, yet some offence will
be given in some quarter. Those who knew anything of Lady Mason's
private life were aware that she did not encroach on Sir Peregrine's
hospitality. She was not at The Cleeve as much as circumstances would
have justified, and at one time by no means so much as Mrs. Orme
would have desired.

In person she was tall and comely. When Sir Joseph had brought her
to his house she had been very fair,--tall, slight, fair, and very
quiet,--not possessing that loveliness which is generally most
attractive to men, because the beauty of which she might boast
depended on form rather than on the brightness of her eye, or the
softness of her cheek and lips. Her face too, even at that age,
seldom betrayed emotion, and never showed signs either of anger or of
joy. Her forehead was high, and though somewhat narrow, nevertheless
gave evidence of considerable mental faculties; nor was the evidence
false, for those who came to know Lady Mason well, were always ready
to acknowledge that she was a woman of no ordinary power. Her eyes
were large and well formed, but somewhat cold. Her nose was long and
regular. Her mouth also was very regular, and her teeth perfectly
beautiful; but her lips were straight and thin. It would sometimes
seem that she was all teeth, and yet it is certain that she never
made an effort to show them. The great fault of her face was in
her chin, which was too small and sharp, thus giving on occasions
something of meanness to her countenance. She was now forty-seven
years of age, and had a son who had reached man's estate; and yet
perhaps she had more of woman's beauty at this present time than
when she stood at the altar with Sir Joseph Mason. The quietness and
repose of her manner suited her years and her position; age had given
fulness to her tall form; and the habitual sadness of her countenance
was in fair accordance with her condition and character. And yet
she was not really sad,--at least so said those who knew her. The
melancholy was in her face rather than in her character, which was
full of energy,--if energy may be quiet as well as assured and
constant.

Of course she had been accused a dozen times of matrimonial
prospects. What handsome widow is not so accused? The world of
Hamworth had been very certain at one time that she was intent on
marrying Sir Peregrine Orme. But she had not married, and I think I
may say on her behalf that she had never thought of marrying. Indeed,
one cannot see how such a woman could make any effort in that line.
It was impossible to conceive that a lady so staid in her manner
should be guilty of flirting; nor was there any man within ten miles
of Hamworth who would have dared to make the attempt. Women for the
most part are prone to love-making--as nature has intended that they
should be; but there are women from whom all such follies seem to be
as distant as skittles and beer are distant from the dignity of the
Lord Chancellor. Such a woman was Lady Mason.

At this time--the time which is about to exist for us as the period
at which our narrative will begin--Lucius Mason was over twenty-two
years old, and was living at the farm. He had spent the last three or
four years of his life in Germany, where his mother had visited him
every year, and had now come home intending to be the master of his
own destiny. His mother's care for him during his boyhood, and up to
the time at which he became of age, had been almost elaborate in its
thoughtfulness. She had consulted Sir Peregrine as to his school, and
Sir Peregrine, looking to the fact of the lad's own property, and
also to the fact, known by him, of Lady Mason's means for such a
purpose, had recommended Harrow. But the mother had hesitated, had
gently discussed the matter, and had at last persuaded the baronet
that such a step would be injudicious. The boy was sent to a private
school of a high character, and Sir Peregrine was sure that he had
been so sent at his own advice. "Looking at the peculiar position of
his mother," said Sir Peregrine to his young daughter-in-law, "at her
very peculiar position, and that of his relatives, I think it will be
better that he should not appear to assume anything early in life;
nothing can be better conducted than Mr. Crabfield's establishment,
and after much consideration I have had no hesitation in recommending
her to send her son to him." And thus Lucius Mason had been sent to
Mr. Crabfield, but I do not think that the idea originated with Sir
Peregrine.

"And perhaps it will be as well," added the baronet, "that he and
Perry should not be together at school, though I have no objection to
their meeting in the holidays. Mr. Crabfield's vacations are always
timed to suit the Harrow holidays." The Perry here mentioned was the
grandson of Sir Peregrine--the young Peregrine who in coming days was
to be the future lord of The Cleeve. When Lucius Mason was modestly
sent to Mr. Crabfield's establishment at Great Marlow, young
Peregrine Orme, with his prouder hopes, commenced his career at the
public school.

Mr. Crabfield did his duty by Lucius Mason, and sent him home at
seventeen a handsome, well-mannered lad, tall and comely to the
eye, with soft brown whiskers sprouting on his cheek, well grounded
in Greek, Latin, and Euclid, grounded also in French and Italian,
and possessing many more acquirements than he would have learned
at Harrow. But added to these, or rather consequent on them, was
a conceit which public-school education would not have created.
When their mothers compared them in the holidays, not openly with
outspoken words, but silently in their hearts, Lucius Mason was found
by each to be the superior both in manners and knowledge; but each
acknowledged also that there was more of ingenuous boyhood about
Peregrine Orme.

Peregrine Orme was a year the younger, and therefore his comparative
deficiencies were not the cause of any intense sorrow at The Cleeve;
but his grandfather would probably have been better satisfied--and
perhaps also so would his mother--had he been less addicted to the
catching of rats, and better inclined towards Miss Edgeworth's novels
and Shakespeare's plays, which were earnestly recommended to him by
the lady and the gentleman. But boys generally are fond of rats, and
very frequently are not fond of reading; and therefore, all this
having been duly considered, there was not much deep sorrow in those
days at The Cleeve as to the boyhood of the heir.

But there was great pride at Orley Farm, although that pride was
shown openly to no one. Lady Mason in her visits at The Cleeve said
but little as to her son's present excellences. As to his future
career in life she did say much both to Sir Peregrine and to Mrs.
Orme, asking the council of the one and expressing her fears to the
other; and then, Sir Peregrine having given his consent, she sent the
lad to Germany.

He was allowed to come of age without any special signs of manhood,
or aught of the glory of property; although, in his case, that coming
of age did put him into absolute possession of his inheritance. On
that day, had he been so minded, he could have turned his mother out
of the farm-house, and taken exclusive possession of the estate; but
he did in fact remain in Germany for a year beyond this period, and
returned to Orley Farm only in time to be present at the celebration
of the twenty-first birthday of his friend Peregrine Orme. This
ceremony, as may be surmised, was by no means slurred over without
due rejoicing. The heir at the time was at Christchurch; but at such
a period a slight interruption to his studies was not to be lamented.
There had been Sir Peregrine Ormes in those parts ever since the days
of James I; and indeed in days long antecedent to those there had
been knights bearing that name, some of whom had been honourably
beheaded for treason, others imprisoned for heresy; and one made
away with on account of a supposed royal amour,--to the great
glorification of all his descendants. Looking to the antecedents of
the family, it was only proper that the coming of age of the heir
should be duly celebrated; but Lucius Mason had had no antecedents;
no great-great-grandfather of his had knelt at the feet of an
improper princess; and therefore Lady Mason, though she had been at
The Cleeve, had not mentioned the fact that on that very day her son
had become a man. But when Peregrine Orme became a man--though still
in his manhood too much devoted to rats--she gloried greatly in her
quiet way, and whispered a hope into the baronet's ear that the young
heir would not imitate the ambition of his ancestor. "No, by Jove! it
would not do now at all," said Sir Peregrine, by no means displeased
at the allusion.

And then that question as to the future life of Lucius Mason became
one of great importance, and it was necessary to consult, not only
Sir Peregrine Orme, but the young man himself. His mother had
suggested to him first the law: the great Mr. Furnival, formerly of
the home circuit, but now practising only in London, was her very
special friend, and would give her and her son all possible aid in
this direction. And what living man could give better aid than the
great Mr. Furnival? But Lucius Mason would have none of the law. This
resolve he pronounced very clearly while yet in Germany, whither his
mother visited him, bearing with her a long letter written by the
great Mr. Furnival himself. But nevertheless young Mason would have
none of the law. "I have an idea," he said, "that lawyers are all
liars." Whereupon his mother rebuked him for his conceited ignorance
and want of charity; but she did not gain her point.

She had, however, another string to her bow. As he objected to be a
lawyer, he might become a civil engineer. Circumstances had made Sir
Peregrine Orme very intimate with the great Mr. Brown. Indeed, Mr.
Brown was under great obligations to Sir Peregrine, and Sir Peregrine
had promised to use his influence. But Lucius Mason said that civil
engineers were only tradesmen of an upper class, tradesmen with
intellects; and he, he said, wished to use his intellect, but he did
not choose to be a tradesman. His mother rebuked him again, as well
he deserved that she should,--and then asked him of what profession
he himself had thought. "Philology," said he; "or as a profession,
perhaps literature. I shall devote myself to philology and the races
of man. Nothing considerable has been done with them as a combined
pursuit." And with these views he returned home--while Peregrine Orme
at Oxford was still addicted to the hunting of rats.

But with philology and the races of man he consented to combine the
pursuit of agriculture. When his mother found that he wished to take
up his abode in his own house, she by no means opposed him, and
suggested that, as such was his intention, he himself should farm his
own land. He was very ready to do this, and had she not represented
that such a step was in every way impolitic, he would willingly have
requested Mr. Greenwood of the Old Farm to look elsewhere, and have
spread himself and his energies over the whole domain. As it was he
contented himself with desiring that Mr. Dockwrath would vacate his
small holding, and as he was imperative as to that his mother gave
way without making it the cause of a battle. She would willingly have
left Mr. Dockwrath in possession, and did say a word or two as to the
milk necessary for those sixteen children. But Lucius Mason was ducal
in his ideas, and intimated an opinion that he had a right to do what
he liked with his own. Had not Mr. Dockwrath been told, when the
fields were surrendered to him as a favour, that he would only have
them in possession till the heir should come of age? Mr. Dockwrath
had been so told; but tellings such as these are easily forgotten by
men with sixteen children. And thus Mr. Mason became an agriculturist
with special scientific views as to chemistry, and a philologist
with the object of making that pursuit bear upon his studies with
reference to the races of man. He was convinced that by certain
admixtures of ammonia and earths he could produce cereal results
hitherto unknown to the farming world, and that by tracing out the
roots of words he could trace also the wanderings of man since the
expulsion of Adam from the garden. As to the latter question his
mother was not inclined to contradict him. Seeing that he would sit
at the feet neither of Mr. Furnival nor of Mr. Brown, she had no
objection to the races of man. She could endure to be talked to about
the Oceanic Mongolidae and the Iapetidae of the Indo-Germanic class,
and had perhaps her own ideas that such matters, though somewhat
foggy, were better than rats. But when he came to the other subject,
and informed her that the properly plentiful feeding of the world
was only kept waiting for the chemists, she certainly did have her
fears. Chemical agriculture is expensive; and though the results may
possibly be remunerative, still, while we are thus kept waiting by
the backwardness of the chemists, there must be much risk in making
any serious expenditure with such views.

"Mother," he said, when he had now been at home about three months,
and when the fiat for the expulsion of Samuel Dockwrath had already
gone forth, "I shall go to Liverpool to-morrow."

"To Liverpool, Lucius?"

"Yes. That guano which I got from Walker is adulterated. I have
analyzed it, and find that it does not contain above thirty-two and a
half hundredths of--of that which it ought to hold in a proportion of
seventy-five per cent. of the whole."

"Does it not?"

"No; and it is impossible to obtain results while one is working with
such fictitious materials. Look at that bit of grass at the bottom of
Greenwood's Hill."

"The fifteen-acre field? Why, Lucius, we always had the heaviest
crops of hay in the parish off that meadow."

"That's all very well, mother; but you have never tried,--nobody
about here ever has tried, what the land can really produce. I will
throw that and the three fields beyond it into one; I will get
Greenwood to let me have that bit of the hill-side, giving him
compensation of course--"

"And then Dockwrath would want compensation."

"Dockwrath is an impertinent rascal, and I shall take an opportunity
of telling him so. But as I was saying, I will throw those seventy
acres together, and then I will try what will be the relative effects
of guano and the patent blood, But I must have real guano, and so I
shall go to Liverpool."

"I think I would wait a little, Lucius. It is almost too late for any
change of that kind this year."

"Wait! Yes, and what has come of waiting? We don't wait at all in
doubling our population every thirty-three years; but when we come
to the feeding of them we are always for waiting. It is that waiting
which has reduced the intellectual development of one half of the
human race to its present terribly low state--or rather prevented its
rising in a degree proportionate to the increase of the population.
No more waiting for me, mother, if I can help it."

"But, Lucius, should not such new attempts as that be made by men
with large capital?" said the mother.

"Capital is a bugbear," said the son, speaking on this matter quite
_ex cathedra_, as no doubt he was entitled to do by his extensive
reading at a German university--"capital is a bugbear. The capital
that is really wanting is thought, mind, combination, knowledge."

"But, Lucius--"

"Yes, I know what you are going to say, mother. I don't boast that
I possess all these things; but I do say that I will endeavour to
obtain them."

"I have no doubt you will; but should not that come first?"

"That is waiting again. We all know as much as this, that good manure
will give good crops if the sun be allowed full play upon the land,
and nothing but the crop be allowed to grow. That is what I shall
attempt at first, and there can be no great danger in that." And so
he went to Liverpool.

Lady Mason during his absence began to regret that she had not left
him in the undisturbed and inexpensive possession of the Mongolidae
and the Iapetidae. His rent from the estate, including that which she
would have paid him as tenant of the smaller farm, would have enabled
him to live with all comfort; and, if such had been his taste, he
might have become a philosophical student, and lived respectably
without adding anything to his income by the sweat of his brow. But
now the matter was likely to become serious enough. For a gentleman
farmer determined to wait no longer for the chemists, whatever might
be the results, an immediate profitable return per acre could not be
expected as one of them. Any rent from that smaller farm would now
be out of the question, and it would be well if the payments made
so punctually by old Mr. Greenwood were not also swallowed up in
the search after unadulterated guano. Who could tell whether in
the pursuit of science he might not insist on chartering a vessel,
himself, for the Peruvian coast?




CHAPTER III.

THE CLEEVE.


I have said that Sir Peregrine Orme was not a rich man, meaning
thereby that he was not a rich man considering his acknowledged
position in the county. Such men not uncommonly have their tens,
twelves, and twenty thousands a year; but Sir Peregrine's estate
did not give him above three or four. He was lord of the manor of
Hamworth, and possessed seignorial rights, or rather the skeleton and
remembrance of such rights with reference to a very large district of
country; but his actual property--that from which he still received
the substantial benefits of ownership--was not so large as those
of some of his neighbours. There was, however, no place within the
county which was so beautifully situated as The Cleeve, or which had
about it so many of the attractions of age. The house itself had been
built at two periods,--a new set of rooms having been added to the
remains of the old Elizabethan structure in the time of Charles II.
It had not about it anything that was peculiarly grand or imposing,
nor were the rooms large or even commodious; but everything was old,
venerable, and picturesque. Both the dining-room and the library were
panelled with black wainscoating; and though the drawing-rooms were
papered, the tall, elaborately-worked wooden chimney-pieces still
stood in them, and a wooden band or belt round the rooms showed that
the panels were still there, although hidden by the modern paper.

But it was for the beauty and wildness of its grounds that The Cleeve
was remarkable. The land fell here and there into narrow, wild
ravines and woody crevices. The soil of the park was not rich, and
could give but little assistance to the chemists in supplying the
plentiful food expected by Mr. Mason for the coming multitudes of the
world; it produced in some parts heather instead of grass, and was
as wild and unprofitable as Cleeve Common, which stretched for miles
outside the park palings; but it seemed admirably adapted for deer
and for the maintenance of half-decayed venerable oaks. Young timber
also throve well about the place, and in this respect Sir Peregrine
was a careful landlord. There ran a river through the park,--the
River Cleeve, from which the place and parish are said to have
taken their names;--a river, or rather a stream, very narrow and
inconsiderable as to its volume of water, but which passed for some
two miles through so narrow a passage as to give to it the appearance
of a cleft or fissure in the rocks. The water tumbled over stones
through this entire course, making it seem to be fordable almost
everywhere without danger of wet feet; but in truth there was hardly
a spot at which it could be crossed without a bold leap from rock to
rock. Narrow as was the aperture through which the water had cut its
way, nevertheless a path had been contrived now on one side of the
stream and now on the other, crossing it here and there by slight
hanging wooden bridges. The air here was always damp with spray, and
the rocks on both sides were covered with long mosses, as were also
the overhanging boughs of the old trees. This place was the glory
of The Cleeve, and as far as picturesque beauty goes it was very
glorious. There was a spot in the river from whence a steep path led
down from the park to the water, and at this spot the deer would come
to drink. I know nothing more beautiful than this sight, when three
or four of them could be so seen from one of the wooden bridges
towards the hour of sunset in the autumn.

Sir Peregrine himself at this time was an old man, having passed his
seventieth year. He was a fine, handsome English gentleman with white
hair, keen gray eyes, a nose slightly aquiline, and lips now too
closely pressed together in consequence of the havoc which time had
made among his teeth. He was tall, but had lost something of his
height from stooping,--was slight in his form, but well made, and
vain of the smallness of his feet and the whiteness of his hands. He
was generous, quick tempered, and opinionated; generally very mild to
those who would agree with him and submit to him, but intolerant of
contradiction, and conceited as to his experience of the world and
the wisdom which he had thence derived. To those who were manifestly
his inferiors he was affable, to his recognised equals he was
courteous, to women he was almost always gentle;--but to men who
claimed an equality which he would not acknowledge, he could make
himself particularly disagreeable. In judging the position which a
man should hold in the world, Sir Peregrine was very resolute in
ignoring all claims made by wealth alone. Even property in land could
not in his eyes create a gentleman. A gentleman, according to his
ideas, should at any rate have great-grandfathers capable of being
traced in the world's history; and the greater the number of such,
and the more easily traceable they might be on the world's surface,
the more unquestionable would be the status of the claimant in
question. Such being the case, it may be imagined that Joseph Mason,
Esq., of Groby Park did not rank high in the estimation of Sir
Peregrine Orme.

I have said that Sir Peregrine was fond of his own opinion; but
nevertheless he was a man whom it was by no means difficult to lead.
In the first place he was singularly devoid of suspicion. The word of
a man or of a woman was to him always credible, until full proof had
come home to him that it was utterly unworthy of credit. After that
such a man or woman might as well spare all speech as regards the
hope of any effect on the mind of Sir Peregrine Orme. He did not
easily believe a fellow-creature to be a liar, but a liar to him once
was a liar always. And then he was amenable to flattery, and few that
are so are proof against the leading-strings of their flatterers. All
this was well understood of Sir Peregrine by those about him. His
gardener, his groom, and his woodman all knew his foibles. They all
loved him, respected him, and worked for him faithfully; but each of
them had his own way in his own branch.

And there was another person at The Cleeve who took into her own
hands a considerable share of the management and leading of Sir
Peregrine, though, in truth, she made no efforts in that direction.
This was Mrs. Orme, the widow of his only child, and the mother of
his heir. Mrs. Orme was a younger woman than Mrs. Mason of Orley Farm
by nearly five years, though her son was but twelve months junior to
Lucius Mason. She had been the daughter of a brother baronet, whose
family was nearly as old as that of the Ormes; and therefore, though
she had come penniless to her husband, Sir Peregrine had considered
that his son had married well. She had been a great beauty, very
small in size and delicate of limb, fair haired, with soft blue
wondering eyes, and a dimpled cheek. Such she had been when young
Peregrine Orme brought her home to The Cleeve, and the bride at once
became the darling of her father-in-law. One year she had owned
of married joy, and then all the happiness of the family had been
utterly destroyed, and for the few following years there had been no
sadder household in all the country-side than that of Sir Peregrine
Orme. His son, his only son, the pride of all who knew him, the hope
of his political party in the county, the brightest among the bright
ones of the day for whom the world was just opening her richest
treasures, fell from his horse as he was crossing into a road, and
his lifeless body was brought home to The Cleeve.

All this happened now twenty years since, but the widow still wears
the colours of mourning. Of her also the world of course said that
she would soon console herself with a second love; but she too has
given the world the lie. From that day to the present she has never
left the house of her father-in-law; she has been a true child to
him, and she has enjoyed all a child's privileges. There has been
but little favour for any one at The Cleeve who has been considered
by the baronet to disregard the wishes of the mistress of the
establishment. Any word from her has been law to him, and he has of
course expected also that her word should be law to others. He has
yielded to her in all things, and attended to her will as though she
were a little queen, recognizing in her feminine weakness a sovereign
power, as some men can and do; and having thus for years indulged
himself in a quixotic gallantry to the lady of his household, he has
demanded of others that they also should bow the knee.

During the last twenty years The Cleeve has not been a gay house.
During the last ten those living there have been contented, and in
the main happy; but there has seldom been many guests in the old
hall, and Sir Peregrine has not been fond of going to other men's
feasts. He inherited the property very early in life, and then there
were on it some few encumbrances. While yet a young man he added
something to these, and now, since his own son's death, he has been
setting his house in order, that his grandson should receive the
family acres intact. Every shilling due on the property has been paid
off; and it is well that this should be so, for there is reason to
fear that the heir will want a helping hand out of some of youth's
difficulties,--perhaps once or twice before his passion for rats
gives place to a good English gentleman-like resolve to hunt twice a
week, look after his timber, and live well within his means.

The chief fault in the character of young Peregrine Orme was that
he was so young. There are men who are old at one-and-twenty,--are
quite fit for Parliament, the magistrate's bench, the care of a wife,
and even for that much sterner duty, the care of a balance at the
bankers; but there are others who at that age are still boys,--whose
inner persons and characters have not begun to clothe themselves with
the "toga virilis." I am not sure that those whose boyhoods are so
protracted have the worst of it, if in this hurrying and competitive
age they can be saved from being absolutely trampled in the dust
before they are able to do a little trampling on their own account.
Fruit that grows ripe the quickest is not the sweetest; nor when
housed and garnered will it keep the longest. For young Peregrine
there was no need of competitive struggles. The days have not yet
come, though they are no doubt coming, when "detur digniori" shall
be the rule of succession to all titles, honours, and privileges
whatsoever. Only think what a life it would give to the education of
the country in general, if any lad from seventeen to twenty-one could
go in for a vacant dukedom; and if a goodly inheritance could be
made absolutely incompatible with incorrect spelling and doubtful
proficiency in rule of three!

Luckily for Peregrine junior these days are not yet at hand, or I
fear that there would be little chance for him. While Lucius Mason
was beginning to think that the chemists might be hurried, and that
agriculture might be beneficially added to philology, our friend
Peregrine had just been rusticated, and the head of his college had
intimated to the baronet that it would be well to take the young
man's name off the college books. This accordingly had been done,
and the heir of The Cleeve was at present at home with his mother
and grandfather. What special act of grace had led to this severity
we need not inquire, but we may be sure that the frolics of which
he had been guilty had been essentially young in their nature. He
had assisted in driving a farmer's sow into the man's best parlour,
or had daubed the top of the tutor's cap with white paint, or had
perhaps given liberty to a bag full of rats in the college hall at
dinner-time. Such were the youth's academical amusements, and as they
were pursued with unremitting energy it was thought well that he
should be removed from Oxford.

Then had come the terrible question of his university bills. One
after another, half a score of them reached Sir Peregrine, and then
took place that terrible interview,--such as most young men have had
to undergo at least once,--in which he was asked how he intended to
absolve himself from the pecuniary liabilities which he had incurred.

"I am sure I don't know," said young Orme, sadly.

"But I shall be glad, sir, if you will favour me with your
intentions," said Sir Peregrine, with severity. "A gentleman does
not, I presume, send his orders to a tradesman without having some
intention of paying him for his goods."

[Illustration: SIR PEREGRINE AND HIS HEIR.]

"I intended that they should all be paid, of course."

"And how, sir? by whom?"

"Well, sir,--I suppose I intended that you should pay them;" and
the scapegrace as he spoke looked full up into the baronet's face
with his bright blue eyes,--not impudently, as though defying his
grandfather, but with a bold confidence which at once softened the
old man's heart.

Sir Peregrine turned away and walked twice the length of the library;
then, returning to the spot where the other stood, he put his hand on
his grandson's shoulder. "Well, Peregrine, I will pay them," he said.
"I have no doubt that you did so intend when you incurred them;--and
that was perhaps natural. I will pay them; but for your own sake, and
for your dear mother's sake, I hope that they are not very heavy. Can
you give me a list of all that you owe?"

Young Peregrine said that he thought he could, and sitting down at
once he made a clean breast of it. With all his foibles, follies, and
youthful ignorances, in two respects he stood on good ground. He was
neither false nor a coward. He continued to scrawl down items as long
as there were any of which he could think, and then handed over the
list in order that his grandfather might add them up. It was the
last he ever heard of the matter; and when he revisited Oxford some
twelve months afterwards, the tradesmen whom he had honoured with his
custom bowed to him as low as though he had already inherited twenty
thousand a year.

Peregrine Orme was short in stature as was his mother, and he also
had his mother's wonderfully bright blue eyes; but in other respects
he was very like his father and grandfather;--very like all the
Ormes who had lived for ages past. His hair was light; his forehead
was not large, but well formed and somewhat prominent; his nose
had something, though not much, of the eagle's beak; his mouth was
handsome in its curve, and his teeth were good, and his chin was
divided by a deep dimple. His figure was not only short, but stouter
than that of the Ormes in general. He was very strong on his legs; he
could wrestle, and box, and use the single-stick with a quickness and
precision that was the terror of all the freshmen who had come in his
way.

Mrs. Orme, his mother, no doubt thought that he was perfect. Looking
at the reflex of her own eyes in his, and seeing in his face so sweet
a portraiture of the nose and mouth and forehead of him whom she
had loved so dearly and lost so soon, she could not but think him
perfect. When she was told that the master of Lazarus had desired
that her son should be removed from his college, she had accused the
tyrant of unrelenting, persecuting tyranny; and the gentle arguments
of Sir Peregrine had no effect towards changing her ideas. On that
disagreeable matter of the bills little or nothing was said to her.
Indeed, money was a subject with which she was never troubled. Sir
Peregrine conceived that money was a man's business, and that the
softness of a woman's character should be preserved by a total
absence of all pecuniary thoughts and cares.

And then there arose at The Cleeve a question as to what should
immediately be done with the heir. He himself was by no means so well
prepared with an answer as had been his friend Lucius Mason. When
consulted by his grandfather, he said that he did not know. He would
do anything that Sir Peregrine wished. Would Sir Peregrine think
it well that he should prepare himself for the arduous duties of a
master of hounds? Sir Peregrine did not think this at all well, but
it did not appear that he himself was prepared with any immediate
proposition. Then Peregrine discussed the matter with his mother,
explaining that he had hoped at any rate to get the next winter's
hunting with the H.H.;--which letters have represented the Hamworth
Fox Hunt among sporting men for many years past. To this his mother
made no objection, expressing a hope, however, that he would go
abroad in the spring. "Home-staying youths have ever homely wits,"
she said to him, smiling on him ever so sweetly.

"That's quite true, mother," he said. "And that's why I should like
to go to Leicestershire this winter." But going to Leicestershire
this winter was out of the question.




CHAPTER IV.

THE PERILS OF YOUTH.


Going to Leicestershire was quite out of the question for young Orme
at this period of his life, but going to London unfortunately was
not so. He had become acquainted at Oxford with a gentleman of
great skill in his peculiar line of life, whose usual residence
was in the metropolis; and so great had been the attraction found
in the character and pursuits of this skilful gentleman, that our
hero had not been long at The Cleeve, after his retirement from
the university, before he visited his friend. Cowcross Street,
Smithfield, was the site of this professor's residence, the
destruction of rats in a barrel was his profession, and his name
was Carroty Bob. It is not my intention to introduce the reader to
Carroty Bob in person, as circumstances occurred about this time
which brought his intimacy with Mr. Orme to an abrupt conclusion. It
would be needless to tell how our hero was induced to back a certain
terrier, presumed to be the pride of Smithfield; how a great match
came off, second only in importance to a contest for the belt of
England; how money was lost and quarrels arose, and how Peregrine
Orme thrashed one sporting gent within an inch of his life, and
fought his way out of Carroty Bob's house at twelve o'clock at night.
The tale of the row got into the newspapers, and of course reached
The Cleeve. Sir Peregrine sent for his grandson into his study, and
insisted on knowing everything;--how much money there was to pay, and
what chance there might be of an action and damages. Of an action and
damages there did not seem to be any chance, and the amount of money
claimed was not large. Rats have this advantage, that they usually
come cheaper than race-horses; but then, as Sir Peregrine felt
sorely, they do not sound so well.

"Do you know, sir, that you are breaking your mother's heart?" said
Sir Peregrine, looking very sternly at the young man--as sternly as
he was able to look, let him do his worst.

Peregrine the younger had a very strong idea that he was not doing
anything of the kind. He had left her only a quarter of an hour
since; and though she had wept during the interview, she had forgiven
him with many caresses, and had expressed her opinion that the chief
fault had lain with Carroty Bob and those other wretched people
who had lured her dear child into their villainous den. She had
altogether failed to conceal her pride at his having fought his way
out from among them, and had ended by supplying his pocket out of
her own immediate resources. "I hope not, sir," said Peregrine the
younger, thinking over some of these things.

"But you will, sir, if you go on with this shameless career. I do not
speak of myself. I do not expect you to sacrifice your tastes for me;
but I did think that you loved your mother!"

"So I do;--and you too."

"I am not speaking about myself sir. When I think what your father
was at your age;--how nobly--" And then the baronet was stopped in
his speech, and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. "Do you think
that your father, sir, followed such pursuits as these? Do you think
that he spent his time in the pursuit of--rats?"

"Well; I don't know; I don't think he did. But I have heard you say,
sir, that you sometimes went to cockfights when you were young."

"To cockfights! well, yes. But let me tell you, sir, that I always
went in the company of gentlemen--that is, when I did go, which was
very seldom." The baronet in some after-dinner half-hour had allowed
this secret of his youth to escape from him, imprudently.

"And I went to the house in Cowcross Street with Lord John Fitzjoly."

"The last man in all London with whom you ought to associate! But I
am not going to argue with you, sir. If you think, and will continue
to think, that the slaughtering of vermin is a proper pursuit--"

"But, sir, foxes are vermin also."

"Hold your tongue, sir, and listen to me. You know very well what
I mean, sir. If you think that--rats are a proper pursuit for a
gentleman in your sphere of life, and if all that I can say has
no effect in changing your opinion--I shall have done. I have not
many years of life before me, and when I shall be no more, you can
squander the property in any vile pursuits that may be pleasing to
you. But, sir, you shall not do it while I am living; nor, if I can
help it, shall you rob your mother of such peace of mind as is left
for her in this world. I have only one alternative for you, sir--."
Sir Peregrine did not stop to explain what might be the other branch
of this alternative. "Will you give me your word of honour as
a gentleman that you will never again concern yourself in this
disgusting pursuit?"

"Never, grandfather!" said Peregrine, solemnly.

Sir Peregrine before he answered bethought himself that any pledge
given for a whole life-time must be foolish; and he bethought himself
also that if he could wean his heir from rats for a year or so, the
taste would perish from lack of nourishment. "I will say for two
years," said Sir Peregrine, still maintaining his austere look.

"For two years!" repeated Peregrine the younger; "and this is the
fourth of October."

"Yes, sir; for two years," said the baronet, more angry than ever at
the young man's pertinacity, and yet almost amused at his grandson's
already formed resolve to go back to his occupation at the first
opportunity allowed.

"Couldn't you date it from the end of August, sir? The best of the
matches always come off in September."

"No, sir; I will not date it from any other time than the present.
Will you give me your word of honour as a gentleman, for two years?"

Peregrine thought over the proposition for a minute or two in sad
anticipation of all that he was to lose, and then slowly gave his
adhesion to the terms. "Very well, sir;--for two years." And then he
took out his pocket-book and wrote in it slowly.

It was at any rate manifest that he intended to keep his word, and
that was much; so Sir Peregrine accepted the promise for what it was
worth. "And now," said he, "if you have got nothing better to do, we
will ride down to Crutchley Wood."

"I should like it of all things," said his grandson.

"Samson wants me to cut a new bridle-path through from the larches at
the top of the hill down to Crutchley Bottom; but I don't think I'll
have it done. Tell Jacob to let us have the nags; I'll ride the gray
pony. And ask your mother if she'll ride with us."

It was the manner of Sir Peregrine to forgive altogether when he did
forgive; and to commence his forgiveness in all its integrity from
the first moment of the pardon. There was nothing he disliked so
much as being on bad terms with those around him, and with none more
so than with his grandson. Peregrine well knew how to make himself
pleasant to the old man, and when duly encouraged would always do so.
And thus the family party, as they rode on this occasion through the
woods of The Cleeve, discussed oaks and larches, beech and birches,
as though there were no such animal as a rat in existence, and no
such place known as Cowcross Street.

"Well, Perry, as you and Samson are both of one mind, I suppose the
path must be made," said Sir Peregrine, as he got off his horse at
the entrance of the stable-yard, and prepared to give his feeble aid
to Mrs. Orme.

Shortly after this the following note was brought up to The Cleeve by
a messenger from Orley Farm:--


   MY DEAR SIR PEREGRINE,

   If you are quite disengaged at twelve o'clock to-morrow, I
   will walk over to The Cleeve at that hour. Or if it would
   suit you better to call here as you are riding, I would
   remain within till you come. I want your kind advice on a
   certain matter.

   Most sincerely yours,

   MARY MASON.

   Thursday.


Lady Mason, when she wrote this note, was well aware that it would
not be necessary for her to go to The Cleeve. Sir Peregrine's
courtesy would not permit him to impose any trouble on a lady when
the alternative of taking that trouble on himself was given to him.
Moreover, he liked to have some object for his daily ride; he liked
to be consulted "on certain matters;" and he especially liked being
so consulted by Lady Mason. So he sent word back that he would be at
the farm at twelve on the following day, and exactly at that hour his
gray pony or cob might have been seen slowly walking up the avenue to
the farm-house.

The Cleeve was not distant from Orley Farm more than two miles by
the nearest walking-path, although it could not be driven much under
five. With any sort of carriage one was obliged to come from The
Cleeve House down to the lodge on the Hamworth and Alston road, and
then to drive through the town of Hamworth, and so back to the farm.
But in walking one would take the path along the river for nearly a
mile, thence rise up the hill to the top of Crutchley Wood, descend
through the wood to Crutchley Bottom, and, passing along the valley,
come out at the foot of Cleeve Hill, just opposite to Orley Farm
Gate. The distance for a horseman was somewhat greater, seeing that
there was not as yet any bridle-way through Crutchley Wood. Under
these circumstances the journey between the two houses was very
frequently made on foot; and for those walking from The Cleeve House
to Hamworth the nearest way was by Lady Mason's gate.

Lady Mason's drawing-room was very pretty, though it was by no means
fashionably furnished. Indeed, she eschewed fashion in all things,
and made no pretence of coming out before the world as a great lady.
She had never kept any kind of carriage, though her means, combined
with her son's income, would certainly have justified her in a
pony-chaise. Since Lucius had become master of the house he had
presented her with such a vehicle, and also with the pony and harness
complete; but as yet she had never used it, being afraid, as she said
to him with a smile, of appearing ambitious before the stern citizens
of Hamworth. "Nonsense, mother," he had replied, with a considerable
amount of young dignity in his face. "We are all entitled to those
comforts for which we can afford to pay without injury to any one. I
shall take it ill of you if I do not see you using it."

"Oh, Sir Peregrine, this is so kind of you," said Lady Mason, coming
forward to meet her friend. She was plainly dressed, without any full
exuberance of costume, and yet everything about her was neat and
pretty, and everything had been the object of feminine care. A very
plain dress may occasion as much study as the most elaborate,--and
may be quite as worthy of the study it has caused. Lady Mason, I am
inclined to think, was by no means indifferent to the subject, but
then to her belonged the great art of hiding her artifice.

"Not at all; not at all," said Sir Peregrine, taking her hand and
pressing it, as he always did. "What is the use of neighbours if they
are not neighbourly?" This was all very well from Sir Peregrine in
the existing case; but he was not a man who by any means recognised
the necessity of being civil to all who lived near him. To the great
and to the poor he was neighbourly; but it may be doubted whether
he would have thought much of Lady Mason if she had been less good
looking or less clever.

"Ah! I know how good you always are to me. But I'll tell you why I am
troubling you now. Lucius went off two days since to Liverpool."

"My grandson told me that he had left home."

"He is an excellent young man, and I am sure that I have every reason
to be thankful." Sir Peregrine, remembering the affair in Cowcross
Street, and certain other affairs of a somewhat similar nature,
thought that she had; but for all that he would not have exchanged
his own bright-eyed lad for Lucius Mason with all his virtues and all
his learning.

"And indeed I am thankful," continued the widow. "Nothing can be
better than his conduct and mode of life; but--"

"I hope he has no attraction at Liverpool, of which you disapprove."

"No, no; there is nothing of that kind. His attraction is--; but
perhaps I had better explain the whole matter. Lucius, you know, has
taken to farming."

"He has taken up the land which you held yourself, has he not?"

"Yes, and a little more; and he is anxious to add even to that. He is
very energetic about it, Sir Peregrine."

"Well; the life of a gentleman farmer is not a bad one; though in
his special circumstances I would certainly have recommended a
profession."

"Acting upon your advice I did urge him to go to the bar. But he has
a will of his own, and a mind altogether made up as to the line of
life which he thinks will suit him best. What I fear now is, that he
will spend more money upon experiments than he can afford."

"Experimental farming is an expensive amusement," said Sir Peregrine,
with a very serious shake of his head.

"I am afraid it is; and now he has gone to Liverpool to buy--guano,"
said the widow, feeling some little shame in coming to so
inconsiderable a conclusion after her somewhat stately prologue.

"To buy guano! Why could he not get his guano from Walker, as my man
Symonds does?"

"He says it is not good. He analyzed it, and--"

"Fiddlestick! Why didn't he order it in London, if he didn't like
Walker's. Gone to Liverpool for guano! I'll tell you what it is, Lady
Mason; if he intends to farm his land in that way, he should have a
very considerable capital at his back. It will be a long time before
he sees his money again." Sir Peregrine had been farming all his
life, and had his own ideas on the subject. He knew very well that no
gentleman, let him set to work as he might with his own land, could
do as well with it as a farmer who must make a living out of his
farming besides paying the rent;--who must do that or else have no
living; and he knew also that such operations as those which his
young friend was now about to attempt was an amusement fitted only
for the rich. It may be also that he was a little old-fashioned, and
therefore prejudiced against new combinations between agriculture and
chemistry. "He must put a stop to that kind of work very soon, Lady
Mason; he must indeed; or he will bring himself to ruin--and you with
him."

Lady Mason's face became very grave and serious. "But what can I say
to him, Sir Peregrine? In such a matter as that I am afraid that he
would not mind me. If you would not object to speaking to him?"

Sir Peregrine was graciously pleased to say that he would not object.
It was a disagreeable task, he said, that of giving advice to a young
man who was bound by no tie either to take it or even to receive it
with respect.

"You will not find him at all disrespectful; I think I can promise
that," said the frightened mother; and that matter was ended by a
promise on the part of the baronet to take the case in hand, and to
see Lucius immediately on his return from Liverpool. "He had better
come and dine at The Cleeve," said Sir Peregrine, "and we will have
it out after dinner." All of which made Lady Mason very grateful.




CHAPTER V.

SIR PEREGRINE MAKES A SECOND PROMISE.


We left Lady Mason very grateful at the end of the last chapter for
the promise made to her by Sir Peregrine with reference to her son;
but there was still a weight on Lady Mason's mind. They say that the
pith of a lady's letter is in the postscript, and it may be that that
which remained for Lady Mason to say, was after all the matter as to
which she was most anxious for assistance. "As you are here," she
said to the baronet, "would you let me mention another subject?"

"Surely," said he, again putting down his hat and riding-stick.

Sir Peregrine was not given to close observation of those around him,
or he might have seen by the heightened colour of the lady's face,
and by the slight nervous hesitation with which she began to speak,
that she was much in earnest as to this other matter. And had he been
clever in his powers of observation he might have seen also that she
was anxious to hide this feeling. "You remember the circumstances of
that terrible lawsuit?" she said, at last.

"What; as to Sir Joseph's will? Yes; I remember them well."

"I know that I shall never forget all the kindness that you showed
me," said she. "I don't know how I should have lived through it
without you and dear Mrs. Orme."

"But what about it now?"

"I fear I am going to have further trouble."

"Do you mean that the man at Groby Park is going to try the case
again? It is not possible after such a lapse of time. I am no lawyer,
but I do not think that he can do it."

"I do not know--I do not know what he intends, or whether he intends
anything; but I am sure of this,--that he will give me trouble if he
can. But I will tell you the whole story, Sir Peregrine. It is not
much, and perhaps after all may not be worth attention. You know the
attorney in Hamworth who married Miriam Usbech?"

"What, Samuel Dockwrath? Oh, yes; I know him well enough; and to tell
the truth I do not think very well of him. Is he not a tenant of
yours?"

"Not at present." And then Lady Mason explained the manner in which
the two fields had been taken out of the lawyer's hands by her son's
order.

"Ah! he was wrong there," said the baronet. "When a man has held land
so long it should not be taken away from him except under pressing
circumstances; that is if he pays his rent."

"Mr. Dockwrath did pay his rent, certainly; and now, I fear, he is
determined to do all he can to injure us."

"But what injury can Mr. Dockwrath do you?"

"I do not know, but he has gone down to Yorkshire,--to Mr. Mason's
place; I know that; and he was searching through some papers of old
Mr. Usbech's before he went. Indeed, I may say that I know as a
fact that he has gone to Mr. Mason with the hope that these law
proceedings may be brought on again."

"You know it as a fact?"

"I think I may say so."

"But, dear Lady Mason, may I ask you how you know this as a fact?"

"His wife was with me yesterday," she said, with some feeling of
shame as she disclosed the source from whence she had obtained her
information.

"And did she tell the tale against her own husband?"

"Not as meaning to say anything against him, Sir Peregrine; you
must not think so badly of her as that; nor must you think that I
would willingly obtain information in such a manner. But you must
understand that I have always been her friend; and when she found
that Mr. Dockwrath had left home on a matter in which I am so nearly
concerned, I cannot but think it natural that she should let me
know."

To this Sir Peregrine made no direct answer. He could not quite say
that he thought it was natural, nor could he give any expressed
approval of any such intercourse between Lady Mason and the
attorney's wife. He thought it would be better that Mr. Dockwrath
should be allowed to do his worst, if he had any intention of doing
evil, and that Lady Mason should pass it by without condescending to
notice the circumstance. But he made allowances for her weakness, and
did not give utterance to his disapproval in words.

"I know you think that I have done wrong," she then said, appealing
to him; and there was a tone of sorrow in her voice which went to his
heart.

"No, not wrong; I cannot say that you have done wrong. It may be a
question whether you have done wisely."

"Ah! if you only condemn my folly, I will not despair. It is probable
I may not have done wisely, seeing that I had not you to direct me.
But what shall I do now? Oh, Sir Peregrine, say that you will not
desert me if all this trouble is coming on me again!"

"No, I will not desert you, Lady Mason; you may be sure of that."

"Dearest friend!"

"But I would advise you to take no notice whatever of Mr. Dockwrath
and his proceedings. I regard him as a person entirely beneath your
notice, and if I were you I should not move at all in this matter
unless I received some legal summons which made it necessary for me
to do so. I have not the honour of any personal acquaintance with Mr.
Mason of Groby Park." It was in this way that Sir Peregrine always
designated his friend's stepson--"but if I understand the motives by
which he may probably be actuated in this or in any other matter,
I do not think it likely that he will expend money on so very
unpromising a case."

"He would do anything for vengeance."

"I doubt if he would throw away his money even for that, unless he
were very sure of his prey. And in this matter, what can he possibly
do? He has the decision of the jury against him, and at the time he
was afraid to carry the case up to a court of appeal."

"But, Sir Peregrine, it is impossible to know what documents he may
have obtained since that."

"What documents can do you any harm;--unless, indeed, there should
turn out to be a will subsequent to that under which your son
inherits the property?"

"Oh, no; there was no subsequent will."

"Of course there was not; and therefore you need not frighten
yourself. It is just possible that some attempt may be made now that
your son is of age, but I regard even that as improbable."

"And you would not advise me then to say anything to Mr. Furnival?"

"No; certainly not--unless you receive some legal notice which may
make it necessary for you to consult a lawyer. Do nothing; and if
Mrs. Dockwrath comes to you again, tell her that you are not disposed
to take any notice of her information. Mrs. Dockwrath is, I am sure,
a very good sort of woman. Indeed I have always heard so. But, if
I were you, I don't think that I should feel inclined to have much
conversation with her about my private affairs. What you tell her you
tell also to her husband." And then the baronet, having thus spoken
words of wisdom, sat silent in his arm-chair; and Lady Mason, still
looking into his face, remained silent also for a few minutes.

"I am so glad I asked you to come," she then said.

"I am delighted, if I have been of any service to you."

"Of any service! oh, Sir Peregrine, you cannot understand what it is
to live alone as I do,--for of course I cannot trouble Lucius with
these matters; nor can a man, gifted as you are, comprehend how a
woman can tremble at the very idea that those law proceedings may
possibly be repeated."

Sir Peregrine could not but remember as he looked at her that during
all those law proceedings, when an attack was made, not only on her
income but on her honesty, she had never seemed to tremble. She had
always been constant to herself, even when things appeared to be
going against her. But years passing over her head since that time
had perhaps told upon her courage.

"But I will fear nothing now, as you have promised that you will
still be my friend."

"You may be very sure of that, Lady Mason. I believe that I may
fairly boast that I do not easily abandon those whom I have once
regarded with esteem and affection; among whom Lady Mason will, I am
sure, allow me to say that she is reckoned as by no means the least."
And then taking her hand, the old gentleman bowed over it and kissed
it.

"My dearest, dearest friend!" said she; and lifting Sir Peregrine's
beautifully white hand to her lips she also kissed that. It will be
remembered that the gentleman was over seventy, and that this pretty
scene could therefore be enacted without impropriety on either side.
Sir Peregrine then went, and as he passed out of the door Lady
Mason smiled on him very sweetly. It is quite true that he was over
seventy; but nevertheless the smile of a pretty woman still had
charms for him, more especially if there was a tear in her eye the
while;--for Sir Peregrine Orme had a soft heart.

As soon as the door was closed behind him Lady Mason seated herself
in her accustomed chair, and all trace of the smile vanished from her
face. She was alone now, and could allow her countenance to be a true
index of her mind. If such was the case her heart surely was very
sad. She sat there perfectly still for nearly an hour, and during the
whole of that time there was the same look of agony on her brow. Once
or twice she rubbed her hands across her forehead, brushing back her
hair, and showing, had there been any one by to see it, that there
was many a gray lock there mixed with the brown hairs. Had there been
any one by, she would, it may be surmised, have been more careful.

There was no smile in her face now, neither was there any tear in her
eye. The one and the other emblem were equally alien to her present
mood. But there was sorrow at her heart, and deep thought in her
mind. She knew that her enemies were conspiring against her,--against
her and against her son; and what steps might she best take in order
that she might baffle them?

[Illustration: There was sorrow in her heart,
and deep thought in her mind.]

"I have got that woman on the hip now." Those were the words which
Mr. Dockwrath had uttered into his wife's ears, after two days spent
in searching through her father's papers. The poor woman had once
thought of burning all those papers--in old days before she had
become Mrs. Dockwrath. Her friend, Lady Mason, had counselled her
to do so, pointing out to her that they were troublesome, and could
by no possibility lead to profit; but she had consulted her lover,
and he had counselled her to burn nothing. "Would that she had been
guided by her friend!" she now said to herself with regard to that
old trunk, and perhaps occasionally with regard to some other things.

"I have got that woman on the hip at last!" and there had been a
gleam of satisfaction in Samuel's eye as he uttered the words which
had convinced his wife that it was not an idle threat. She knew
nothing of what the box had contained; and now, even if it had not
been kept safe from her under Samuel's private key, the contents
which were of interest had of course gone. "I have business in the
north, and shall be away for about a week," Mr. Dockwrath had said to
her on the following morning.

"Oh, very well; then I'll put up your things," she had answered in
her usual mild, sad, whining, household voice. Her voice at home was
always sad and whining, for she was overworked, and had too many
cares, and her lord was a tyrant to her rather than a husband.

"Yes, I must see Mr. Mason immediately. And look here, Miriam, I
positively insist that you do not go to Orley Farm, or hold any
intercourse whatever with Lady Mason. D'ye hear?"

Mrs. Dockwrath said that she did hear, and promised obedience. Mr.
Dockwrath probably guessed that the moment his back was turned all
would be told at the farm, and probably also had no real objection to
her doing so. Had he in truth wished to keep his proceedings secret
from Lady Mason he would not have divulged them to his wife. And then
Mr. Dockwrath did start for the north, bearing certain documents with
him; and soon after his departure Mrs. Dockwrath did pay a visit to
Orley Farm.

Lady Mason sat there perfectly still for about an hour thinking what
she would do. She had asked Sir Peregrine, and had the advantage of
his advice; but that did not weigh much with her. What she wanted
from Sir Peregrine was countenance and absolute assistance in the
day of trouble,--not advice. She had desired to renew his interest
in her favour, and to receive from him his assurance that he would
not desert her; and that she had obtained. It was of course also
necessary that she should consult him; but in turning over within her
own mind this and that line of conduct, she did not, consciously,
attach any weight to Sir Peregrine's opinion. The great question for
her to decide was this;--should she put herself and her case into the
hands of her friend Mr. Furnival now at once, or should she wait till
she had received some certain symptom of hostile proceedings? If she
did see Mr. Furnival, what could she tell him? Only this, that Mr.
Dockwrath had found some document among the papers of old Mr. Usbech,
and had gone off with the same to Groby Park in Yorkshire. What that
document might be she was as ignorant as the attorney's wife.

When the hour was ended she had made up her mind that she would do
nothing more in the matter, at any rate on that day.




CHAPTER VI.

THE COMMERCIAL ROOM, BULL INN, LEEDS.


Mr. Samuel Dockwrath was a little man, with sandy hair, a pale face,
and stone-blue eyes. In judging of him by appearance only and not by
the ear, one would be inclined to doubt that he could be a very sharp
attorney abroad and a very persistent tyrant at home. But when Mr.
Dockwrath began to talk, one's respect for him began to grow. He
talked well and to the point, and with a tone of voice that could
command where command was possible, persuade where persuasion was
required, mystify when mystification was needed, and express with
accuracy the tone of an obedient humble servant when servility was
thought to be expedient. We will now accompany him on his little tour
into Yorkshire.

Groby Park is about seven miles from Leeds, and as Mr. Dockwrath had
in the first instance to travel from Hamworth up to London, he did
not reach Leeds till late in the evening. It was a nasty, cold,
drizzling night, so that the beauties and marvels of the large
manufacturing town offered him no attraction, and at nine o'clock
he had seated himself before the fire in the commercial room at The
Bull, had called for a pair of public slippers, and was about to
solace all his cares with a glass of mahogany- brandy and
water and a cigar. The room had no present occupant but himself, and
therefore he was able to make the most of all its comforts. He had
taken the solitary arm-chair, and had so placed himself that the gas
would fall direct from behind his head on to that day's "Leeds and
Halifax Chronicle," as soon as he should choose to devote himself to
local politics.

The waiter had looked at him with doubtful eyes when he asked to be
shown into the commercial room, feeling all but confident that such a
guest had no right to be there. He had no bulky bundles of samples,
nor any of those outward characteristics of a commercial "gent" with
which all men conversant with the rail and road are acquainted, and
which the accustomed eye of a waiter recognises at a glance. And
here it may be well to explain that ordinary travellers are in this
respect badly treated by the customs of England, or rather by the
hotel-keepers. All inn-keepers have commercial rooms, as certainly
as they have taps and bars, but all of them do not have commercial
rooms in the properly exclusive sense. A stranger, therefore, who has
asked for and obtained his mutton-chop in the commercial room of The
Dolphin, The Bear, and The George, not unnaturally asks to be shown
into the same chamber at the King's Head. But the King's Head does a
business with real commercials, and the stranger finds himself--out
of his element.

"'Mercial, sir?" said the waiter at The Bull Inn, Leeds, to Mr.
Dockwrath, in that tone of doubt which seemed to carry an answer to
his own question. But Mr. Dockwrath was not a man to be put down by
a waiter. "Yes," said he. "Didn't you hear me say so?" And then the
waiter gave way. None of those lords of the road were in the house at
the moment, and it might be that none would come that night.

Mr. Dockwrath had arrived by the 8.22 P.M. down, but the 8.45 P.M. up
from the north followed quick upon his heels, and he had hardly put
his brandy and water to his mouth before a rush and a sound of many
voices were heard in the hall. There is a great difference between
the entrance into an inn of men who are not known there and of
men who are known. The men who are not known are shy, diffident,
doubtful, and anxious to propitiate the chambermaid by great
courtesy. The men who are known are loud, jocular, and assured;--or
else, in case of deficient accommodation, loud, angry, and full of
threats. The guests who had now arrived were well known, and seemed
at present to be in the former mood. "Well, Mary, my dear, what's the
time of day with you?" said a rough, bass voice, within the hearing
of Mr. Dockwrath. "Much about the old tune, Mr. Moulder," said the
girl at the bar. "Time to look alive and keep moving. Will you have
them boxes up stairs, Mr. Kantwise?" and then there were a few words
about the luggage, and two real commercial gentlemen walked into the
room.

Mr. Dockwrath resolved to stand upon his rights, so he did not move
his chair, but looked up over his shoulder at the new comers. The
first man who entered was short and very fat;--so fat that he could
not have seen his own knees for some considerable time past. His face
rolled with fat, as also did all his limbs. His eyes were large, and
bloodshot. He wore no beard, and therefore showed plainly the triple
bagging of his fat chin. In spite of his overwhelming fatness, there
was something in his face that was masterful and almost vicious. His
body had been overcome by eating, but not as yet his spirit--one
would be inclined to say. This was Mr. Moulder, well known on the
road as being in the grocery and spirit line; a pushing man, who
understood his business, and was well trusted by his firm in spite of
his habitual intemperance. What did the firm care whether or no he
killed himself by eating and drinking? He sold his goods, collected
his money, and made his remittances. If he got drunk at night that
was nothing to them, seeing that he always did his quota of work the
next day. But Mr. Moulder did not get drunk. His brandy and water
went into his blood, and into his eyes, and into his feet, and into
his hands,--but not into his brain.

The other was a little square man in the hardware line, of the name
of Kantwise. He disposed of fire-irons, grates, ovens, and kettles,
and was at the present moment heavily engaged in the sale of certain
newly-invented metallic tables and chairs lately brought out by the
Patent Steel Furniture Company, for which Mr. Kantwise did business.
He looked as though a skin rather too small for the purpose had been
drawn over his head and face so that his forehead and cheeks and chin
were tight and shiny. His eyes were small and green, always moving
about in his head, and were seldom used by Mr. Kantwise in the
ordinary way. At whatever he looked he looked sideways; it was not
that he did not look you in the face, but he always looked at you
with a sidelong glance, never choosing to have you straight in front
of him. And the more eager he was in conversation--the more anxious
he might be to gain his point, the more he averted his face and
looked askance; so that sometimes he would prefer to have his
antagonist almost behind his shoulder. And then as he did this, he
would thrust forward his chin, and having looked at you round the
corner till his eyes were nearly out of his head, he would close
them both and suck in his lips, and shake his head with rapid little
shakes, as though he were saying to himself, "Ah, sir! you're a bad
un, a very bad un." His nose--for I should do Mr. Kantwise injustice
if I did not mention this feature--seemed to have been compressed
almost into nothing by that skin-squeezing operation. It was long
enough, taking the measurement down the bridge, and projected
sufficiently, counting the distance from the upper lip; but it had
all the properties of a line; it possessed length without breadth.
There was nothing in it from side to side. If you essayed to pull it,
your fingers would meet. When I shall have also said that the hair
on Mr. Kantwise's head stood up erect all round to the height of two
inches, and that it was very red, I shall have been accurate enough
in his personal description.

That Mr. Moulder represented a firm good business, doing tea, coffee,
and British brandy on a well-established basis of capital and profit,
the travelling commercial world in the north of England was well
aware. No one entertained any doubt about his employers, Hubbles and
Grease of Houndsditch. Hubbles and Grease were all right, as they had
been any time for the last twenty years. But I cannot say that there
was quite so strong a confidence felt in the Patent Steel Furniture
Company generally, or in the individual operations of Mr. Kantwise
in particular. The world in Yorkshire and Lancashire was doubtful
about metallic tables, and it was thought that Mr. Kantwise was too
eloquent in their praise.

Mr. Moulder when he had entered the room, stood still, to enable
the waiter to peel off from him his greatcoat and the large shawl
with which his neck was enveloped, and Mr. Kantwise performed the
same operation for himself, carefully folding up the articles of
clothing as he took them off. Then Mr. Moulder fixed his eyes on Mr.
Dockwrath, and stared at him very hard. "Who's the party, James?" he
said to the waiter, speaking in a whisper that was plainly heard by
the attorney.

"Gen'elman by the 8.22 down," said James.

"Commercial?" asked Mr. Moulder, with angry frown.

"He says so himself, anyways," said the waiter.

"Gammon!" replied Mr. Moulder, who knew all the bearings of a
commercial man thoroughly, and could have put one together if he were
only supplied with a little bit--say the mouth, as Professor Owen
always does with the Dodoes. Mr. Moulder now began to be angry, for
he was a stickler for the rights and privileges of his class, and had
an idea that the world was not so conservative in that respect as it
should be. Mr. Dockwrath, however, was not to be frightened, so he
drew his chair a thought nearer to the fire, took a sup of brandy and
water, and prepared himself for war if war should be necessary.

"Cold evening, sir, for the time of year," said Mr. Moulder, walking
up to the fireplace, and rolling the lumps of his forehead about in
his attempt at a frown. In spite of his terrible burden of flesh, Mr.
Moulder could look angry on occasions, but he could only do so when
he was angry. He was not gifted with a command of his facial muscles.

"Yes," said Mr. Dockwrath, not taking his eyes from off the Leeds
and Halifax Chronicle. "It is coldish. Waiter, bring me a cigar."

This was very provoking, as must be confessed. Mr. Moulder had not
been prepared to take any step towards turning the gentleman out,
though doubtless he might have done so had he chosen to exercise
his prerogative. But he did expect that the gentleman would have
acknowledged the weakness of his footing, by moving himself a little
towards one side of the fire, and he did not expect that he would
have presumed to smoke without asking whether the practice was
held to be objectionable by the legal possessors of the room. Mr.
Dockwrath was free of any such pusillanimity. "Waiter," he said
again, "bring me a cigar, d'ye hear?"

The great heart of Moulder could not stand this unmoved. He had been
an accustomed visitor to that room for fifteen years, and had always
done his best to preserve the commercial code unsullied. He was now
so well known, that no one else ever presumed to take the chair
at the four o'clock commercial dinner if he were present. It was
incumbent on him to stand forward and make a fight, more especially
in the presence of Kantwise, who was by no means stanch to his order.
Kantwise would at all times have been glad to have outsiders in the
room, in order that he might puff his tables, and if possible effect
a sale;--a mode of proceeding held in much aversion by the upright,
old-fashioned, commercial mind.

"Sir," said Mr. Moulder, having become very red about the cheeks and
chin, "I and this gentleman are going to have a bit of supper, and it
ain't accustomed to smoke in commercial rooms during meals. You know
the rules no doubt if you're commercial yourself;--as I suppose you
are, seeing you in this room."

Now Mr. Moulder was wrong in his law, as he himself was very well
aware. Smoking is allowed in all commercial rooms when the dinner has
been some hour or so off the table. But then it was necessary that he
should hit the stranger in some way, and the chances were that the
stranger would know nothing about commercial law. Nor did he; so he
merely looked Mr. Moulder hard in the face. But Mr. Kantwise knew the
laws well enough, and as he saw before him a possible purchaser of
metallic tables, he came to the assistance of the attorney.

"I think you are a little wrong there, Mr. Moulder; eh; ain't you?"
said he.

"Wrong about what?" said Moulder, turning very sharply upon his
base-minded compatriot.

"Well, as to smoking. It's nine o'clock, and if the gentleman--"

"I don't care a brass farthing about the clock," said the other, "but
when I'm going to have a bit of steak with my tea, in my own room, I
chooses to have it comfortable."

"Goodness me, Mr. Moulder, how many times have I seen you sitting
there with a pipe in your mouth, and half a dozen gents eating their
teas the while in this very room? The rule of the case I take it to
be this; when--"

"Bother your rules."

"Well; it was you spoke of them."

"The question I take to be this," said Moulder, now emboldened by
the opposition he had received. "Has the gentleman any right to
be in this room at all, or has he not? Is he commercial, or is
he--miscellaneous? That's the chat, as I take it."

"You're on the square there, I must allow," said Kantwise.

"James," said Moulder, appealing with authority to the waiter, who
had remained in the room during the controversy;--and now Mr. Moulder
was determined to do his duty and vindicate his profession, let
the consequences be what they might. "James, is that gentleman
commercial, or is he not?"

It was clearly necessary now that Mr. Dockwrath himself should take
his own part, and fight his own battle. "Sir," said he, turning to
Mr. Moulder, "I think you'll find it extremely difficult to define
that word;--extremely difficult. In this enterprising country all men
are more or less commercial."

"Hear! hear!" said Mr. Kantwise.

"That's gammon," said Mr. Moulder.

"Gammon it may be," said Mr. Dockwrath, "but nevertheless it's
right in law. Taking the word in its broadest, strictest, and most
intelligible sense, I am a commercial gentleman; and as such I do
maintain that I have a full right to the accommodation of this public
room."

"That's very well put," said Mr. Kantwise.

"Waiter," thundered out Mr. Moulder, as though he imagined that that
functionary was down the yard at the taproom instead of standing
within three feet of his elbow. "Is this gent a commercial, or is he
not? Because if not,--then I'll trouble you to send Mr. Crump here.
My compliments to Mr. Crump, and I wish to see him." Now Mr. Crump
was the landlord of the Bull Inn.

"Master's just stepped out, down the street," said James.

"Why don't you answer my question, sir?" said Moulder, becoming
redder and still more red about his shirt-collars.

"The gent said as how he was 'mercial," said the poor man. "Was I to
go to contradict a gent and tell him he wasn't when he said as how he
was?"

"If you please," said Mr. Dockwrath, "we will not bring the waiter
into this discussion. I asked for the commercial room, and he did his
duty in showing me to the door of it. The fact I take to be this; in
the south of England the rules to which you refer are not kept so
strictly as in these more mercantile localities."

"I've always observed that," said Kantwise.

"I travelled for three years in Devonshire, Somersetshire, and
Wiltshire," said Moulder, "and the commercial rooms were as well kept
there as any I ever see."

"I alluded to Surrey and Kent," said Mr. Dockwrath.

"They're uncommonly miscellaneous in Surrey and Kent," said Kantwise.
"There's no doubt in the world about that."

"If the gentleman means to say that he's come in here because he
didn't know the custom of the country, I've no more to say, of
course," said Moulder. "And in that case, I, for one, shall be very
happy if the gentleman cam make himself comfortable in this room as a
stranger, and I may say guest;--paying his own shot, of course."

"And as for me, I shall be delighted," said Kantwise. "I never did
like too much exclusiveness. What's the use of bottling oneself up?
that's what I always say. Besides, there's no charity in it. We gents
as are always on the road should show a little charity to them as
ain't so well accustomed to the work."

At this allusion to charity Mr. Moulder snuffled through his nose to
show his great disgust, but he made no further answer. Mr. Dockwrath,
who was determined not to yield, but who had nothing to gain by
further fighting, bowed his head, and declared that he felt very much
obliged. Whether or no there was any touch of irony in his tone, Mr.
Moulder's ears were not fine enough to discover. So they now sat
round the fire together, the attorney still keeping his seat in the
middle. And then Mr. Moulder ordered his little bit of steak with his
tea. "With the gravy in it, James," he said, solemnly. "And a bit
of fat, and a few slices of onion, thin mind, put on raw, not with
all the taste fried out; and tell the cook if she don't do it as
it should be done, I'll be down into the kitchen and do it myself.
You'll join me, Kantwise, eh?"

"Well, I think not; I dined at three, you know."

"Dined at three! What of that? a dinner at three won't last a man for
ever. You might as well join me."

"No, I think not. Have you got such a thing as a nice red herring in
the house, James?"

"Get one round the corner, sir."

"Do, there's a good fellow; and I'll take it for a relish with my
tea. I'm not so fond of your solids three times a day. They heat the
blood too much."

"Bother," grunted Moulder; and then they went to their evening meal,
over which we will not disturb them. The steak, we may presume, was
cooked aright, as Mr. Moulder did not visit the kitchen, and Mr.
Kantwise no doubt made good play with his unsubstantial dainty, as he
spoke no further till his meal was altogether finished.

"Did you ever hear anything of that Mr. Mason who lives near
Bradford?" asked Mr. Kantwise, addressing himself to Mr. Moulder, as
soon as the things had been cleared from the table, and that latter
gentleman had been furnished with a pipe and a supply of cold
without.

"I remember his father when I was a boy," said Moulder, not troubling
himself to take his pipe from his mouth, "Mason and Martock in the
Old Jewry; very good people they were too."

"He's decently well off now, I suppose, isn't he?" said Kantwise,
turning away his face, and looking at his companion out of the
corners of his eyes.

"I suppose he is. That place there by the road-side is all his own, I
take it. Have you been at him with some of your rusty, rickety tables
and chairs?"

"Mr. Moulder, you forget that there is a gentleman here who won't
understand that you're at your jokes. I was doing business at Groby
Park, but I found the party uncommon hard to deal with."

"Didn't complete the transaction?"

"Well, no; not exactly; but I intend to call again. He's close enough
himself, is Mr. Mason. But his lady, Mrs. M.! Lord love you, Mr.
Moulder, that is a woman!"

"She is; is she? As for me, I never have none of these private
dealings. It don't suit my book at all; nor it ain't what I've been
accustomed to. If a man's wholesale, let him be wholesale." And then,
having enunciated this excellent opinion with much energy, he took a
long pull at his brandy and water.

"Very old fashioned, Mr. Moulder," said Kantwise, looking round the
corner, then shutting his eyes and shaking his head.

"May be," said Moulder, "and yet none the worse for that. I call it
hawking and peddling, that going round the country with your goods
on your back. It ain't trade." And then there was a lull in the
conversation, Mr. Kantwise, who was a very religious gentleman,
having closed his eyes, and being occupied with some internal
anathema against Mr. Moulder.

"Begging your pardon, sir, I think you were talking about one Mr.
Mason who lives in these parts," said Dockwrath.

"Exactly. Joseph Mason, Esq., of Groby Park," said Mr. Kantwise, now
turning his face upon the attorney.

"I suppose I shall be likely to find him at home to-morrow, if I
call?"

"Certainly, sir; certainly; leastwise I should say so. Any personal
acquaintance with Mr. Mason, sir? If so, I meant nothing offensive by
my allusion to the lady, sir; nothing at all, I can assure you."

"The lady's nothing to me, sir; nor the gentleman either;--only that
I have a little business with him."

"Shall be very happy to join you in a gig, sir, to-morrow, as far
as Groby Park; or fly, if more convenient. I shall only take a few
patterns with me, and they're no weight at all,--none in the least,
sir. They go on behind, and you wouldn't know it, sir." To this,
however, Mr. Dockwrath would not assent. As he wanted to see Mr.
Mason very specially, he should go early, and preferred going by
himself.

"No offence, I hope," said Mr. Kantwise.

"None in the least," said Mr. Dockwrath.

"And if you would allow me, sir, to have the pleasure of showing you
a few of my patterns, I'm sure I should be delighted." This he said
observing that Mr. Moulder was sitting over his empty glass with the
pipe in his hand, and his eyes fast closed. "I think, sir, I could
show you an article that would please you very much. You see, sir,
that new ideas are coming in every day, and wood, sir, is altogether
going out,--altogether going out as regards furniture. In another
twenty years, sir, there won't be such a thing as a wooden table
in the country, unless with some poor person that can't afford to
refurnish. Believe me, sir, iron's the thing now-a-days."

"And indian-rubber," said Dockwrath.

"Yes; indian-rubber's wonderful too. Are you in that line, sir?"

"Well; no; not exactly."

"It's not like iron, sir. You can't make a dinner-table for fourteen
people out of indian-rubber, that will shut up into a box 3-6 by
2-4 deep, and 2-6 broad. Why, sir, I can let you have a set of
drawing-room furniture for fifteen ten that you've never seen
equalled in wood for three times the money;--ornamented in the
tastiest way, sir, and fit for any lady's drawing-room or boodoor.
The ladies of quality are all getting them now for their boodoors.
There's three tables, eight chairs, easy rocking-chair, music-stand,
stool to match, and pair of stand-up screens, all gilt in real Louey
catorse; and it goes in three boxes 4-2 by 2-1 and 2-3. Think of
that, sir. For fifteen ten and the boxes in." Then there was a pause,
after which Mr. Kantwise added--"If ready money, the carriage paid."
And then he turned his head very much away, and looked back very hard
at his expected customer.

"I'm afraid the articles are not in my line," said Mr. Dockwrath.

"It's the tastiest present for a gentleman to make to his lady that
has come out since--since those sort of things have come out at
all. You'll let me show you the articles, sir. It will give me the
sincerest pleasure." And Mr. Kantwise proposed to leave the room in
order that he might introduce the three boxes in question.

"They would not be at all in my way," said Mr. Dockwrath.

"The trouble would be nothing," said Mr. Kantwise, "and it gives me
the greatest pleasure to make them known when I find any one who
can appreciate such undoubted luxuries;" and so saying Mr. Kantwise
skipped out of the room, and soon returned with James and Boots, each
of the three bearing on his shoulder a deal box nearly as big as a
coffin, all of which were deposited in different parts of the room.
Mr. Moulder in the meantime snored heavily, his head falling on to
his breast every now and again. But nevertheless he held fast by his
pipe.

Mr. Kantwise skipped about the room with wonderful agility,
unfastening the boxes, and taking out the contents, while Joe the
boots and James the waiter stood by assisting. They had never yet
seen the glories of these chairs and tables, and were therefore
not unwilling to be present. It was singular to see how ready
Mr. Kantwise was at the work, how recklessly he threw aside the
whitey-brown paper in which the various pieces of painted iron were
enveloped, and with what a practised hand he put together one article
after another. First there was a round loo-table, not quite so large
in its circumference as some people might think desirable, but,
nevertheless, a round loo-table. The pedestal with its three claws
was all together. With a knowing touch Mr. Kantwise separated the
bottom of what looked like a yellow stick, and, lo! there were three
legs, which he placed carefully on the ground. Then a small bar was
screwed on to the top, and over the bar was screwed the leaf, or
table itself, which consisted of three pieces unfolding with hinges.
These, when the screw had been duly fastened in the centre, opened
out upon the bar, and there was the table complete.

It was certainly a "tasty" article, and the pride with which Mr.
Kantwise glanced back at it was quite delightful. The top of the
table was blue, with a red bird of paradise in the middle; and the
edges of the table, to the breadth of a couple of inches, were
yellow. The pillar also was yellow, as were the three legs. "It's the
real Louey catorse," said Mr. Kantwise, stooping down to go on with
table number two, which was, as he described it, a "chess," having
the proper number of blue and light-pink squares marked upon it; but
this also had been made Louey catorse with reference to its legs and
edges. The third table was a "sofa," of proper shape, but rather
small in size. Then, one after another, he brought forth and screwed
up the chairs, stools, and sundry screens, and within a quarter of an
hour he had put up the whole set complete. The red bird of paradise
and the blue ground appeared on all, as did also the yellow legs and
edgings which gave to them their peculiarly fashionable character.
"There," said Mr. Kantwise, looking at them with fond admiration, "I
don't mind giving a personal guarantee that there's nothing equal to
that for the money either in England or in France."

"They are very nice," said Mr. Dockwrath. When a man has had produced
before him for his own and sole delectation any article or articles,
how can he avoid eulogium? Mr. Dockwrath found himself obliged to
pause, and almost feared that he should find himself obliged to buy.

"Nice! I should rather think they are," said Mr. Kantwise, becoming
triumphant,--"and for fifteen ten, delivered, boxes included. There's
nothing like iron, sir, nothing; you may take my word for that.
They're so strong, you know. Look here, sir." And then Mr. Kantwise,
taking two of the pieces of whitey-brown paper which had been laid
aside, carefully spread one on the centre of the round table, and the
other on the seat of one of the chairs. Then lightly poising himself
on his toe, he stepped on to the chair, and from thence on to the
table. In that position he skillfully brought his feet together,
so that his weight was directly on the leg, and gracefully waved
his hands over his head. James and Boots stood by admiring, with
open mouths, and Mr. Dockwrath, with his hands in his pockets, was
meditating whether he could not give the order without complying with
the terms as to ready money.

[Illustration: "There is nothing like iron, Sir; nothing."]

"Look at that for strength," said Mr. Kantwise from his exalted
position. "I don't think any lady of your acquaintance, sir, would
allow you to stand on her rosewood or mahogany loo-table. And if she
did, you would not like to adventure it yourself. But look at this
for strength," and he waved his arms abroad, still keeping his feet
skilfully together in the same exact position.

At that moment Mr. Moulder awoke. "So you've got your iron traps out,
have you?" said he. "What; you're there, are you? Upon my word I'd
sooner you than me."

"I certainly should not like to see you up here, Mr. Moulder. I doubt
whether even this table would bear five-and-twenty stone. Joe, lend
me your shoulder, there's a good fellow." And then Mr. Kantwise,
bearing very lightly on the chair, descended to the ground without
accident.

"Now, that's what I call gammon," said Moulder.

"What is gammon, Mr. Moulder?" said the other, beginning to be angry.

"It's all gammon. The chairs and tables is gammon, and so is the
stools and the screens."

"Mr. Moulder, I didn't call your tea and coffee and brandy gammon."

"You can't; and you wouldn't do any harm if you did. Hubbles and
Grease are too well known in Yorkshire for you to hurt them. But as
for all that show-off and gimcrack-work, I tell you fairly it ain't
what I call trade, and it ain't fit for a commercial room. It's
gammon, gammon, gammon! James, give me a bedcandle." And so Mr.
Moulder took himself off to bed.

"I think I'll go too," said Mr. Dockwrath.

"You'll let me put you up the set, eh?" said Mr. Kantwise.

"Well; I'll think about it," said the attorney. "I'll not just give
you an answer to-night. Good night, sir; I'm very much obliged to
you." And he too went, leaving Mr. Kantwise to repack his chairs and
tables with the assistance of James the waiter.




CHAPTER VII.

THE MASONS OF GROBY PARK.


Groby Park is about seven miles from Leeds, in the direction of
Bradford, and thither on the morning after the scene described in the
last chapter Mr. Dockwrath was driven in one of the gigs belonging
to the Bull Inn. The park itself is spacious, but is flat and
uninteresting, being surrounded by a thin belt of new-looking
fir-trees, and containing but very little old or handsome timber.
There are on the high road two very important lodges, between which
is a large ornamented gate, and from thence an excellent road leads
to the mansion, situated in the very middle of the domain. The house
is Greek in its style of architecture,--at least so the owner says;
and if a portico with a pediment and seven Ionic columns makes a
house Greek, the house in Groby Park undoubtedly is Greek.

Here lived Mr. and Mrs. Mason, the three Misses Mason, and
occasionally the two young Messrs. Mason; for the master of Groby
Park was blessed with five children. He himself was a big, broad,
heavy-browed man, in whose composition there was nothing of
tenderness, nothing of poetry, and nothing of taste; but I cannot say
that he was on the whole a bad man. He was just in his dealings, or
at any rate endeavoured to be so. He strove hard to do his duty as a
county magistrate against very adverse circumstances. He endeavoured
to enable his tenants and labourers to live. He was severe to his
children, and was not loved by them; but nevertheless they were dear
to him, and he endeavoured to do his duty by them. The wife of his
bosom was not a pleasant woman, but nevertheless he did his duty by
her; that is, he neither deserted her, nor beat her, nor locked her
up. I am not sure that he would not have been justified in doing one
of these three things, or even all the three; for Mrs. Mason of Groby
Park was not a pleasant woman.

But yet he was a bad man in that he could never forget and never
forgive. His mind and heart were equally harsh and hard and
inflexible. He was a man who considered that it behoved him as a man
to resent all injuries, and to have his pound of flesh in all cases.
In his inner thoughts he had ever boasted to himself that he had
paid all men all that he owed. He had, so he thought, injured no
one in any of the relations of life. His tradesmen got their money
regularly. He answered every man's letter. He exacted nothing from
any man for which he did not pay. He never ill-used a servant either
by bad language or by over-work. He never amused himself, but devoted
his whole time to duties. He would fain even have been hospitable,
could he have gotten his neighbours to come to him and have induced
his wife to put upon the table sufficient food for them to eat.

Such being his virtues, what right had any one to injure him? When he
got from his grocer adulterated coffee,--he analyzed the coffee, as
his half-brother had done the guano,--he would have flayed the man
alive if the law would have allowed him. Had he not paid the man
monthly, giving him the best price as though for the best article?
When he was taken in with a warranty for a horse, he pursued the
culprit to the uttermost. Maid-servants who would not come from their
bedrooms at six o'clock, he would himself disturb while enjoying
their stolen slumbers. From his children he exacted all titles of
respect, because he had a right to them. He wanted nothing that
belonged to any one else, but he could not endure that aught should
be kept from him which he believed to be his own. It may be imagined,
therefore, in what light he esteemed Lady Mason and her son, and how
he regarded their residence at Orley Farm, seeing that he firmly
believed that Orley Farm was his own, if all the truth were known.

I have already hinted that Mrs. Mason was not a delightful woman.
She had been a beauty, and still imagined that she had not lost all
pretension to be so considered. She spent, therefore, a considerable
portion of her day in her dressing-room, spent a great deal of money
for clothes, and gave herself sundry airs. She was a little woman
with long eyes, and regular eyelashes, with a straight nose, and thin
lips and regular teeth. Her face was oval, and her hair was brown.
It had at least once been all brown, and that which was now seen was
brown also. But, nevertheless, although she was possessed of all
these charms, you might look at her for ten days together, and on the
eleventh you would not know her if you met her in the streets.

But the appearance of Mrs. Mason was not her forte. She had been a
beauty; but if it had been her lot to be known in history, it was not
as a beauty that she would have been famous. Parsimony was her great
virtue, and a power of saving her strong point. I have said that she
spent much money in dress, and some people will perhaps think that
the two points of character are not compatible. Such people know
nothing of a true spirit of parsimony. It is from the backs and
bellies of other people that savings are made with the greatest
constancy and the most satisfactory results.

The parsimony of a mistress of a household is best displayed on
matters eatable;--on matters eatable and drinkable; for there is a
fine scope for domestic savings in tea, beer, and milk. And in such
matters chiefly did Mrs. Mason operate, going as far as she dared
towards starving even her husband. But nevertheless she would feed
herself in the middle of the day, having a roast fowl with bread
sauce in her own room. The miser who starves himself and dies without
an ounce of flesh on his bones, while his skinny head lies on a bag
of gold, is after all, respectable. There has been a grand passion
in his life, and that grandest work of man, self-denial. You cannot
altogether despise one who has clothed himself with rags and fed
himself with bone-scrapings, while broadcloth and ortolans were
within his easy reach. But there are women, wives and mothers of
families, who would give the bone-scrapings to their husbands and the
bones to their servants, while they hide the ortolans for themselves;
and would dress children in rags, while they cram chests, drawers,
and boxes with silks and satins for their own backs. Such a woman
one can thoroughly despise, and even hate; and such a woman was Mrs.
Mason of Groby Park.

I shall not trouble the reader at present with much description of
the young Masons. The eldest son was in the army, and the younger at
Cambridge, both spending much more money than their father allowed
them. Not that he, in this respect, was specially close-fisted. He
ascertained what was sufficient,--amply sufficient as he was told by
the colonel of the regiment and the tutor of the college,--and that
amount he allowed, assuring both Joseph and John that if they spent
more, they would themselves have to pay for it out of the moneys
which should enrich them in future years. But how could the sons
of such a mother be other than spendthrifts? Of course they were
extravagant; of course they spent more than they should have done;
and their father resolved that he would keep his word with them
religiously.

The daughters were much less fortunate, having no possible means of
extravagance allowed to them. Both the father and mother decided
that they should go out into the county society, and therefore their
clothing was not absolutely of rags. But any young lady who does go
into society, whether it be of county or town, will fully understand
the difference between a liberal and a stingy wardrobe. Girls with
slender provisions of millinery may be fit to go out,--quite fit in
their father's eyes; and yet all such going out may be matter of
intense pain. It is all very well for the world to say that a girl
should be happy without reference to her clothes. Show me such a
girl, and I will show you one whom I should be very sorry that a boy
of mine should choose as his sweetheart.

The three Misses Mason, as they always were called by the Groby Park
people, had been christened Diana, Creusa, and Penelope, their mother
having a passion for classic literature, which she indulged by a use
of Lempriere's dictionary. They were not especially pretty, nor were
they especially plain. They were well grown and healthy, and quite
capable of enjoying themselves in any of the amusements customary to
young ladies,--if only the opportunities were afforded them.

Mr. Dockwrath had thought it well to write to Mr. Mason, acquainting
that gentleman with his intended visit. Mr. Mason, he said to
himself, would recognise his name, and know whence he came, and under
such circumstances would be sure to see him, although the express
purpose of the proposed interview should not have been explained to
him. Such in result was exactly the case. Mr. Mason did remember the
name of Dockwrath, though he had never hitherto seen the bearer of
it; and as the letter was dated from Hamworth, he felt sufficient
interest in the matter to await at home the coming of his visitor.

"I know your name, Mr. Mason, sir, and have known it long," said Mr.
Dockwrath, seating himself in the chair which was offered to him in
the magistrate's study; "though I never had the pleasure of seeing
you before,--to my knowledge. My name is Dockwrath, sir, and I am a
solicitor. I live at Hamworth, and I married the daughter of old Mr.
Usbech, sir, whom you will remember."

Mr. Mason listened attentively as these details were uttered before
him so clearly, but he said nothing, merely bowing his head at each
separate statement. He knew all about old Usbech's daughter nearly as
well as Mr. Dockwrath did himself, but he was a man who knew how to
be silent upon occasions.

"I was too young, sir," continued Dockwrath, "when you had that trial
about Orley Farm to have anything to do with the matter myself,
but nevertheless I remember all the circumstances as though it was
yesterday. I suppose, sir, you remember them also?"

"Yes, Mr. Dockwrath, I remember them very well."

"Well, sir, my impression has always been that--" And then the
attorney stopped. It was quite his intention to speak out plainly
before Mr. Mason, but he was anxious that that gentleman should speak
out too. At any rate it might be well that he should be induced to
express some little interest in the matter.

"Your impression, you say, has always been--" said Mr. Mason,
repeating the words of his companion, and looking as ponderous and
grave as ever. His countenance, however, expressed nothing but his
usual ponderous solemnity.

"My impression always was--that there was something that had not been
as yet found out."

"What sort of thing, Mr. Dockwrath?"

"Well; some secret. I don't think that your lawyers managed the
matter well, Mr. Mason."

"You think you would have done it better, Mr. Dockwrath?"

"I don't say that, Mr. Mason. I was only a lad at the time, and could
not have managed it at all. But they didn't ferret about enough. Mr.
Mason, there's a deal better evidence than any that is given by word
of mouth. A clever counsel can turn a witness pretty nearly any way
he likes, but he can't do that with little facts. He hasn't the time,
you see, to get round them. Your lawyers, sir, didn't get up the
little facts as they should have done."

"And you have got them up since, Mr. Dockwrath?"

"I don't say that, Mr. Mason. You see all my interest lies in
maintaining the codicil. My wife's fortune came to her under that
deed. To be sure that's gone and spent long since, and the Lord
Chancellor with all the judges couldn't enforce restitution; but,
nevertheless, I wouldn't wish that any one should have a claim
against me on that account."

"Perhaps you will not object to say what it is that you do wish?"

"I wish to see right done, Mr. Mason; that's all. I don't think that
Lady Mason or her son have any right to the possession of that place.
I don't think that that codicil was a correct instrument; and in that
case of Mason versus Mason I don't think that you and your friends
got to the bottom of it." And then Mr. Dockwrath leaned back in his
chair with an inward determination to say nothing more, until Mr.
Mason should make some sign.

That gentleman, however, still remained ponderous and heavy, and
therefore there was a short period of silence--"And have you got to
the bottom of it since, Mr. Dockwrath?" at last he said.

"I don't say that I have," said the attorney.

"Might I ask then what it is you propose to effect by the visit with
which you have honoured me? Of course you are aware that these are
very private matters; and although I should feel myself under an
obligation to you, or to any man who might assist me to arrive at any
true facts which have hitherto been concealed, I am not disposed to
discuss the affair with a stranger on grounds of mere suspicion."

"I shouldn't have come here, Mr. Mason, at very great expense, and
personal inconvenience to myself in my profession, if I had not some
good reason for doing so. I don't think that you ever got to the
bottom of that matter, and I can't say that I have done so now; I
haven't even tried. But I tell you what, Mr. Mason; if you wish it, I
think I could put you in the way of--trying."

"My lawyers are Messrs. Round and Crook of Bedford Row. Will it not
be better that you should go to them, Mr. Dockwrath?"

"No, Mr. Mason. I don't think it will be better that I should go
to them. I know Round and Crook well, and don't mean to say a word
against them; but if I go any farther into this affair I must do
it with the principal. I am not going to cut my own throat for the
sake of mending any man's little finger. I have a family of sixteen
children, Mr. Mason, and I have to look about very sharp,--very sharp
indeed." Then there was another pause, and Mr. Dockwrath began to
perceive that Mr. Mason was not by nature an open, demonstrative, or
communicative man. If anything further was to be done, he himself
must open out a little. "The fact is, Mr. Mason, that I have come
across documents which you should have had at that trial. Round and
Crook ought to have had them, only they weren't half sharp. Why, sir,
Mr. Usbech had been your father's man of business for years upon
years, and yet they didn't half go through his papers. They turned
'em over and looked at 'em; but never thought of seeing what little
facts might be proved."

"And these documents are with you now, here?"

"No, Mr. Mason, I am not so soft as that. I never carry about
original documents unless when ordered to prove. Copies of one or two
items I have made; not regular copies, Mr. Mason, but just a line or
two to refresh my memory." And Mr. Dockwrath took a small letter-case
out of his breast coat pocket.

By this time Mr. Mason's curiosity had been roused, and he began
to think it possible that his visitor had discovered information
which might be of importance to him. "Are you going to show me any
document?" said he.

"That's as may be," said the attorney. "I don't know as yet whether
you care to see it. I have come a long way to do you a service, and
it seems to me you are rather shy of coming forward to meet me. As I
said before, I've a very heavy family, and I'm not going to cut the
nose off my own face to put money into any other man's pocket. What
do you think my journey down here will cost me, including loss of
time, and interruption to my business?"

"Look here, Mr. Dockwrath; if you are really able to put me into
possession of any facts regarding the Orley Farm estate which I
ought to know, I will see that you are compensated for your time and
trouble. Messrs. Round and Crook--"

"I'll have nothing to do with Round and Crook. So that's settled, Mr.
Mason."

"Then, Mr. Dockwrath--"

"Half a minute, Mr. Mason. I'll have nothing to do with Round and
Crook; but as I know you to be a gentleman and a man of honour, I'll
put you in possession of what I've discovered, and leave it to you
afterwards to do what you think right about my expenses, time, and
services. You won't forget that it is a long way from Hamworth to
Groby Park. And if you should succeed--"

"If I am to look at this document, I must do so without pledging
myself to anything," said Mr. Mason, still with much solemnity. He
had great doubts as to his new acquaintance, and much feared that
he was derogating from his dignity as a county magistrate and owner
of Groby Park in holding any personal intercourse with him; but
nevertheless he could not resist the temptation. He most firmly
believed that that codicil had not expressed the genuine last will
and fair disposition of property made by his father, and it might
certainly be the case that proof of all that he believed was to be
found among the papers of the old lawyer. He hated Lady Mason with
all his power of hatred, and if there did, even yet, exist for him a
chance of upsetting her claims and ruining her before the world, he
was not the man to forego that chance.

"Well, sir, you shall see it," said Mr. Dockwrath; "or rather hear
it, for there is not much to see." And so saying he extracted from
his pocket-book a very small bit of paper.

"I should prefer to read it, if it's all the same to you, Mr.
Dockwrath. I shall understand it much better in that way."

"As you like, Mr. Mason," said the attorney, handing him the small
bit of paper. "You will understand, sir, that it's no real copy, but
only a few dates and particulars, just jotted down to assist my own
memory." The document, supported by which Mr. Dockwrath had come
down to Yorkshire, consisted of half a sheet of note paper, and the
writing upon this covered hardly the half of it. The words which Mr.
Mason read were as follows:--


   Date of codicil. 14th July 18--.

   Witnesses to the instrument. John Kenneby; Bridget
   Bolster; Jonathan Usbech. N.B. Jonathan Usbech died before
   the testator.

   Mason and Martock. Deed of separation; dated 14th July
   18--.

   Executed at Orley Farm.

   Witnesses John Kenneby; and Bridget Bolster. Deed was
   prepared in the office of Jonathan Usbech, and probably
   executed in his presence.


That was all that was written on the paper, and Mr. Mason read the
words to himself three times before he looked up, or said anything
concerning them. He was not a man quick at receiving new ideas into
his mind, or of understanding new points; but that which had once
become intelligible to him and been made his own, remained so always.
"Well," said he, when he read the above words for the third time.

"You don't see it, sir?" said Mr. Dockwrath.

"See what?" said Mr. Mason, still looking at the scrap of paper.

"Why; the dates, to begin with."

"I see that the dates are the same;--the 14th of July in the same
year."

"Well," said Mr. Dockwrath, looking very keenly into the magistrate's
face.

"Well," said Mr. Mason, looking over the paper at his boot.

"John Kenneby and Bridget Bolster were witnesses to both the
instruments," said the attorney.

"So I see," said the magistrate.

"But I don't remember that it came out in evidence that either of
them recollected having been called on for two signatures on the same
day."

"No; there was nothing of that came out;--or was even hinted at."

"No; nothing even hinted at, Mr. Mason,--as you justly observe. That
is what I mean by saying that Round and Crook's people didn't get up
their little facts. Believe me, sir, there are men in the profession
out of London who know quite as much as Round and Crook. They ought
to have had those facts, seeing that the very copy of the document
was turned over by their hands." And Mr. Dockwrath hit the table
heavily in the warmth of his indignation against his professional
brethren. Earlier in the interview Mr. Mason would have been made
very angry by such freedom, but he was not angry now.

"Yes; they ought to have known it," said he. But he did not even yet
see the point. He merely saw that there was a point worth seeing.

"Known it! Of course they ought to have known it. Look here, Mr.
Mason! If I had it on my mind that I'd thrown over a client of mine
by such carelessness as that, I'd--I'd strike my own name off the
rolls; I would indeed. I never could look a counsel in the face
again, if I'd neglected to brief him with such facts as those. I
suppose it was carelessness; eh, Mr. Mason?"

"Oh, yes; I'm afraid so," said Mr. Mason, still rather in the dark.

"They could have had no object in keeping it back, I should say."

"No; none in life. But let us see, Mr. Dockwrath; how does it bear
upon us? The dates are the same, and the witnesses the same."

"The deed of separation is genuine. There is no doubt about that."

"Oh; you're sure of that?"

"Quite certain. I found it entered in the old office books. It was
the last of a lot of such documents executed between Mason and
Martock after the old man gave up the business. You see she was
always with him, and knew all about it."

"About the partnership deed?"

"Of course she did. She's a clever woman, Mr. Mason; very clever, and
it's almost a pity that she should come to grief. She has carried it
on so well; hasn't she?"

Mr. Mason's face now became very black. "Why," said he, "if what you
seem to allege be true, she must be a--a--a--. What do you mean, sir,
by pity?"

Mr. Dockwrath shrugged his shoulders. "It is very blue," said he,
"uncommon blue."

"She must be a swindler; a common swindler. Nay, worse than that."

"Oh, yes, a deal worse than that, Mr. Mason. And as for
common;--according to my way of thinking there's nothing at all
common about it. I look upon it as about the best got-up plant I ever
remember to have heard of. I do, indeed, Mr. Mason." The attorney
during the last ten minutes of the conversation had quite altered
his tone, understanding that he had already achieved a great part
of his object; but Mr. Mason in his intense anxiety did not observe
this. Had Mr. Dockwrath, in commencing the conversation, talked about
"plants" and "blue," Mr. Mason would probably have rung his bell for
the servant. "If it's anything, it's forgery," said Mr. Dockwrath,
looking his companion full in the face.

"I always felt sure that my father never intended to sign such a
codicil as that."

"He never did sign it, Mr. Mason."

"And,--and the witnesses!" said Mr. Mason, still not enlightened as
to the true extent of the attorney's suspicion.

"They signed the other deed; that is two of them did. There is no
doubt about that;--on that very day. They certainly did witness a
signature made by the old gentleman in his own room on that 14th of
July. The original of that document, with the date and their names,
will be forthcoming soon enough."

"Well," said Mr. Mason.

"But they did not witness two signatures."

"You think not, eh!"

"I'm sure of it. The girl Bolster would have remembered it, and would
have said so. She was sharp enough."

"Who wrote all the names then at the foot of the will?" said Mr.
Mason.

"Ah! that's the question. Who did write them? We know very well, Mr.
Mason, you and I that is, who did not. And having come to that, I
think we may give a very good guess who did."

And then they both sat silent for some three or four minutes. Mr.
Dockwrath was quite at his ease, rubbing his chin with his hand,
playing with a paper-knife which he had taken from the study
table, and waiting till it should please Mr. Mason to renew the
conversation. Mr. Mason was not at his ease, though all idea of
affecting any reserve before the attorney had left him. He was
thinking how best he might confound and destroy the woman who had
robbed him for so many years; who had defied him, got the better of
him, and put him to terrible cost; who had vexed his spirit through
his whole life, deprived him of content, and had been to him as a
thorn ever present in a festering sore. He had always believed that
she had defrauded him, but this belief had been qualified by the
unbelief of others. It might have been, he had half thought, that the
old man had signed the codicil in his dotage, having been cheated and
bullied into it by the woman. There had been no day in her life on
which he would not have ruined her, had it been in his power to do
so. But now--now, new and grander ideas were breaking in upon his
mind. Could it be possible that he might live to see her, not merely
deprived of her ill-gained money, but standing in the dock as a felon
to receive sentence for her terrible misdeeds? If that might be so,
would he not receive great compensation for all that he had suffered?
Would it not be sweet to his sense of justice that both of them
should thus at last have their own? He did not even yet understand
all that Mr. Dockwrath suspected. He did not fully perceive why the
woman was supposed to have chosen as the date of her forgery, the
date of that other genuine deed. But he did understand, he did
perceive--at least so he thought,--that new and perhaps conclusive
evidence of her villainy was at last within his reach.

"And what shall we do now, Mr. Dockwrath?" he said at last.

"Well; am I to understand that you do me the honour of asking my
advice upon that question as being your lawyer?"

This question immediately brought Mr. Mason back to business that he
did understand. "A man in my position cannot very well change his
legal advisers at a moment's notice. You must be very well aware of
that, Mr. Dockwrath. Messrs. Round and Crook--"

"Messrs. Round and Crook, sir, have neglected your business in a most
shameful manner. Let me tell you that, sir."

"Well; that's as may be. I'll tell you what I'll do, Mr. Dockwrath;
I'll think over this matter in quiet, and then I'll come up to town.
Perhaps when there I may expect the honour of a further visit from
you."

"And you won't mention the matter to Round and Crook?"

"I can't undertake to say that, Mr. Dockwrath. I think it will
perhaps be better that I should mention it, and then see you
afterwards."

"And how about my expenses down here?"

Just at this moment there came a light tap at the study door, and
before the master of the house could give or withhold permission
the mistress of the house entered the room. "My dear," she said, "I
didn't know that you were engaged."

"Yes, I am engaged," said the gentleman.

"Oh, I'm sure I beg pardon. Perhaps this is the gentleman from
Hamworth?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Mr. Dockwrath. "I am the gentleman from Hamworth.
I hope I have the pleasure of seeing you very well, ma'am?" And
getting up from his chair he bowed politely.

"Mr. Dockwrath, Mrs. Mason," said the lady's husband, introducing
them; and then Mrs. Mason curtsied to the stranger. She too was very
anxious to know what might be the news from Hamworth.

"Mr. Dockwrath will lunch with us, my dear," said Mr. Mason. And then
the lady, on hospitable cares intent, left them again to themselves.




CHAPTER VIII.

MRS. MASON'S HOT LUNCHEON.


Though Mr. Dockwrath was somewhat elated by this invitation to lunch,
he was also somewhat abashed by it. He had been far from expecting
that Mr. Mason of Groby Park would do him any such honour, and was
made aware by it of the great hold which he must have made upon the
attention of his host. But nevertheless he immediately felt that his
hands were to a certain degree tied. He, having been invited to sit
down at Mr. Mason's table, with Mrs. M. and the family,--having been
treated as though he were a gentleman, and thus being for the time
being put on a footing of equality with the county magistrate, could
not repeat that last important question: "How about my expenses down
here?" nor could he immediately go on with the grand subject in any
frame of mind which would tend to further his own interests. Having
been invited to lunch, he could not haggle with due persistency for
his share of the business in crushing Lady Mason, nor stipulate
that the whole concern should not be trusted to the management of
Round and Crook. As a source of pride this invitation to eat was
pleasant to him, but he was forced to acknowledge to himself that it
interfered with business.

Nor did Mr. Mason feel himself ready to go on with the conversation
in the manner in which it had been hitherto conducted. His mind was
full of Orley Farm and his wrongs, and he could bring himself to
think of nothing else; but he could no longer talk about it to the
attorney sitting there in his study. "Will you take a turn about the
place while the lunch is getting ready?" he said. So they took their
hats and went out into the garden.

"It is dreadful to think of," said Mr. Mason, after they had twice
walked in silence the length of a broad gravel terrace.

"What; about her ladyship?" said the attorney.

"Quite dreadful!" and Mr. Mason shuddered. "I don't think I ever
heard of anything so shocking in my life. For twenty years, Mr.
Dockwrath, think of that. Twenty years!" and his face as he spoke
became almost black with horror.

"It is very shocking," said Mr. Dockwrath; "very shocking. What on
earth will be her fate if it be proved against her? She has brought
it on herself; that is all that one can say of her."

"D---- her! d---- her!" exclaimed the other, gnashing his teeth
with concentrated wrath. "No punishment will be bad enough for her.
Hanging would not be bad enough."

"They can't hang her, Mr. Mason," said Mr. Dockwrath, almost
frightened by the violence of his companion.

"No; they have altered the laws, giving every encouragement to
forgers, villains, and perjurers. But they can give her penal
servitude for life. They must do it."

"She is not convicted yet, you know."

"D---- her!" repeated the owner of Groby Park again, as he thought of
his twenty years of loss. Eight hundred a year for twenty years had
been taken away from him; and he had been worsted before the world
after a hard fight. "D---- her!" he continued to growl between his
teeth. Mr. Dockwrath when he had first heard his companion say how
horrid and dreadful the affair was, had thought that Mr. Mason was
alluding to the condition in which the lady had placed herself by her
assumed guilt. But it was of his own condition that he was speaking.
The idea which shocked him was the thought of the treatment which he
himself had undergone. The dreadful thing at which he shuddered was
his own ill usage. As for her;--pity for her! Did a man ever pity a
rat that had eaten into his choicest dainties?

"The lunch is on the table, sir," said the Groby Park footman in the
Groby Park livery. Under the present household arrangement of Groby
Park all the servants lived on board wages. Mrs. Mason did not like
this system, though it had about it certain circumstances of economy
which recommended it to her; it interfered greatly with the stringent
aptitudes of her character and the warmest passion of her heart; it
took away from her the delicious power of serving out the servants'
food, of locking up the scraps of meat, and of charging the maids
with voracity. But, to tell the truth, Mr. Mason had been driven by
sheer necessity to take this step, as it had been found impossible to
induce his wife to give out sufficient food to enable the servants to
live and work. She knew that in not doing so she injured herself; but
she could not do it. The knife in passing through the loaf would make
the portion to be parted with less by one third than the portion to
be retained. Half a pound of salt butter would reduce itself to a
quarter of a pound. Portions of meat would become infinitesimal.
When standing with viands before her, she had not free will over her
hands. She could not bring herself to part with victuals, though she
might ruin herself by retaining them. Therefore, by the order of the
master, were the servants placed on board wages.

Mr. Dockwrath soon found himself in the dining-room, where the three
young ladies with their mamma were already seated at the table. It
was a handsome room, and the furniture was handsome; but nevertheless
it was a heavy room, and the furniture was heavy. The table was large
enough for a party of twelve, and might have borne a noble banquet;
as it was the promise was not bad, for there were three large plated
covers concealing hot viands, and in some houses lunch means only
bread and cheese.

Mr. Mason went through the form of introduction between Mr. Dockwrath
and his daughters. "That is Miss Mason, that Miss Creusa Mason, and
this Miss Penelope. John, remove the covers." And the covers were
removed, John taking them from the table with a magnificent action of
his arm which I am inclined to think was not innocent of irony. On
the dish before the master of the house,--a large dish which must I
fancy have been selected by the cook with some similar attempt at
sarcasm,--there reposed three scraps, as to the nature of which Mr.
Dockwrath, though he looked hard at them, was unable to enlighten
himself. But Mr. Mason knew them well, as he now placed his eyes on
them for the third time. They were old enemies of his, and his brow
again became black as he looked at them. The scraps in fact consisted
of two drumsticks of a fowl and some indescribable bone out of the
back of the same. The original bird had no doubt first revealed
all its glories to human eyes,--presuming the eyes of the cook to
be inhuman--in Mrs. Mason's "boodoor." Then, on the dish before
the lady, there were three other morsels, black-looking and very
suspicious to the eye, which in the course of conversation were
proclaimed to be ham,--broiled ham. Mrs. Mason would never allow
a ham in its proper shape to come into the room, because it is an
article upon which the guests are themselves supposed to operate
with the carving-knife. Lastly, on the dish before Miss Creusa there
reposed three potatoes.

The face of Mr. Mason became very black as he looked at the banquet
which was spread upon his board, and Mrs. Mason, eyeing him across
the table, saw that it was so. She was not a lady who despised such
symptoms in her lord, or disregarded in her valour the violence of
marital storms. She had quailed more than once or twice under rebuke
occasioned by her great domestic virtue, and knew that her husband,
though he might put up with much as regarded his own comfort, and
that of his children, could be very angry at injuries done to his
household honour and character as a hospitable English country
gentleman.

Consequently the lady smiled and tried to look self-satisfied as
she invited her guest to eat. "This is ham," said she with a little
simper, "broiled ham, Mr. Dockwrath; and there is chicken at the
other end; I think they call it--devilled."

"Shall I assist the young ladies to anything first?" said the
attorney, wishing to be polite.

"Nothing, thank you," said Miss Penelope, with a very stiff bow.
She also knew that Mr. Dockwrath was an attorney from Hamworth, and
considered herself by no means bound to hold any sort of conversation
with him.

"My daughters only eat bread and butter in the middle of the day,"
said the lady. "Creusa, my dear, will you give Mr. Dockwrath a
potato. Mr. Mason, Mr. Dockwrath will probably take a bit of that
chicken."

"I would recommend him to follow the girls' example, and confine
himself to the bread and butter," said the master of the house,
pushing about the scraps with his knife and fork. "There is nothing
here for him to eat."

"My dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Mason.

"There is nothing here for him to eat," repeated Mr. Mason. "And
as far as I can see there is nothing there either. What is it you
pretend to have in that dish?"

"My dear!" again exclaimed Mrs. Mason.

"What is it?" repeated the lord of the house in an angry tone.

"Broiled ham, Mr. Mason."

"Then let the ham be brought in," said he. "Diana, ring the bell."

"But the ham is not cooked, Mr. Mason," said the lady. "Broiled ham
is always better when it has not been first boiled."

"Is there no cold meat in the house?" he asked.

"I am afraid not," she replied, now trembling a little in
anticipation of what might be coming after the stranger should have
gone. "You never like large joints yourself, Mr. Mason; and for
ourselves we don't eat meat at luncheon."

"Nor anybody else either, here," said Mr. Mason in his anger.

"Pray don't mind me, Mr. Mason," said the attorney, "pray don't, Mr.
Mason. I am a very poor fist at lunch; I am indeed."

"I am sure I am very sorry, very sorry, Mr. Mason," continued the
lady. "If I had known that an early dinner was required, it should
have been provided;--although the notice given was so very short."

"I never dine early," said Mr. Dockwrath, thinking that some
imputation of a low way of living was conveyed in this supposition
that he required a dinner under the pseudonym of a lunch. "I never
do, upon my word--we are quite regular at home at half-past five, and
all I ever take in the middle of the day is a biscuit and a glass of
sherry,--or perhaps a bite of bread and cheese. Don't be uneasy about
me, Mrs. Mason."

The three young ladies, having now finished their repast, got up from
the table and retired, following each other out of the room in a
line. Mrs. Mason remained for a minute or two longer, and then she
also went. "The carriage has been ordered at three, Mr. M.," she
said. "Shall we have the pleasure of your company?" "No," growled
the husband. And then the lady went, sweeping a low curtsy to Mr.
Dockwrath as she passed out of the room.

There was again a silence between the host and his guest for some two
or three minutes, during which Mr. Mason was endeavouring to get the
lunch out of his head, and to redirect his whole mind to Lady Mason
and his hopes of vengeance. There is nothing perhaps so generally
consoling to a man as a well-established grievance; a feeling of
having been injured, on which his mind can brood from hour to hour,
allowing him to plead his own cause in his own court, within his
own heart,--and always to plead it successfully. At last Mr. Mason
succeeded, and he could think of his enemy's fraud and forget his
wife's meanness. "I suppose I may as well order my gig now," said Mr.
Dockwrath, as soon as his host had arrived at this happy frame of
mind.

"Your gig? ah, well. Yes. I do not know that I need detain you
any longer. I can assure you that I am much obliged to you, Mr.
Dockwrath, and I shall hope to see you in London very shortly."

"You are determined to go to Round and Crook, I suppose?"

"Oh, certainly."

"You are wrong, sir. They'll throw you over again as sure as your
name is Mason."

"Mr. Dockwrath, you must if you please allow me to judge of that
myself."

"Oh, of course, sir, of course. But I'm sure that a gentleman like
you, Mr. Mason, will understand--"

"I shall understand that I cannot expect your services, Mr.
Dockwrath,--your valuable time and services,--without remunerating
you for them. That shall be fully explained to Messrs. Round and
Crook."

"Very well, sir; very well. As long as I am paid for what I do, I am
content. A professional gentleman of course expects that. How is he
to get along else; particular with sixteen children?" And then Mr.
Dockwrath got into the gig, and was driven back to the Bull at Leeds.




CHAPTER IX.

A CONVIVIAL MEETING.


On the whole Mr. Dockwrath was satisfied with the results of his trip
to Groby Park, and was in a contented frame of mind as he was driven
back to Leeds. No doubt it would have been better could he have
persuaded Mr. Mason to throw over Messrs. Round and Crook, and put
himself altogether into the hands of his new adviser; but this had
been too much to expect. He had not expected it, and had made the
suggestion as the surest means of getting the best terms in his
power, rather than with a hope of securing the actual advantage
named. He had done much towards impressing Mr. Mason with an idea of
his own sharpness, and perhaps something also towards breaking the
prestige which surrounded the names of the great London firm. He
would now go to that firm and make his terms with them. They would
probably be quite as ready to acquiesce in the importance of his
information as had been Mr. Mason.

Before leaving the inn after breakfast he had agreed to join the
dinner in the commercial room at five o'clock, and Mr. Mason's hot
lunch had by no means induced him to alter his purpose. "I shall dine
here," he had said when Mr. Moulder was discussing with the waiter
the all-important subject of dinner. "At the commercial table sir?"
the waiter had asked, doubtingly. Mr. Dockwrath had answered boldly
in the affirmative, whereat Mr. Moulder had growled; but Mr. Kantwise
had expressed satisfaction. "We shall be extremely happy to enjoy
your company," Mr. Kantwise had said, with a graceful bow, making up
by his excessive courtesy for the want of any courtesy on the part of
his brother-traveller. With reference to all this Mr. Moulder said
nothing; the stranger had been admitted into the room, to a certain
extent even with his own consent, and he could not now be turned out;
but he resolved within his own mind that for the future he would
be more firm in maintaining the ordinances and institutes of his
profession.

On his road home, Mr. Dockwrath had encountered Mr. Kantwise going to
Groby Park, intent on his sale of a drawing-room set of the metallic
furniture; and when he again met him in the commercial room he asked
after his success. "A wonderful woman that, Mr. Dockwrath," said Mr.
Kantwise, "a really wonderful woman; no particular friend of yours I
think you say?"

"None in the least, Mr. Kantwise,"

"Then I may make bold to assert that for persevering sharpness she
beats all that I ever met, even in Yorkshire;" and Mr. Kantwise
looked at his new friend over his shoulder, and shook his head as
though lost in wonder and admiration. "What do you think she's done
now?"

"She didn't give you much to eat, I take it."

"Much to eat! I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Dockwrath; my belief is
that woman would have an absolute pleasure in starving a Christian; I
do indeed. I'll tell you what she has done; she has made me put her
up a set of them things at twelve, seventeen, six! I needn't tell you
that they were never made for the money."

"Why, then, did you part with them at a loss?"

"Well; that's the question. I was soft, I suppose. She got round me,
badgering me, till I didn't know where I was. She wanted them as a
present for the curate's wife, she said. Whatever should induce her
to make a present!"

"She got them for twelve, seventeen, six; did she?" said Dockwrath,
thinking that it might be as well to remember this, if he should feel
inclined to make a purchase himself.

"But they was strained, Mr. Dockwrath; I must admit they was
strained,--particularly the loo."

"You had gone through your gymnastics on it a little too often?"
asked the attorney. But this Mr. Kantwise would not acknowledge. The
strength of that table was such that he could stand on it for ever
without injury to it; but nevertheless, in some other way it had
become strained, and therefore he had sold the set to Mrs. Mason for
L12 17_s._ 6_d._, that lady being minded to make a costly present to
the wife of the curate of Groby.

When dinner-time came Mr. Dockwrath found that the party was swelled
to the number of eight, five other undoubted commercials having
brought themselves to anchor at the Bull Inn during the day. To all
of these, Mr. Kantwise introduced him. "Mr. Gape, Mr. Dockwrath,"
said he, gracefully moving towards them the palm of his hand, and
eyeing them over his shoulder. "Mr. Gape is in the stationery line,"
he added, in a whisper to the attorney, "and does for Cumming and
Jibber of St. Paul's Churchyard. Mr. Johnson, Mr. Dockwrath. Mr.
J. is from Sheffield. Mr. Snengkeld, Mr. Dockwrath;" and then he
imparted in another whisper the necessary information as to Mr.
Snengkeld. "Soft goods, for Brown Brothers, of Snow Hill," and so
on through the whole fraternity. Each member bowed as his name was
mentioned; but they did not do so very graciously, as Mr. Kantwise
was not a great man among them. Had the stranger been introduced to
them by Moulder,--Moulder the patriarch,--his reception among them
would have been much warmer. And then they sat down to dinner, Mr.
Moulder taking the chair as president, and Mr. Kantwise sitting
opposite to him, as being the longest sojourner at the inn. Mr.
Dockwrath sat at the right hand of Kantwise, discreetly avoiding the
neighbourhood of Moulder, and the others ranged themselves according
to fancy at the table. "Come up along side of me, old fellow,"
Moulder said to Snengkeld. "It ain't the first time that you and
I have smacked our lips together over the same bit of roast beef."
"Nor won't, I hope, be the last by a long chalk, Mr. Moulder,"
said Snengkeld, speaking with a deep, hoarse voice which seemed to
ascend from some region of his body far below his chest. Moulder and
Snengkeld were congenial spirits; but the latter, though the older
man, was not endowed with so large a volume of body or so highly
dominant a spirit. Brown Brothers, of Snow Hill, were substantial
people, and Mr. Snengkeld travelled in strict accordance with the
good old rules of trade which Moulder loved so well.

The politeness and general good manners of the company were something
very pretty to witness. Mr. Dockwrath, as a stranger, was helped
first, and every courtesy was shown to him. Even Mr. Moulder carved
the beef for him with a loving hand, and Mr. Kantwise was almost
subservient in his attention. Mr. Dockwrath thought that he had
certainly done right in coming to the commercial table, and resolved
on doing so on all occasions of future journeys. So far all was good.
The commercial dinner, as he had ascertained, would cost him only
two shillings, and a much inferior repast eaten by himself elsewhere
would have stood in his bill for three. So far all was good; but the
test by which he was to be tried was now approaching him.

When the dinner was just half over,--Mr. Moulder well knew how to
mark the time,--that gentleman called for the waiter, and whispered
an important order into that functionary's ears. The functionary
bowed, retired from the room, and reappeared again in two minutes,
bearing a bottle of sherry in each hand; one of these he deposited at
the right hand of Mr. Moulder; and the other at the right hand of Mr.
Kantwise.

"Sir," said Mr. Moulder, addressing himself with great ceremony to
Mr. Dockwrath, "the honour of a glass of wine with you, sir," and
the president, to give more importance to the occasion, put down his
knife and fork, leaned back in his chair, and put both his hands upon
his waistcoat, looking intently at the attorney out of his little
eyes.

Mr. Dockwrath was immediately aware that a crisis had come upon
him which demanded an instant decision. If he complied with the
president's invitation he would have to pay his proportion of all the
wine bill that might be incurred that evening by the seven commercial
gentlemen at the table, and he knew well that commercial gentlemen do
sometimes call for bottle after bottle with a reckless disregard of
expense. But to him, with his sixteen children, wine at an hotel was
terrible. A pint of beer and a glass of brandy and water were the
luxuries which he had promised himself, and with manly fortitude
he resolved that he would not be coerced into extravagance by any
president or any Moulder.

"Sir," said he, "I'm obliged by the honour, but I don't drink wine
to my dinner." Whereupon Mr. Moulder bowed his head very solemnly,
winked at Snengkeld, and then drank wine with that gentleman.

"It's the rule of the room," whispered Mr. Kantwise into Mr.
Dockwrath's ear; but Mr. Dockwrath pretended not to hear him, and the
matter was allowed to pass by for the time.

But Mr. Snengkeld asked him for the honour, as also did Mr. Gape,
who sat at Moulder's left hand; and then Mr. Dockwrath began to wax
angry. "I think I remarked before that I don't drink wine to my
dinner," he said; and then the three at the president's end of the
table all looked at each other very solemnly, and they all winked;
and after that there was very little conversation during the
remainder of the meal, for men knew that the goddess of discord was
in the air.

The cheese came, and with that a bottle of port wine, which was
handed round, Mr. Dockwrath of course refusing to join in the
conviviality; and then the cloth was drawn, and the decanters
were put before the president. "James, bring me a little
brandy-and-water," said the attorney, striving to put a bold face on
the matter, but yet speaking with diminished voice.

"Half a moment, if you please, sir," said Moulder; and then he
exclaimed with stentorian voice, "James, the dinner bill." "Yes,
sir," said the waiter, and disappeared without any thought towards
the requisition for brandy-and-water from Mr. Dockwrath.

For the next five minutes they all remained silent, except that Mr.
Moulder gave the Queen's health as he filled his glass and pushed
the bottles from him. "Gentlemen, the Queen," and then he lifted his
glass of port up to the light, shut one eye as he looked at it, and
immediately swallowed the contents as though he were taking a dose
of physic. "I'm afraid they'll charge you for the wine," said Mr.
Kantwise, again whispering to his neighbour. But Mr. Dockwrath paid
no apparent attention to what was said to him. He was concentrating
his energies with a view to the battle.

James, the waiter, soon returned. He also knew well what was
about to happen, and he trembled as he handed in the document to
the president. "Let's have it, James," said Moulder, with much
pleasantry, as he took the paper in his hand. "The old ticket I
suppose; five bob a head." And then he read out the bill, the total
of which, wine and beer included, came to forty shillings. "Five
shillings a head, gentlemen, as I said. You and I can make a pretty
good guess as to the figure; eh, Snengkeld?" And then he put down his
two half-crowns on the waiter, as also did Mr. Snengkeld, and then
Mr. Gape, and so on till it came to Mr. Kantwise.

"I think you and I will leave it, and settle at the bar," said
Kantwise, appealing to Dockwrath, and intending peace if peace were
still possible.

"No," shouted Moulder, from the other end of the table; "let the man
have his money now, and then his troubles will be over. If there's
to be any fuss about it, let's have it out. I like to see the dinner
bill settled as soon as the dinner is eaten. Then one gets an
appetite for one's supper."

"I don't think I have the change," said Kantwise, still putting off
the evil day.

"I'll lend, it you," said Moulder, putting his hand into his
trousers-pockets. But the money was forthcoming out of Mr. Kantwise's
own proper repositories, and with slow motion he put down the five
shillings one after the other.

And then the waiter came to Mr. Dockwrath. "What's this?" said the
attorney, taking up the bill and looking at it. The whole matter had
been sufficiently explained to him, but nevertheless Mr. Moulder
explained it again. "In commercial rooms, sir, as no doubt you must
be well aware, seeing that you have done us the honour of joining us
here, the dinner bill is divided equally among all the gentlemen as
sit down. It's the rule of the room, sir. You has what you like, and
you calls for what you like, and conwiviality is thereby encouraged.
The figure generally comes to five shillings, and you afterwards
gives what you like to the waiter. That's about it, ain't it, James?"

"That's the rule, sir, in all commercial rooms as I ever see," said
the waiter.

The matter had been so extremely well put by Mr. Moulder, and that
gentleman's words had carried with them so much conviction, that
Dockwrath felt himself almost tempted to put down the money; as far
as his sixteen children and general ideas of economy were concerned
he would have done so; but his legal mind could not bear to be
beaten. The spirit of litigation within him told him that the point
was to be carried. Moulder, Gape, and Snengkeld together could not
make him pay for wine he had neither ordered nor swallowed. His
pocket was guarded by the law of the land, and not by the laws of any
special room in which he might chance to find himself. "I shall pay
two shillings for my dinner," said he, "and sixpence for my beer;"
and then he deposited the half-crown.

"Do you mean us to understand," said Moulder, "that after forcing
your way into this room, and sitting down along with gentlemen at
this table, you refuse to abide by the rules of the room?" And Mr.
Moulder spoke and looked as though he thought that such treachery
must certainly lead to most disastrous results. The disastrous result
which a stranger might have expected at the moment would be a fit of
apoplexy on the part of the worthy president.

"I neither ordered that wine nor did I drink it," said Mr. Dockwrath,
compressing his lips, leaning back in his chair, and looking up into
one corner of the ceiling.

"The gentleman certainly did not drink the wine," said Kantwise, "I
must acknowledge that; and as for ordering it, why that was done by
the president, in course."

"Gammon!" said Mr. Moulder, and he fixed his eyes steadfastly upon
his Vice. "Kantwise, that's gammon. The most of what you says is
gammon."

"Mr. Moulder, I don't exactly know what you mean by that word gammon,
but it's objectionable. To my feelings it's very objectionable. I
say that the gentleman did not drink the wine, and I appeal to the
gentleman who sits at the gentleman's right, whether what I say
is not correct. If what I say is correct, it can't be--gammon. Mr.
Busby, did that gentleman drink the wine, or did he not?"

"Not as I see," said Mr. Busby, somewhat nervous at being thus
brought into the controversy. He was a young man just commencing his
travels, and stood in awe of the great Moulder.

"Gammon!" shouted Moulder, with a very red face. "Everybody at the
table knows he didn't drink the wine. Everybody saw that he declined
the honour when proposed, which I don't know that I ever saw a
gentleman do at a commercial table till this day, barring that he
was a teetotaller, which is gammon too. But its P.P. here, as every
commercial gentleman knows, Kantwise as well as the best of us."

"P.P., that's the rule," growled Snengkeld, almost from under the
table.

"In commercial rooms, as the gentleman must be aware, the rule is as
stated by my friend on my right," said Mr. Gape. "The wine is ordered
by the president or chairman, and is paid for in equal proportions by
the company or guests," and in his oratory Mr. Gape laid great stress
on the word "or." "The gentleman will easily perceive that such a
rule as this is necessary in such a society; and unless--"

But Mr. Gape was apt to make long speeches, and therefore Mr. Moulder
interrupted him. "You had better pay your five shillings, sir, and
have no jaw about it. The man is standing idle there."

"It's not the value of the money," said Dockwrath, "but I must
decline to acknowledge that I am amenable to the jurisdiction."

"There has clearly been a mistake," said Johnson from Sheffield, "and
we had better settle it among us; anything is better than a row."
Johnson from Sheffield was a man somewhat inclined to dispute the
supremacy of Moulder from Houndsditch.

"No, Johnson," said the president. "Anything is not better than a
row. A premeditated infraction of our rules is not better than a
row."

"Did you say premeditated?" said Kantwise. "I think not
premeditated."

"I did say premeditated, and I say it again."

"It looks uncommon like it," said Snengkeld.

"When a gentleman," said Gape, "who does not belong to a society--"

"It's no good having more talk," said Moulder, "and we'll soon
bring this to an end. Mr.--; I haven't the honour of knowing the
gentleman's name."

"My name is Dockwrath, and I am a solicitor."

"Oh, a solicitor; are you? and you said last night you was
commercial! Will you be good enough to tell us, Mr. Solicitor--for I
didn't just catch your name, except that it begins with a dock--and
that's where most of your clients are to be found, I suppose--"

"Order, order, order!" said Kantwise, holding up both his hands.

"It's the chair as is speaking," said Mr. Gape, who had a true
Englishman's notion that the chair itself could not be called to
order.

"You shouldn't insult the gentleman because he has his own ideas,"
said Johnson.

"I don't want to insult no one," continued Moulder; "and those who
know me best, among whom I can't as yet count Mr. Johnson, though
hopes I shall some day, won't say it of me." "Hear--hear--hear!"
from both Snengkeld and Gape; to which Kantwise added a little
"hear--hear!" of his own, of which Mr. Moulder did not quite approve.
"Mr. Snengkeld and Mr. Gape, they're my old friends, and they knows
me. And they knows the way of a commercial room--which some gentlemen
don't seem as though they do. I don't want to insult no one; but
as chairman here at this conwivial meeting, I asks that gentleman
who says he is a solicitor whether he means to pay his dinner bill
according to the rules of the room, or whether he don't?"

"I've paid for what I've had already," said Dockwrath, "and I don't
mean to pay for what I've not had."

"James," exclaimed Moulder,--and all the chairman was in his voice
as he spoke,--"my compliments to Mr. Crump, and I will request his
attendance for five minutes;" and then James left the room, and there
was silence for a while, during which the bottles made their round of
the table.

"Hadn't we better send back the pint of wine which Mr. Dockwrath
hasn't used?" suggested Kantwise.

"I'm d---- if we do!" replied Moulder, with much energy; and the
general silence was not again broken till Mr. Crump made his
appearance; but the chairman whispered a private word or two to his
friend Snengkeld. "I never sent back ordered liquor to the bar yet,
unless it was bad; and I'm not going to begin now."

And then Mr. Crump came in. Mr. Crump was a very clean-looking
person, without any beard; and dressed from head to foot in black. He
was about fifty, with grizzly gray hair, which stood upright on his
head, and his face at the present moment wore on it an innkeeper's
smile. But it could also assume an innkeeper's frown, and on
occasions did so--when bills were disputed, or unreasonable strangers
thought that they knew the distance in posting miles round the
neighbourhood of Leeds better than did he, Mr. Crump, who had lived
at the Bull Inn all his life. But Mr. Crump rarely frowned on
commercial gentlemen, from whom was derived the main stay of his
business and the main prop of his house.

"Mr. Crump," began Moulder, "here has occurred a very unpleasant
transaction."

"I know all about it, gentlemen," said Mr. Crump. "The waiter has
acquainted me, and I can assure you, gentlemen, that I am extremely
sorry that anything should have arisen to disturb the harmony of your
dinner-table."

"We must now call upon you, Mr. Crump," began Mr. Moulder, who was
about to demand that Dockwrath should be turned bodily out of the
room.

"If you'll allow me one moment, Mr. Moulder," continued Mr. Crump,
"and I'll tell you what is my suggestion. The gentleman here, who I
understand is a lawyer, does not wish to comply with the rules of the
commercial room."

"I certainly don't wish or intend to pay for drink that I didn't
order and haven't had," said Dockwrath.

"Exactly," said Mr. Crump. "And therefore, gentlemen, to get out of
the difficulty, we'll presume, if you please, that the bill is paid."

"The lawyer, as you call him, will have to leave the room," said
Moulder.

"Perhaps he will not object to step over to the coffee-room on the
other side," suggested the landlord.

"I can't think of leaving my seat here under such circumstances,"
said Dockwrath.

"You can't," said Moulder. "Then you must be made, as I take it."

"Let me see the man that will make me," said Dockwrath.

Mr. Crump looked very apologetic and not very comfortable. "There
is a difficulty, gentlemen; there is a difficulty, indeed," he said.
"The fact is, the gentleman should not have been showed into the room
at all;" and he looked very angrily at his own servant, James.

"He said he was 'mercial," said James. "So he did. Now he says as how
he's a lawyer. What's a poor man to do?"

"I'm a commercial lawyer," said Dockwrath.

"He must leave the room, or I shall leave the house," said Moulder.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" said Crump. "This kind of thing does not
happen often, and on this occasion I must try your kind patience. If
Mr. Moulder would allow me to suggest that the commercial gentlemen
should take their wine in the large drawing-room up stairs this
evening, Mrs. C. will do her best to make it comfortable for them in
five minutes. There of course they can be private."

There was something in the idea of leaving Mr. Dockwrath alone in his
glory which appeased the spirit of the great Moulder. He had known
Crump, moreover, for many years, and was aware that it would be a
dangerous, and probably an expensive proceeding to thrust out the
attorney by violence. "If the other gentlemen are agreeable, I am,"
said he. The other gentlemen were agreeable, and, with the exception
of Kantwise, they all rose from their chairs.

"I must say I think you ought to leave the room as you don't
choose to abide by the rules," said Johnson, addressing himself to
Dockwrath.

"That's your opinion," said Dockwrath.

"Yes, it is," said Johnson. "That's my opinion."

"My own happens to be different," said Dockwrath; and so he kept his
chair.

"There, Mr. Crump," said Moulder, taking half a crown from his pocket
and throwing it on the table. "I sha'n't see you at a loss."

"Thank you, sir," said Mr. Crump; and he very humbly took up the
money.

"I keep a little account for charity at home," said Moulder.

"It don't run very high, do it?" asked Snengkeld, jocosely.

"Not out of the way, it don't. But now I shall have the pleasure of
writing down in it that I paid half a crown for a lawyer who couldn't
afford to settle his own dinner bill. Sir, we have the pleasure of
wishing you a good night."

"I hope you'll find the large drawing-room up stairs quite
comfortable," said Dockwrath.

And then they all marched out of the room, each with his own glass,
Mr. Moulder leading the way with stately step. It was pleasant to see
them as they all followed their leader across the open passage of the
gateway, in by the bar, and so up the chief staircase. Mr. Moulder
walked slowly, bearing the bottle of port and his own glass, and
Mr. Snengkeld and Mr. Gape followed in line, bearing also their
own glasses, and maintaining the dignity of their profession under
circumstances of some difficulty.

[Illustration: And then they all marched out of the room,
each with his own glass.]

"Gentlemen, I really am sorry for this little accident," said Mr.
Crump, as they were passing the bar; "but a lawyer, you know--"

"And such a lawyer, eh, Crump?" said Moulder.

"It might be five-and-twenty pound to me to lay a hand on him!" said
the landlord.

When the time came for Mr. Kantwise to move, he considered the matter
well. The chances, however, as he calculated them, were against any
profitable business being done with the attorney, so he also left the
room. "Good night, sir," he said as he went. "I wish you a very good
night."

"Take care of yourself," said Dockwrath; and then the attorney spent
the rest of the evening alone.




CHAPTER X.

MR., MRS., AND MISS FURNIVAL.


I will now ask my readers to come with me up to London, in order
that I may introduce them to the family of the Furnivals. We shall
see much of the Furnivals before we reach the end of our present
undertaking, and it will be well that we should commence our
acquaintance with them as early as may be done.

Mr. Furnival was a lawyer--I mean a barrister--belonging to Lincoln's
Inn, and living at the time at which our story is supposed to
commence in Harley Street. But he had not been long a resident in
Harley Street, having left the less fashionable neighbourhood of
Russell Square only two or three years before that period. On his
marriage he had located himself in a small house in Keppel Street,
and had there remained till professional success, long waited for,
enabled him to move further west, and indulge himself with the
comforts of larger rooms and more servants. At the time of which I am
now speaking Mr. Furnival was known, and well known, as a successful
man; but he had struggled long and hard before that success had come
to him, and during the earliest years of his married life had found
the work of keeping the wolf from the door to be almost more than
enough for his energies.

Mr. Furnival practised at the common law bar, and early in life had
attached himself to the home circuit. I cannot say why he obtained no
great success till he was nearer fifty than forty years of age. At
that time I fancy that barristers did not come to their prime till
a period of life at which other men are supposed to be in their
decadence. Nevertheless, he had married on nothing, and had kept the
wolf from the door. To do this he had been constant at his work in
season and out of season, during the long hours of day and the long
hours of night. Throughout his term times he had toiled in court,
and during the vacations he had toiled out of court. He had reported
volumes of cases, having been himself his own short-hand writer,--as
it is well known to most young lawyers, who as a rule always fill
an upper shelf in their law libraries with Furnival and Staples'
seventeen volumes in calf. He had worked for the booksellers, and for
the newspapers, and for the attorneys,--always working, however, with
reference to the law; and though he had worked for years with the
lowest pay, no man had heard him complain. That no woman had heard
him do so, I will not say; as it is more than probable that into the
sympathising ears of Mrs. Furnival he did pour forth plaints as to
the small wages which the legal world meted out to him in return for
his labours. He was a constant, hard, patient man, and at last there
came to him the full reward of all his industry. What was the special
case by which Mr. Furnival obtained his great success no man could
say. In all probability there was no special case. Gradually it
began to be understood that he was a safe man, understanding his
trade, true to his clients, and very damaging as an opponent. Legal
gentlemen are, I believe, quite as often bought off as bought up. Sir
Richard and Mr. Furnival could not both be required on the same side,
seeing what a tower of strength each was in himself; but then Sir
Richard would be absolutely neutralized if Mr. Furnival were employed
on the other side. This is a system well understood by attorneys, and
has been found to be extremely lucrative by gentlemen leading at the
bar.

Mr. Furnival was now fifty-five years of age, and was beginning
to show in his face some traces of his hard work. Not that he was
becoming old, or weak, or worn; but his eye had lost its fire--except
the fire peculiar to his profession; and there were wrinkles in his
forehead and cheeks; and his upper lip, except when he was speaking,
hung heavily over the lower; and the loose skin below his eye was
forming into saucers; and his hair had become grizzled; and on his
shoulders, except when in court, there was a slight stoop. As seen in
his wig and gown he was a man of commanding presence,--and for ten
men in London who knew him in this garb, hardly one knew him without
it. He was nearly six feet high, and stood forth prominently, with
square, broad shoulders and a large body. His head also was large;
his forehead was high, and marked strongly by signs of intellect; his
nose was long and straight, his eyes were very gray, and capable to
an extraordinary degree both of direct severity and of concealed
sarcasm. Witnesses have been heard to say that they could endure
all that Mr. Furnival could say to them, and continue in some sort
to answer all his questions, if only he would refrain from looking
at them. But he would never refrain; and therefore it was now well
understood how great a thing it was to secure the services of Mr.
Furnival. "Sir," an attorney would say to an unfortunate client
doubtful as to the expenditure, "your witnesses will not be able to
stand in the box if we allow Mr. Furnival to be engaged on the other
side." I am inclined to think that Mr. Furnival owed to this power of
his eyes his almost unequalled perfection in that peculiar branch of
his profession. His voice was powerful, and not unpleasant when used
within the precincts of a court, though it grated somewhat harshly on
the ears in the smaller compass of a private room. His flow of words
was free and good, and seemed to come from him without the slightest
effort. Such at least was always the case with him when standing
wigged and gowned before a judge. Latterly, however, he had tried his
eloquence on another arena, and not altogether with equal success. He
was now in Parliament, sitting as member for the Essex Marshes, and
he had not as yet carried either the country or the House with him,
although he had been frequently on his legs. Some men said that
with a little practice he would yet become very serviceable as an
honourable and learned member; but others expressed a fear that he
had come too late in life to these new duties.

I have spoken of Mr. Furnival's great success in that branch of
his profession which required from him the examination of evidence,
but I would not have it thought that he was great only in this, or
even mainly in this. There are gentlemen at the bar, among whom
I may perhaps notice my old friend Mr. Chaffanbrass as the most
conspicuous, who have confined their talents to the browbeating
of witnesses,--greatly to their own profit, and no doubt to the
advantage of society. But I would have it understood that Mr.
Furnival was by no means one of these. He had been no Old Bailey
lawyer, devoting himself to the manumission of murderers, or the
security of the swindling world in general. He had been employed on
abstruse points of law, had been great in will cases, very learned as
to the rights of railways, peculiarly apt in enforcing the dowries of
married women, and successful above all things in separating husbands
and wives whose lives had not been passed in accordance with the
recognised rules of Hymen. Indeed there is no branch of the Common
Law in which he was not regarded as great and powerful, though
perhaps his proficiency in damaging the general characters of his
opponents has been recognised as his especial forte. Under these
circumstances I should grieve to have him confounded with such men
as Mr. Chaffanbrass, who is hardly known by the profession beyond
the precincts of his own peculiar court in the City. Mr. Furnival's
reputation has spread itself wherever stuff gowns and horsehair wigs
are held in estimation.

Mr. Furnival when clothed in his forensic habiliments certainly
possessed a solemn and severe dignity which had its weight even with
the judges. Those who scrutinised his appearance critically might
have said that it was in some respects pretentious; but the ordinary
jurymen of this country are not critical scrutinisers of appearance,
and by them he was never held in light estimation. When in his
addresses to them, appealing to their intelligence, education, and
enlightened justice, he would declare that the property of his
clients was perfectly safe in their hands, he looked to be such an
advocate as a litigant would fain possess when dreading the soundness
of his own cause. Any cause was sound to him when once he had been
feed for its support, and he carried in his countenance his assurance
of this soundness,--and the assurance of unsoundness in the cause of
his opponent. Even he did not always win; but on the occasion of his
losing, those of the uninitiated who had heard the pleadings would
express their astonishment that he should not have been successful.

When he was divested of his wig his appearance was not so perfect.
There was then a hard, long straightness about his head and face,
giving to his countenance the form of a parallelogram, to which there
belonged a certain meanness of expression. He wanted the roundness of
forehead, the short lines, and the graceful curves of face which are
necessary to unadorned manly comeliness. His whiskers were small,
grizzled, and ill grown, and required the ample relief of his wig.
In no guise did he look other than a clever man; but in his dress as
a simple citizen he would perhaps be taken as a clever man in whose
tenderness of heart and cordiality of feeling one would not at first
sight place implicit trust.

As a poor man Mr. Furnival had done his duty well by his wife and
family,--for as a poor man he had been blessed with four children.
Three of these had died as they were becoming men and women, and now,
as a rich man, he was left with one daughter, an only child. As a
poor man Mr. Furnival had been an excellent husband, going forth
in the morning to his work, struggling through the day, and then
returning to his meagre dinner and his long evenings of unremitting
drudgery. The bodily strength which had supported him through his
work in those days must have been immense, for he had allowed himself
no holidays. And then success and money had come,--and Mrs. Furnival
sometimes found herself not quite so happy as she had been when
watching beside him in the days of their poverty.

The equal mind,--as mortal Delius was bidden to remember, and as Mr.
Furnival might also have remembered had time been allowed him to
cultivate the classics,--the equal mind should be as sedulously
maintained when things run well, as well as when they run hardly;
and perhaps the maintenance of such equal mind is more difficult in
the former than in the latter stage of life. Be that as it may, Mr.
Furnival could now be very cross on certain domestic occasions, and
could also be very unjust. And there was worse than this,--much worse
behind. He, who in the heyday of his youth would spend night after
night poring over his books, copying out reports, and never asking to
see a female habiliment brighter or more attractive than his wife's
Sunday gown, he, at the age of fifty-five, was now running after
strange goddesses! The member for the Essex Marshes, in these his
latter days, was obtaining for himself among other successes the
character of a Lothario; and Mrs. Furnival, sitting at home in her
genteel drawing-room near Cavendish Square, would remember with
regret the small dingy parlour in Keppel Street.

Mrs. Furnival in discussing her grievances would attribute them
mainly to port wine. In his early days Mr. Furnival had been
essentially an abstemious man. Young men who work fifteen hours a day
must be so. But now he had a strong opinion about certain Portuguese
vintages, was convinced that there was no port wine in London equal
to the contents of his own bin, saving always a certain green cork
appertaining to his own club, which was to be extracted at the rate
of thirty shillings a cork. And Mrs. Furnival attributed to these
latter studies not only a certain purple hue which was suffusing his
nose and cheeks, but also that unevenness of character and those
supposed domestic improprieties to which allusion has been made. It
may, however, be as well to explain that Mrs. Ball, the old family
cook and housekeeper, who had ascended with the Furnivals in the
world, opined that made-dishes did the mischief. He dined out too
often, and was a deal too particular about his dinner when he dined
at home. If Providence would see fit to visit him with a sharp attack
of the gout, it would--so thought Mrs. Ball--be better for all
parties.

Whether or no it may have been that Mrs. Furnival at fifty-five--for
she and her lord were of the same age--was not herself as attractive
in her husband's eyes as she had been at thirty, I will not pretend
to say. There can have been no just reason for any such change in
feeling, seeing that the two had grown old together. She, poor woman,
would have been quite content with the attentions of Mr. Furnival,
though his hair was grizzled and his nose was blue; nor did she ever
think of attracting to herself the admiration of any swain whose
general comeliness might be more free from all taint of age. Why then
should he wander afield--at the age of fifty-five? That he did wander
afield, poor Mrs. Furnival felt in her agony convinced; and among
those ladies whom on this account she most thoroughly detested was
our friend Lady Mason of Orley Farm. Lady Mason and the lawyer had
first become acquainted in the days of the trial, now long gone
by, on which occasion Mr. Furnival had been employed as the junior
counsel; and that acquaintance had ripened into friendship, and now
flourished in full vigour,--to Mrs. Furnival's great sorrow and
disturbance.

Mrs. Furnival herself was a stout, solid woman, sensible on most
points, but better adapted, perhaps, to the life in Keppel Street
than that to which she had now been promoted. As Kitty Blacker she
had possessed feminine charms which would have been famous had
they been better known. Mr. Furnival had fetched her from farther
East--from the region of Great Ormond street and the neighbourhood of
Southampton Buildings. Her cherry cheeks, and her round eye, and her
full bust, and her fresh lip, had conquered the hard-tasked lawyer;
and so they had gone forth to fight the world together. Her eye
was still round, and her cheek red, and her bust full,--there had
certainly been no falling off there; nor will I say that her lip had
lost its freshness. But the bloom of her charms had passed away, and
she was now a solid, stout, motherly woman, not bright in converse,
but by no means deficient in mother-wit, recognizing well the duties
which she owed to others, but recognizing equally well those which
others owed to her. All the charms of her youth--had they not been
given to him, and also all her solicitude, all her anxious fighting
with the hard world? When they had been poor together, had she not
patched and turned and twisted, sitting silently by his side into the
long nights, because she would not ask him for the price of a new
dress? And yet now, now that they were rich--? Mrs. Furnival, when
she put such questions within her own mind, could hardly answer this
latter one with patience. Others might be afraid of the great Mr.
Furnival in his wig and gown; others might be struck dumb by his
power of eye and mouth; but she, she, the wife of his bosom, she
could catch him without his armour. She would so catch him and let
him know what she thought of all her wrongs. So she said to herself
many a day, and yet the great deed, in all its explosiveness, had
never yet been done. Small attacks of words there had been many, but
hitherto the courage to speak out her griefs openly had been wanting
to her.

I can now allow myself but a small space to say a few words of Sophia
Furnival, and yet in that small space must be confined all the direct
description which can be given of one of the principal personages
of this story. At nineteen Miss Furnival was in all respects a
young woman. She was forward in acquirements, in manner, in general
intelligence, and in powers of conversation. She was a handsome, tall
girl, with expressive gray eyes and dark-brown hair. Her mouth, and
hair, and a certain motion of her neck and turn of her head, had come
to her from her mother, but her eyes were those of her father: they
were less sharp perhaps, less eager after their prey; but they were
bright as his had been bright, and sometimes had in them more of
absolute command than he was ever able to throw into his own.

Their golden days had come on them at a period of her life which
enabled her to make a better use of them than her mother could do.
She never felt herself to be struck dumb by rank or fashion, nor did
she in the drawing-rooms of the great ever show signs of an Eastern
origin. She could adapt herself without an effort to the manners of
Cavendish Square;--ay, and if need were, to the ways of more glorious
squares even than that. Therefore was her father never ashamed to be
seen with her on his arm in the houses of his new friends, though on
such occasions he was willing enough to go out without disturbing the
repose of his wife. No mother could have loved her children with a
warmer affection than that which had warmed the heart of poor Mrs.
Furnival; but under such circumstances as these was it singular that
she should occasionally become jealous of her own daughter?

Sophia Furnival was, as I have said, a clever, attractive girl,
handsome, well-read, able to hold her own with the old as well as
with the young, capable of hiding her vanity if she had any, mild
and gentle to girls less gifted, animated in conversation, and yet
possessing an eye that could fall softly to the ground, as a woman's
eye always should fall upon occasions.

Nevertheless she was not altogether charming. "I don't feel quite
sure that she is real," Mrs. Orme had said of her, when on a certain
occasion Miss Furnival had spent a day and a night at The Cleeve.




CHAPTER XI.

MRS. FURNIVAL AT HOME.


Lucius Mason on his road to Liverpool had passed through London,
and had found a moment to call in Harley Street. Since his return
from Germany he had met Miss Furnival both at home at his mother's
house--or rather his own--and at The Cleeve. Miss Furnival had been
in the neighbourhood, and had spent two days with the great people at
The Cleeve, and one day with the little people at Orley Farm. Lucius
Mason had found that she was a sensible girl, capable of discussing
great subjects with him; and had possibly found some other charms in
her. Therefore he had called in Harley Street.

On that occasion he could only call as he passed through London
without delay; but he received such encouragement as induced him to
spend a night in town on his return, in order that he might accept an
invitation to drink tea with the Furnivals. "We shall be very happy
to see you," Mrs. Furnival had said, backing the proposition which
had come from her daughter without any very great fervour; "but I
fear Mr. Furnival will not be at home. Mr. Furnival very seldom is at
home now." Young Mason did not much care for fervour on the part of
Sophia's mother, and therefore had accepted the invitation, though he
was obliged by so doing to curtail by some hours his sojourn among
the guano stores of Liverpool.

It was the time of year at which few people are at home in London,
being the middle of October; but Mrs. Furnival was a lady of whom at
such periods it was not very easy to dispose. She could have made
herself as happy as a queen even at Margate, if it could have suited
Furnival and Sophia to be happy at Margate with her. But this did not
suit Furnival or Sophia. As regards money, any or almost all other
autumnal resorts were open to her, but she could be contented at
none of them because Mr. Furnival always pleaded that business--law
business or political business--took him elsewhere. Now Mrs. Furnival
was a woman who did not like to be deserted, and who could not, in
the absence of those social joys which Providence had vouchsafed to
her as her own, make herself happy with the society of other women
such as herself. Furnival was her husband, and she wanted him to
carve for her, to sit opposite to her at the breakfast table, to tell
her the news of the day, and to walk to church with her on Sundays.
They had been made one flesh and one bone, for better and worse,
thirty years since; and now in her latter days she could not put up
with disseveration and dislocation.

She had gone down to Brighton in August, soon after the House broke
up, and there found that very handsome apartments had been taken for
her--rooms that would have made glad the heart of many a lawyer's
wife. She had, too, the command of a fly, done up to look like
a private brougham, a servant in livery, the run of the public
assembly-rooms, a sitting in the centre of the most fashionable
church in Brighton--all that the heart of woman could desire. All
but the one thing was there; but, that one thing being absent, she
came moodily back to town at the end of September. She would have
exchanged them all with a happy heart for very moderate accommodation
at Margate, could she have seen Mr. Furnival's blue nose on the other
side of the table every morning and evening as she sat over her
shrimps and tea.

Men who had risen in the world as Mr. Furnival had done do find it
sometimes difficult to dispose of their wives. It is not that the
ladies are in themselves more unfit for rising than their lords, or
that if occasion demanded they would not as readily adapt themselves
to new spheres. But they do not rise, and occasion does not demand
it. A man elevates his wife to his own rank, and when Mr. Brown,
on becoming solicitor-general, becomes Sir Jacob, Mrs. Brown also
becomes my lady. But the whole set among whom Brown must be more
or less thrown do not want her ladyship. On Brown's promotion she
did not become part of the bargain. Brown must henceforth have two
existences--a public and a private existence; and it will be well for
Lady Brown, and well also for Sir Jacob, if the latter be not allowed
to dwindle down to a minimum.

If Lady B. can raise herself also, if she can make her own
occasion--if she be handsome and can flirt, if she be impudent and
can force her way, if she have a daring mind and can commit great
expenditure, if she be clever and can make poetry, if she can in
any way create a separate glory for herself, then, indeed, Sir Jacob
with his blue nose may follow his own path, and all will be well.
Sir Jacob's blue nose seated opposite to her will not be her summum
bonum.

But worthy Mrs. Furnival--and she was worthy--had created for herself
no such separate glory, nor did she dream of creating it; and
therefore she had, as it were, no footing left to her. On this
occasion she had gone to Brighton, and had returned from it sulky
and wretched, bringing her daughter back to London at the period of
London's greatest desolation. Sophia had returned uncomplaining,
remembering that good things were in store for her. She had been
asked to spend her Christmas with the Staveleys at Noningsby--the
family of Judge Staveley, who lives near Alston, at a very pretty
country place so called. Mr. Furnival had been for many years
acquainted with Judge Staveley,--had known the judge when he was a
leading counsel; and now that Mr. Furnival was a rising man, and
now that he had a pretty daughter, it was natural that the young
Staveleys and Sophia Furnival should know each other. But poor Mrs.
Furnival was too ponderous for this mounting late in life, and she
had not been asked to Noningsby. She was much too good a mother to
repine at her daughter's promised gaiety. Sophia was welcome to go;
but by all the laws of God and man it would behove her lord and
husband to eat his mincepie at home.

"Mr. Furnival was to be back in town this evening," the lady said, as
though apologizing to young Mason for her husband's absence, when he
entered the drawing-room, "but he has not come, and I dare say will
not come now."

Mason did not care a straw for Mr. Furnival. "Oh! won't he?" said he.
"I suppose business keeps him."

"Papa is very busy about politics just at present," said Sophia,
wishing to make matters smooth in her mother's mind. "He was obliged
to be at Romford in the beginning of the week, and then he went down
to Birmingham. There is some congress going on there, is there not?"

"All that must take a great deal of time," said Lucius.

"Yes; and it is a terrible bore," said Sophia. "I know papa finds it
so."

"Your papa likes it, I believe," said Mrs. Furnival, who would not
hide even her grievances under a bushel.

"I don't think he likes being so much from home, mamma. Of course he
likes excitement, and success. All men do. Do they not, Mr. Mason?"

"They all ought to do so, and women also."

"Ah! but women have no sphere, Mr. Mason."

"They have minds equal to those of men," said Lucius, gallantly, "and
ought to be able to make for themselves careers as brilliant."

"Women ought not to have any spheres," said Mrs. Furnival.

"I don't know that I quite agree with you there, mamma."

"The world is becoming a great deal too fond of what you call
excitement and success. Of course it is a good thing for a man to
make money by his profession, and a very hard thing when he can't do
it," added Mrs. Furnival, thinking of the olden days. "But if success
in life means rampaging about, and never knowing what it is to sit
quiet over his own fireside, I for one would as soon manage to do
without it."

"But, mamma, I don't see why success should always be rampageous."

"Literary women who have achieved a name bear their honours quietly,"
said Lucius.

"I don't know," said Mrs. Furnival. "I am told that some of them are
as fond of gadding as the men. As regards the old maids, I don't care
so much about it; people who are not married may do what they like
with themselves, and nobody has anything to say to them. But it
is very different for married people. They have no business to be
enticed away from their homes by any success."

"Mamma is all for a Darby and Joan life," said Sophia, laughing.

"No I am not, my dear; and you should not say so. I don't advocate
anything that is absurd. But I do say that life should be lived at
home. That is the best part of it. What is the meaning of home if it
isn't that?"

Poor Mrs. Furnival! she had no idea that she was complaining to a
stranger of her husband. Had any one told her so she would have
declared that she was discussing world-wide topics; but Lucius Mason,
young as he was, knew that the marital shoe was pinching the lady's
domestic corn, and he made haste to change the subject.

"You know my mother, Mrs. Furnival?"

Mrs. Furnival said that she had the honour of acquaintance with Lady
Mason; but on this occasion also she exhibited but little fervour.

"I shall meet her up in town to-morrow," said Lucius. "She is coming
up for some shopping."

"Oh! indeed," said Mrs. Furnival.

"And then we go down home together. I am to meet her at the chymist's
at the top of Chancery Lane."

Now this was a very unnecessary communication on the part of young
Mason, and also an unfortunate one. "Oh! indeed," said Mrs. Furnival
again, throwing her head a little back. Poor woman! she could not
conceal what was in her mind, and her daughter knew all about it
immediately. The truth was this. Mr. Furnival had been for some days
on the move, at Birmingham and elsewhere, and had now sent up sudden
notice that he should probably be at home that very night. He should
probably be at home that night, but in such case would be compelled
to return to his friends at Birmingham on the following afternoon.
Now if it were an ascertained fact that he was coming to London
merely with the view of meeting Lady Mason, the wife of his bosom
would not think it necessary to provide for him the warmest welcome.
This of course was not an ascertained fact; but were there not
terrible grounds of suspicion? Mr. Furnival's law chambers were in
Old Square, Lincoln's Inn, close to Chancery Lane, and Lady Mason had
made her appointment with her son within five minutes' walk of that
locality. And was it not in itself a strange coincidence that Lady
Mason, who came to town so seldom, should now do so on the very day
of Mr. Furnival's sudden return? She felt sure that they were to meet
on the morrow, but yet she could not declare even to herself that it
was an ascertained fact.

"Oh! indeed," she said; and Sophia understood all about it, though
Lucius did not.

Then Mrs. Furnival sank into silence; and we need not follow, word
for word, the conversation between the young lady and the young
gentleman. Mr. Mason thought that Miss Furnival was a very nice girl,
and was not at all ill pleased to have an opportunity of passing
an evening in her company; and Miss Furnival thought--. What she
thought, or what young ladies may think generally about young
gentlemen, is not to be spoken openly; but it seemed as though she
also were employed to her own satisfaction, while her mother sat
moody in her own arm-chair. In the course of the evening the footman
in livery brought in tea, handing it round on a big silver salver,
which also added to Mrs. Furnival's unhappiness. She would have
liked to sit behind her tea-tray as she used to do in the good
old hard-working days, with a small pile of buttered toast on
the slop-bowl, kept warm by hot water below. In those dear old
hard-working days, buttered toast had been a much-loved delicacy
with Furnival; and she, kind woman, had never begrudged her eyes, as
she sat making it for him over the parlour fire. Nor would she have
begrudged them now, neither her eyes nor the work of her hands, nor
all the thoughts of her heart, if he would have consented to accept
of her handiwork; but in these days Mr. Furnival had learned a relish
for other delicacies.

She also had liked buttered toast, always, however, taking the pieces
with the upper crust, in order that the more luscious morsels might
be left for him; and she had liked to prepare her own tea leisurely,
putting in slowly the sugar and cream--skimmed milk it had used to
be, dropped for herself with a sparing hand, in order that his large
breakfast-cup might be whitened to his liking; but though the milk
had been skimmed and scanty, and though the tea itself had been put
in with a sparing hand, she had then been mistress of the occasion.
She had had her own way, and in stinting herself had found her own
reward. But now--the tea had no flavour now that it was made in the
kitchen and brought to her, cold and vapid, by a man in livery whom
she half feared to keep waiting while she ministered to her own
wants.

And so she sat moody in her arm-chair, cross and sulky, as her
daughter thought. But yet there was a vein of poetry in her heart, as
she sat there, little like a sibyl as she looked. Dear old days, in
which her cares and solicitude were valued; in which she could do
something for the joint benefit of the firm into which she had been
taken as a partner! How happy she had been in her struggles, how
piteously had her heart yearned towards him when she thought that he
was struggling too fiercely, how brave and constant he had been; and
how she had loved him as he sat steady as a rock at his grinding
work! Now had come the great success of which they had both dreamed
together, of which they had talked as arm in arm they were taking the
exercise that was so needful to him, walking quickly round Russell
Square, quickly round Bloomsbury Square and Bedford Square, and so
back to the grinding work in Keppel Street. It had come now--all of
which they had dreamed, and more than all they had dared to hope.
But of what good was it? Was he happy? No; he was fretful, bilious,
and worn with toil which was hard to him because he ate and drank
too much; he was ill at ease in public, only half understanding the
political life which he was obliged to assume in his new ambition;
and he was sick in his conscience--she was sure that must be so: he
could not thus neglect her, his loving, constant wife, without some
pangs of remorse. And was she happy? She might have revelled in silks
and satins, if silks and satins would have done her old heart good.
But they would do her no good. How she had joyed in a new dress when
it had been so hard to come by, so slow in coming, and when he would
go with her to the choosing of it! But her gowns now were hardly
of more interest to her than the joints of meat which the butcher
brought to the door with the utmost regularity. It behoved the
butcher to send good beef and the milliner to send good silk, and
there was an end of it.

Not but what she could have been ecstatic about a full skirt on a
smart body if he would have cared to look at it. In truth she was
still soft and young enough within, though stout, and solid, and
somewhat aged without. Though she looked cross and surly that night,
there was soft poetry within her heart. If Providence, who had
bountifully given, would now by chance mercifully take away those
gifts, would she not then forgive everything and toil for him again
with the same happiness as before? Ah! yes; she could forgive
everything, anything, if he would only return and be contented to
sit opposite to her once again. "O mortal Delius, dearest lord and
husband!" she exclaimed within her own breast, in language somewhat
differing from that of the Roman poet, "why hast thou not remembered
to maintain a mind equal in prosperity as it was always equal and
well poised in adversity? Oh my Delius, since prosperity has been too
much for thee, may the Lord bless thee once more with the adversity
which thou canst bear--which thou canst bear, and I with thee!" Thus
did she sing sadly within her own bosom,--sadly, but with true poetic
cadence; while Sophia and Lucius Mason, sitting by, when for a moment
they turned their eyes upon her, gave her credit only for the cross
solemnity supposed to be incidental to obese and declining years.

And then there came a ring at the bell and a knock at the door, and a
rush along the nether passages, and the lady knew that he of whom she
had been thinking had arrived. In olden days she had ever met him in
the narrow passage, and, indifferent to the maid, she had hung about
his neck and kissed him in the hall. But now she did not stir from
the chair. She could forgive him all and run again at the sound of
his footstep, but she must first know that such forgiveness and such
running would be welcome.

"That's papa," said Sophia.

"Don't forget that I have not met him since I have been home from
Germany," said Lucius. "You must introduce me."

In a minute or two Mr. Furnival opened the door and walked into the
room. Men when they arrive from their travels now-a-days have no
strippings of greatcoats, no deposits to make of thick shawls and
double gloves, no absolutely necessary changes of raiment. Such had
been the case when he had used to come back cold and weary from the
circuits; but now he had left Birmingham since dinner by the late
express, and enjoyed his nap in the train for two hours or so, and
walked into his own drawing-room as he might have done had he dined
in his own dining-room.

"How are you, Kitty?" he said to his wife, handing to her the
forefinger of his right hand by way of greeting. "Well, Sophy, my
love;" and he kissed his daughter. "Oh! Lucius Mason. I am very glad
to see you. I can't say I should have remembered you unless I had
been told. You are very welcome in Harley Street, and I hope you will
often be here."

[Illustration: Mr. Furnival's welcome home.]

"It's not very often he'd find you at home, Mr. Furnival," said the
aggrieved wife.

"Not so often as I could wish just at present; but things will be
more settled, I hope, before very long. How's your mother, Lucius?"

"She's pretty well, thank you, sir. I've to meet her in town
to-morrow, and go down home with her."

There was then silence in the room for a few seconds, during which
Mrs. Furnival looked very sharply at her husband. "Oh! she's to be in
town, is she?" said Mr. Furnival, after a moment's consideration. He
was angry with Lady Mason at the moment for having put him into this
position. Why had she told her son that she was to be up in London,
thus producing conversation and tittle-tattle which made deceit on
his part absolutely necessary? Lady Mason's business in London was
of a nature which would not bear much open talking. She herself, in
her earnest letter summoning Mr. Furnival up from Birmingham, had
besought him that her visit to his chambers might not be made matter
of discussion. New troubles might be coming on her, but also they
might not; and she was very anxious that no one should know that
she was seeking a lawyer's advice on the matter. To all this Mr.
Furnival had given in his adhesion; and yet she had put it into her
son's power to come to his drawing-room and chatter there of her
whereabouts. For a moment or two he doubted; but at the expiration of
those moments he saw that the deceit was necessary. "She's to be in
town, is she?" said he. The reader will of course observe that this
deceit was practised, not as between husband and wife with reference
to an assignation with a lady, but between the lawyer and the outer
world with reference to a private meeting with a client. But then it
is sometimes so difficult to make wives look at such matters in the
right light.

"She's coming up for some shopping," said Lucius.

"Oh! indeed," said Mrs. Furnival. She would not have spoken if she
could have helped it, but she could not help it; and then there
was silence in the room for a minute or two, which Lucius vainly
endeavoured to break by a few indifferent observations to Miss
Furnival. The words, however, which he uttered would not take the
guise of indifferent observations, but fell flatly on their ears, and
at the same time solemnly, as though spoken with the sole purpose of
creating sound.

"I hope you have been enjoying yourself at Birmingham," said Mrs.
Furnival.

"Enjoyed myself! I did not exactly go there for enjoyment."

"Or at Romford, where you were before?"

"Women seem to think that men have no purpose but amusement when they
go about their daily work," said Mr. Furnival; and then he threw
himself back in his arm-chair, and took up the last Quarterly.

Lucius Mason soon perceived that all the harmony of the evening had
in some way been marred by the return of the master of the house, and
that he might be in the way if he remained; he therefore took his
leave.

"I shall want breakfast punctually at half-past eight to-morrow
morning," said Mr. Furnival, as soon as the stranger had withdrawn.
"I must be in chambers before ten;" and then he took his candle and
withdrew to his own room.

Sophia rang the bell and gave the servant the order; but Mrs.
Furnival took no trouble in the matter whatever. In the olden days
she would have bustled down before she went to bed, and have seen
herself that everything was ready, so that the master of the house
might not be kept waiting. But all this was nothing to her now.




CHAPTER XII.

MR. FURNIVAL'S CHAMBERS.


Mr. Furnival's chambers were on the first floor in a very dingy
edifice in Old Square, Lincoln's Inn. This square was always dingy,
even when it was comparatively open and served as the approach from
Chancery Lane to the Lord Chancellor's Court; but now it has been
built up with new shops for the Vice-Chancellor, and to my eyes it
seems more dingy than ever.

He there occupied three rooms, all of them sufficiently spacious
for the purposes required, but which were made oppressive by their
general dinginess and by a smell of old leather which pervaded them.
In one of them sat at his desk Mr. Crabwitz, a gentleman who had now
been with Mr. Furnival for the last fifteen years, and who considered
that no inconsiderable portion of the barrister's success had been
attributable to his own energy and genius. Mr. Crabwitz was a
genteel-looking man, somewhat over forty years of age, very careful
as to his gloves, hat, and umbrella, and not a little particular
as to his associates. As he was unmarried, fond of ladies' society,
and presumed to be a warm man in money matters, he had his social
successes, and looked down from a considerable altitude on some men
who from their professional rank might have been considered as his
superiors. He had a small bachelor's box down at Barnes, and not
unfrequently went abroad in the vacations. The door opening into the
room of Mr. Crabwitz was in the corner fronting you on the left-hand
side as you entered the chambers. Immediately on your left was a
large waiting-room, in which an additional clerk usually sat at an
ordinary table. He was not an authorised part of the establishment,
being kept only from week to week; but nevertheless, for the last two
or three years he had been always there, and Mr. Crabwitz intended
that he should remain, for he acted as fag to Mr. Crabwitz. This
waiting-room was very dingy, much more so than the clerk's room, and
boasted of no furniture but eight old leathern chairs and two old
tables. It was surrounded by shelves which were laden with books and
dust, which by no chance were ever disturbed. But to my ideas the
most dingy of the three rooms was that large one in which the great
man himself sat; the door of which directly fronted you as you
entered. The furniture was probably better than that in the other
chambers, and the place had certainly the appearance of warmth and
life which comes from frequent use; but nevertheless, of all the
rooms in which I ever sat I think it was the most gloomy. There were
heavy curtains to the windows, which had once been ruby but were now
brown; and the ceiling was brown, and the thick carpet was brown, and
the books which covered every portion of the wall were brown, and the
painted wood-work of the doors and windows was of a dark brown. Here,
on the morning with which we have now to deal, sat Mr. Furnival over
his papers from ten to twelve, at which latter hour Lady Mason was
to come to him. The holidays of Mr. Crabwitz had this year been cut
short in consequence of his patron's attendance at the great congress
which was now sitting, and although all London was a desert, as he
had piteously complained to a lady of his acquaintance whom he had
left at Boulogne, he was there in the midst of the desert, and on
this morning was sitting in attendance at his usual desk.

Why Mr. Furnival should have breakfasted by himself at half-past
eight in order that he might be at his chambers at ten, seeing that
the engagement for which he had come to town was timed for twelve,
I will not pretend to say. He did not ask his wife to join him, and
consequently she did not come down till her usual time. Mr. Furnival
breakfasted by himself, and at ten o'clock he was in his chambers.
Though alone for two hours he was not idle, and exactly at twelve Mr.
Crabwitz opened his door and announced Lady Mason.

When we last parted with her after her interview with Sir Peregrine
Orme, she had resolved not to communicate with her friend the
lawyer,--at any rate not to do so immediately. Thinking on that
resolve she had tried to sleep that night; but her mind was
altogether disturbed, and she could get no rest. What, if after
twenty years of tranquillity all her troubles must now be
recommenced? What if the battle were again to be fought,--with such
termination as the chances might send to her? Why was it that she was
so much greater a coward now than she had been then? Then she had
expected defeat, for her friends had bade her not to be sanguine;
but in spite of that she had borne up and gone gallantly through the
ordeal. But now she felt that if Orley Farm were hers to give she
would sooner abandon it than renew the contest. Then, at that former
period of her life, she had prepared her mind to do or die in the
cause. She had wrought herself up for the work, and had carried it
through. But having done that work, having accomplished her terrible
task, she had hoped that rest might be in store for her.

As she rose from her bed on the morning after her interview with Sir
Peregrine, she determined that she would seek counsel from him in
whose counsel she could trust. Sir Peregrine's friendship was more
valuable to her than that of Mr. Furnival, but a word of advice
from Mr. Furnival was worth all the spoken wisdom of the baronet,
ten times over. Therefore she wrote her letter, and proposed an
appointment; and Mr. Furnival, tempted as I have said by some evil
spirit to stray after strange goddesses in these his blue-nosed
days, had left his learned brethren at their congress in Birmingham,
and had hurried up to town to assist the widow. He had left that
congress, though the wisest Rustums of the law from all the civilised
countries of Europe were there assembled, with Boanerges at their
head, that great, old, valiant, learned, British Rustum, inquiring
with energy, solemnity, and caution, with much shaking of ponderous
heads and many sarcasms from those which were not ponderous, whether
any and what changes might be made in the modes of answering that
great question, "Guilty or not guilty?" and that other equally great
question, "Is it meum or is it tuum?" To answer which question justly
should be the end and object of every lawyer's work. There were
great men there from Paris, very capable, the Ulpians, Tribonians,
and Papinians of the new empire, armed with the purest sentiments
expressed in antithetical and magniloquent phrases, ravishing to
the ears, and armed also with a code which, taken in its integrity,
would necessarily, as the logical consequence of its clauses, drive
all injustice from the face of the earth. And there were great
practitioners from Germany, men very skilled in the use of questions,
who profess that the tongue of man, if adequately skilful, may always
prevail on guilt to disclose itself; who believe in the power of
their own craft to produce truth, as our forefathers believed in
torture; and sometimes with the same result. And of course all that
was great on the British bench, and all that was famous at the
British bar was there,--men very unlike their German brethren, men
who thought that guilt never should be asked to tell of itself,--men
who were customarily but unconsciously shocked whenever unwary guilt
did tell of itself. Men these were, mostly of high and noble feeling,
born and bred to live with upright hearts and clean hands, but taught
by the peculiar tenets of their profession to think that that which
was high and noble in their private intercourse with the world need
not also be so esteemed in their legal practice. And there were
Italians there, good-humoured, joking, easy fellows, who would laugh
their clients in and out of their difficulties; and Spaniards, very
grave and serious, who doubted much in their minds whether justice
might not best be bought and sold; and our brethren from the United
States were present also, very eager to show that in this country
law, and justice also, were clouded and nearly buried beneath their
wig and gown.

All these and all this did Mr. Furnival desert for the space of
twenty-four hours in order that he might comply with the request of
Lady Mason. Had she known what it was that she was calling on him
to leave, no doubt she would have borne her troubles for another
week,--for another fortnight, till those Rustums at Birmingham had
brought their labours to a close. She would not have robbed the
English bar of one of the warmest supporters of its present mode
of practice, even for a day, had she known how much that support
was needed at the present moment. But she had not known; and Mr.
Furnival, moved by her woman's plea, had not been hard enough in his
heart to refuse her.

When she entered the room she was dressed very plainly as was her
custom, and a thick veil covered her face; but still she was dressed
with care. There was nothing of the dowdiness of the lone lorn woman
about her, none of that lanky, washed-out appearance which sorrow and
trouble so often give to females. Had she given way to dowdiness, or
suffered herself to be, as it were, washed out, Mr. Furnival, we may
say, would not have been there to meet her;--of which fact Lady Mason
was perhaps aware.

"I am so grateful to you for this trouble," she said, as she raised
her veil, and while he pressed her hand between both his own. "I can
only ask you to believe that I would not have troubled you unless I
had been greatly troubled myself."

Mr. Furnival, as he placed her in an arm-chair by the fireside,
declared his sorrow that she should be in grief, and then he took
the other arm-chair himself, opposite to her, or rather close to
her,--much closer to her than he ever now seated himself to Mrs. F.
"Don't speak of my trouble," said he, "it is nothing if I can do
anything to relieve you." But though he was so tender, he did not
omit to tell her of her folly in having informed her son that she was
to be in London. "And have you seen him?" asked Lady Mason.

"He was in Harley Street with the ladies last night. But it does not
matter. It is only for your sake that I speak, as I know that you
wish to keep this matter private. And now let us hear what it is. I
cannot think that there can be anything which need really cause you
trouble." And he again took her hand,--that he might encourage her.
Lady Mason let him keep her hand for a minute or so, as though she
did not notice it; and yet as she turned her eyes to him it might
appear that his tenderness had encouraged her.

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."

"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 been in
any way guilty with reference to that will, as whether the 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 disturbed
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 has 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?"

"I am so harassed that I hardly know what I am saying. Would it be
wise, do you think, if I were to 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 that 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! I do 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
definitely 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 have possibly have made a later will?"

"No; I am sure he did not. Had he done so it could not have 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 Joseph."

It was singular, thought the barrister, with how much precision she
remembered the dates and circumstances. That the circumstances of the
trial should be fresh on her memory was not wonderful; but how was
it that she knew so accurately things which had occurred before the
trial,--when no trial could have been expected? But as to this he
said nothing.

"And you are sure he went to Groby Park?"

"Oh, yes; I have no doubt of it. I am quite sure."

"I do 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 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."

"I am 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. It is always good to have the countenance of such a
neighbour as he is."

"And the advice of such a friend as you are." And she again put out
her hand to him.

"Well; yes. 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. Furnival,
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
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.


Unfortunately 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 matrimony
may have its drawbacks; among which unconcealed and undeserved
jealousy on the part of the wife is perhaps as disagreeable 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 affections 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, the view 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 back a little, 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 unfortunate law
business," said Lady Mason.

"Oh, indeed! Your son Lucius did say--shopping."

[Illustration: "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 know it. 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
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.

"Oh dear, no; I shall say nothing of course," she said. "I am
quite sorry that I intruded. Mr. Furnival, as I happened to be in
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.

"Oh, 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 successful in
your--lawsuit." And then, curtsying to her husband's client, she
prepared to withdraw.

"I believe that 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.

"I hardly 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. Furnival specially wished to find you
alone."

"No, no; not at all."

"I shall 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 surprised
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-tempered
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
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. "I do 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 understand
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."

"So the almanac tells us; but if the almanac did not tell us I should
never know. 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 rather
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 me!"

"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 after 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."

And then, with some further pressing of the hand, and further words
of encouragement which were partly tender as from the man, and partly
forensic 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 to 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 is a 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 explained 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 bethought 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 husbands 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 share of all his hard-earned
gains; and yet she could be ungrateful for all this, and allow her
head to be filled with whims and fancies as though she were a young
girl,--to his great annoyance and confusion. He would let her know
that his chambers, 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 whether
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 her, 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 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 baffled 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 expecting 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 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. Crabwitz 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 I'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. Furnival.
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?"

"I 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."

"I am sorry to hear you speak in that way, Mr. Furnival, 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.


Lady Mason on her return from London found a note from Mrs. Orme
asking both her and her son to dine at The Cleeve on the 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 be 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 outweighed
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."

"I am 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 than that. Sir
Peregrine has been farming all his life."

"Yes; and see what are the results! He has three or four hundred
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, and
you are sending me to school. Then comes the question, Of what sort
is the schoolmaster?"

"I am 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; but I am sure you can understand
that an old man may be tender on such points. At any rate I ask 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 Nebuchadnezzar, 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 never would know them; but on his side also young Orme
possessed 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 much 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 some 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 have her for his
friend in spite of her rank. If 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.

"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, 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 Peregrine
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 sufficient 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 not much.
"Mason, do you mean to hunt this season?" Peregrine 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 as a sort of Croesus. What on earth 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.

"So 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 for a 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 ladies 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 never 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 delightful 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 countenance 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 disapprove 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
so 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. I do 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 for him. 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, I think so. Why not?" said Mrs. Orme, thinking of her own year
of married happiness. "Would you not wish to see Lucius marry?"

"I fancy not. I should 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. I am 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 I am. 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 am sure he would not."

"He would do nothing unkind; but how could he help it if his wife
wished it? 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."

"I sincerely trust that Peregrine may marry early," said Mrs. Orme,
perhaps thinking that babies were preferable either to rats or foxes.

"Yes, it would be well I am sure, because you have ample means, and
the house is large; and you would have his wife to love."

"If she were nice it would be so sweet to have her for a daughter. I
also am very much alone, though perhaps not so much as you are, Lady
Mason."

"I hope not--for I am sometimes very lonely."

"I have often thought that."

"But I should be wicked beyond everything if I were to complain,
seeing that Providence has given me so much that I had no right to
expect. What should I 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.

[Illustration: Over their Wine.]

"Are you drinking claret?" said Sir Peregrine, arranging himself 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.

"I'll try at any rate," said the other.

"Water-drinker, moody thinker," and Peregrine sang a word or two from
an old drinking-song.

"I am 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 I
can do with it. It is not much, and I intend to combine some other
occupation 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 money by it."

"I 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 commencement.
For a country gentleman I know no prettier amusement than
experimental farming;--but then a man must give up all idea of making
his rent out of the land."

"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."

"I am 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 for a 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 encounter.
He did not for a moment doubt the truth of his own experience or
the folly and the 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 percentages on his outlay.
Peregrine opened his eyes and sat by, wondering in silence. What on
earth did Mason mean by an improved market?

"I am afraid then," said the baronet, "that you must have laid out a
large sum of money."

"A man 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. Experience 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,
almost angrily. In his heart he was very angry, for he did not love
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 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."

"I also like her," said Sir Peregrine; "but I cannot say that I shall
ever be very fond of her son."

"I'll 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."

"I hope he did not tease your grandfather."

"He talked him down regularly, and it was plain that the governor did
not like it."

And then the day was over.




CHAPTER XV.

A MORNING CALL AT MOUNT PLEASANT VILLA.


On 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 promised
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. Every step of it was over beautiful ground, and a
delight in scenery was one of the few pleasures 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 carriage,
Mrs. Orme coming with her to look at it, and in the hall they met Sir
Peregrine.

"Why does not Lady Mason stop for lunch?" 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 she 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 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 was a present from Lucius," said the other, "and as such must be
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 is
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. Arkwright's face. "Why
peculiarly so at the present moment?" she said.

"Because it shows that this foolish report which is going about has
no foundation. People won't believe it for a 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. It had seemed
to her that Mr. Furnival anticipated 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 truth 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 she felt herself
forced to say something, and the power of thinking what she might
best say was almost taken away from her.

"I am sure I don't know where it came from," said Mrs. Arkwright;
"but I would not have alluded to it if I had not thought that of
course you had heard it. I am very sorry if my saying it has vexed
you."

"Oh, no," said Lady Mason, trying to smile.

"As 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. The 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 I
do not expect that people should hold their tongue on my account.
Good-bye, Mrs. Arkwright." And then she got into the little carriage,
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 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? Looking at
the matter in that light, would not such a trial be a godsend to the
people of Hamworth? Therefore I beg that it may not be imputed 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 in 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 now for a time hardly able to make any other. It was fast coming
upon her now. Let Sir Peregrine say what 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 obtaining 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 reflection 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 been 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. Dockwrath had chosen to
make the matter public, acting no doubt with forethought in doing
so; and Lucius would be sure to hear words which would become common
in Hamworth. Difficult as the task would be to her, it would be
best that she should prepare him. So she sat alone 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 the 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 everything that
a woman could desire? Her mind was burdened with no heavy thoughts as
to feeding coming multitudes. She had no contests 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. He 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 be, "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 from a
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."

"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 certainly 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 is a 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 his own. 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."

"I am 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 anything 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."

"I 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."

"But I shall. You cannot 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 be 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 anything,
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."

"I 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 do so now. If I can trace any word of scandal to
that fellow Dockwrath, I shall indict him for a libel."

"Oh, Lucius!"

"I 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 circumstances 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 therefore, 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 commercials 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 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. "Hope 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 pretty bobbish this morning,
sir." And he shook hands cordially with the attorney.

"Tidy, thank you," said Dockwrath. "My company last night did not do
me any harm; you may swear to that."

"Ha! ha! 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."

"I 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 one 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 I'll--I'll--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 have
found out. I'll send express to Sheffield and have a completely 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, indeed. And she 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 drawing-room on Tuesday
next."

"We'll say thirteen ten."

"I couldn't do it, Mr. Dockwrath--" And so they went on, bargaining
half the way up to town, till at last they came to terms for fourteen
eleven. "And a 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 called.

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 a 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 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. Dockwrath, 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 was a 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 criminal 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 letter 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 Birmingham, 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 to 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, 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 to 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. Dockwrath 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 Round.

"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 profession;
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--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. I am 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.
Dockwrath?"

"Oh 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 says as much. 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 confidential
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."

"Oh, of course! I 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 don't know what you call the long and the short of it, Mr. Round;
or what may be your way of doing business. As a professional 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 comparison,
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?"

"I 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."

"I 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 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 well 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 understand 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 out 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 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 be 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; "I 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, "I am quite willing to tell you all that I know of
this matter at present, if you will have the patience to 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,--witnesses to both deeds, were
they? I understand; nothing about this other deed was brought up at
the trial? I see the point--such as it is. John Kenneby 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 XVII.

VON BAUHR.


It will be remembered that Mr. Crabwitz was sent across from
Lincoln's Inn to Bedford Row to ascertain the present address of old
Mr. Round. "Mr. Round is at Birmingham," he said, coming back. "Every
one connected with the profession is at Birmingham, except--"

"The more fools they," said Mr. Furnival.

"I am thinking of going down myself this evening," said Mr. Crabwitz.
"As you will be out of town, sir, I suppose I can be spared?"

"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? I 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. I do not deny you your right to be
Lord Chief Justice, if you can accomplish it. But you cannot 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 I 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. Furnival. 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. Furnival?

"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. Furnival
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 ventilated.
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
praeterea nihil." To practical Englishmen most of these international
congresses seem 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 chicory; 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 went 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 by Von Bauhr. It lasted three hours."

"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. But I 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 such 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? I saw 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 good as a play; only, like
all plays, it's three times too long. I wonder whether anybody here
believes in it?"

"Yes, Felix Graham does."

"He believes everything--unless it is the Bible. He is one of
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."

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 supported 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 advantage 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 proceedings of England and of the civilised world in general
could be reformed by his reading that book of his from the rostrum
in the hall at Birmingham! The civilised world in general, as there
represented, had been disgusted, and it was surmised that poor Dr.
Slotacher would find but a meagre audience 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 and a
cigar. "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. Furnival 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 the whole it is not the
more dangerous way of the two. But Mr. Furnival, though he would
not drink brandy and water or smoke 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, 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 be 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 remember, 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; I am well aware of that. And I 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. I
should 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."

"As well as if it 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 general 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 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 something
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 know 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 a relief 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."

"I 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?"

"He was an excellent lawyer,--was Bennett. There are few better men
at the bar now-a-days."

"You wouldn't have found 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 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 to 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 I am 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.
I am 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 Bauhr."

"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.

In the mean time Von Bauhr was sitting alone looking back on the past
hours with ideas and views very different from those of the many
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 nations of the civilised
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 dullness;
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. If a reign
of justice could be restored through his efforts--through those
efforts in which on this hallowed day he had been enabled 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.

[Illustration: Von Bauhr's Dream.]

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 good, though seldom perhaps as much as he has
himself anticipated. Let Von Bauhr have his pedestal among the
flowers, even though it be small and humble!




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE ENGLISH VON BAUHR.


On the following morning, before breakfast, Felix Graham and Augustus
Staveley prepared themselves for the labours of the 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 before 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 Sophia Furnival had been invited to pass the coming Christmas.
His son 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 had 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. He 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 been
intolerable to him; but there were many among his friends who began
to think that such a life would nevertheless be his ultimate destiny.
Nor did 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 the
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 downhearted on that
account. A living of some kind he could pick up, and did now procure
for himself, from the press of the day. He wrote poetry for the
periodicals, and politics for the penny papers with considerable
success and sufficient pecuniary results. He would sooner do this, he
often boasted, than abandon his great ideas or descend into the arena
with other weapons than those which he regarded as fitting for an
honest man's hand.

Augustus Staveley, who could be very prudent for his friend, declared
that marriage would set him right. If Felix would marry he would
quietly slip his neck into the collar and work along with the team,
as useful a horse as ever was put at the wheel of a coach. But Felix
did not seem inclined to marry. He had notions about that also, and
was believed by one or two who knew him intimately to cherish an
insane affection for some unknown damsel, whose parentage, education,
and future were not likely to assist his views in the outer world.
Some said that he was educating this damsel for his wife,--moulding
her, so that she might be made fit to suit his taste; but Augustus,
though he knew the secret of all this, was of opinion that it would
come right at last. "He'll meet some girl in the world with a hatful
of money, a pretty face, and a sharp tongue; then he'll bestow his
moulded bride on a neighbouring baker with two hundred pounds for her
fortune;--and everybody will be happy."

Felix Graham was by no means a handsome man. He was tall and thin,
and his face had been slightly marked with the small-pox. He stooped
in his gait as he walked, and was often awkward with his hands and
legs. But he was full of enthusiasm, indomitable, as far as pluck
would make him so, in contests of all kinds, and when he talked on
subjects which were near his heart there was a radiance about him
which certainly might win the love of the pretty girl with the sharp
tongue and the hatful of money. Staveley, who really loved him, had
already selected the prize, and she was no other than our friend,
Sophia Furnival. The sharp tongue and the pretty face and the hatful
of money would all be there; but then Sophia Furnival was a girl who
might perhaps expect in return for these things more than an ugly
face which could occasionally become radiant with enthusiasm.

The two men had got away from the thickness of the Birmingham smoke,
and were seated on the top rung of a gate leading into a stubble
field. So far they had gone with mutual consent, but further than
this Staveley refused to go. He was seated with a cigar in his mouth.
Graham also was smoking, but he was accommodated with a short pipe.

[Illustration: The English Von Bauhr and his pupil.]

"A walk before breakfast is all very well," said Staveley, "but I
am not going on a pilgrimage. We are four miles from the inn this
minute."

"And for your energies that is a good deal. Only think that you
should have been doing anything for two hours before you begin to
feed."

"I wonder why matutinal labour should always be considered as so
meritorious. Merely, I take it, because it is disagreeable."

"It proves that the man can make an effort."

"Every prig who wishes to have it believed that he does more than his
neighbours either burns the midnight lamp or gets up at four in the
morning. Good wholesome work between breakfast and dinner never seems
to count for anything."

"Have you ever tried?"

"Yes; I am trying now, here at Birmingham."

"Not you."

"That's so like you, Graham. You don't believe that anybody is
attending to what is going on except yourself. I mean to-day to take
in the whole theory of Italian jurisprudence."

"I have no doubt that you may do so with advantage. I do not suppose
that it is very good, but it must at any rate be better than our own.
Come, let us go back to the town; my pipe is finished."

"Fill another, there's a good fellow. I can't afford to throw away my
cigar, and I hate walking and smoking. You mean to assert that our
whole system is bad, and rotten, and unjust?"

"I mean to say that I think so."

"And yet we consider ourselves the greatest people in the world,--or
at any rate the honestest."

"I think we are; but laws and their management have nothing to do
with making people honest. Good laws won't make people honest, nor
bad laws dishonest."

"But a people who are dishonest in one trade will probably be
dishonest in others. Now, you go so far as to say that all English
lawyers are rogues."

"I have never said so. I believe your father to be as honest a man as
ever breathed."

"Thank you, sir," and Staveley lifted his hat.

"And I would fain hope that I am an honest man myself."

"Ah, but you don't make money by it."

"What I do mean is this, that from our love of precedent and ceremony
and old usages, we have retained a system which contains many of
the barbarities of the feudal times, and also many of its lies. We
try our culprit as we did in the old days of the ordeal. If luck
will carry him through the hot ploughshares, we let him escape
though we know him to be guilty. We give him the advantage of every
technicality, and teach him to lie in his own defence, if nature has
not sufficiently so taught him already."

"You mean as to his plea of not guilty."

"No, I don't; that is little or nothing. We ask him whether or no he
confesses his guilt in a foolish way, tending to induce him to deny
it; but that is not much. Guilt seldom will confess as long as a
chance remains. But we teach him to lie, or rather we lie for him
during the whole ceremony of his trial. We think it merciful to give
him chances of escape, and hunt him as we do a fox, in obedience to
certain laws framed for his protection."

"And should he have no protection?"

"None certainly, as a guilty man; none which may tend towards the
concealing of his guilt. Till that be ascertained, proclaimed, and
made apparent, every man's hand should be against him."

"But if he is innocent?"

"Therefore let him be tried with every possible care. I know you
understand what I mean, though you look as though you did not. For
the protection of his innocence let astute and good men work their
best, but for the concealing of his guilt let no astute or good man
work at all."

"And you would leave the poor victim in the dock without defence?"

"By no means. Let the poor victim, as you call him,--who in
ninety-nine cases out of a hundred is a rat who has been preying in
our granaries,--let him, I say, have his defender,--the defender of
his possible innocence, not the protector of his probable guilt. It,
all resolves itself into this. Let every lawyer go into court with
a mind resolved to make conspicuous to the light of day that which
seems to him to be the truth. A lawyer who does not do that--who does
the reverse of that, has in my mind undertaken work which is unfit
for a gentleman and impossible for an honest man."

"What a pity it is that you should not have an opportunity of
rivalling Von Bauhr at the congress!"

"I have no doubt that Von Bauhr said a great deal of the same nature;
and what Von Bauhr said will not wholly be wasted, though it may not
yet have reached our sublime understandings."

"Perhaps he will vouchsafe to us a translation."

"It would be useless at present, seeing that we cannot bring
ourselves to believe it possible that a foreigner should in any
respect be wiser than ourselves. If any such point out to us our
follies, we at once claim those follies as the special evidences of
our wisdom. We are so self-satisfied with our own customs, that we
hold up our hands with surprise at the fatuity of men who presume
to point out to us their defects. Those practices in which we most
widely depart from the broad and recognised morality of all civilised
ages and countries are to us the Palladiums of our jurisprudence.
Modes of proceeding which, if now first proposed to us, would be
thought to come direct from the devil, have been made so sacred by
time that they have lost all the horror of their falseness in the
holiness of their age. We cannot understand that other nations look
upon such doings as we regard the human sacrifices of the Brahmins;
but the fact is that we drive a Juggernaut's car through every assize
town in the country, three times a year, and allow it to be dragged
ruthlessly through the streets of the metropolis at all times and
seasons. Now come back to breakfast, for I won't wait here any
longer." Seeing that these were the ideas of Felix Graham, it is
hardly a matter of wonder that such men as Mr. Furnival and Mr. Round
should have regarded his success at the bar as doubtful.

"Uncommon bad mutton chops these are," said Staveley, as they sat at
their meal in the coffee-room of the Imperial Hotel.

"Are they?" said Graham. "They seem to me much the same as other
mutton chops."

"They are uneatable. And look at this for coffee! Waiter, take this
away, and have some made fresh."

"Yes, sir," said the waiter, striving to escape without further
comment.

"And waiter--"

"Yes, sir;" and the poor overdriven functionary returned.

"Ask them from me whether they know how to make coffee. It does not
consist of an unlimited supply of lukewarm water poured over an
infinitesimal proportion of chicory. That process, time-honoured in
the hotel line, will not produce the beverage called coffee. Will you
have the goodness to explain that in the bar as coming from me?"

"Yes, sir," said the waiter; and then he was allowed to disappear.

"How can you give yourself so much trouble with no possible hope of
an advantageous result?" said Felix Graham.

"That's what you weak men always say. Perseverance in such a course
will produce results. It is because we put up with bad things that
hotel-keepers continue to give them to us. Three or four Frenchmen
were dining with my father yesterday at the King's Head, and I had to
sit at the bottom of the table. I declare to you that I literally
blushed for my country; I did indeed. It was useless to say anything
then, but it was quite clear that there was nothing that one of them
could eat. At any hotel in France you'll get a good dinner; but we're
so proud that we are ashamed to take lessons." And thus Augustus
Staveley was quite as loud against his own country, and as laudatory
with regard to others, as Felix Graham had been before breakfast.

And so the congress went on at Birmingham. The fat Italian from
Tuscany read his paper; but as he, though judge in his own country
and reformer here in England, was somewhat given to comedy, this
morning was not so dull as that which had been devoted to Von Bauhr.
After him Judge Staveley made a very elegant, and some said, a very
eloquent speech; and so that day was done. Many other days also wore
themselves away in this process; numerous addresses were read, and
answers made to them, and the newspapers for the time were full of
law. The defence of our own system, which was supposed to be the most
remarkable for its pertinacity, if not for its justice, came from Mr.
Furnival, who roused himself to a divine wrath for the occasion. And
then the famous congress at Birmingham was brought to a close, and
all the foreigners returned to their own countries.




CHAPTER XIX.

THE STAVELEY FAMILY.


The next two months passed by without any events which deserve our
special notice, unless it be that Mr. Joseph Mason and Mr. Dockwrath
had a meeting in the room of Mr. Matthew Round, in Bedford Row. Mr.
Dockwrath struggled hard to effect this without the presence of the
London attorney; but he struggled in vain. Mr. Round was not the man
to allow any stranger to tamper with his client, and Mr. Dockwrath
was forced to lower his flag before him. The result was that the
document or documents which had been discovered at Hamworth were
brought up to Bedford Row; and Dockwrath at last made up his mind
that as he could not supplant Matthew Round, he would consent to
fight under him as his lieutenant--or even as his sergeant or
corporal, if no higher position might be allowed to him.

"There is something in it, certainly, Mr. Mason," said young Round;
"but I cannot undertake to say as yet that we are in a position to
prove the point."

"It will be proved," said Mr. Dockwrath.

"I confess it seems to me very clear," said Mr. Mason, who by this
time had been made to understand the bearings of the question. "It
is evident that she chose that day for her date because those two
persons had then been called upon to act as witnesses to that other
deed."

"That of course is our allegation. I only say that we may have some
difficulty in proving it."

"The crafty, thieving swindler!" exclaimed Mr. Mason. "She has been
sharp enough if it is as we think," said Round, laughing; and then
there was nothing more done in the matter for some time, to the great
disgust both of Mr. Dockwrath and Mr. Mason. Old Mr. Round had kept
his promise to Mr. Furnival; or, at least, had done something towards
keeping it. He had not himself taken the matter into his own hands,
but he had begged his son to be cautious. "It's not the sort of
business that we care for, Mat," said he; "and as for that fellow
down in Yorkshire, I never liked him." To this Mat had answered that
neither did he like Mr. Mason; but as the case had about it some very
remarkable points, it was necessary to look into it; and then the
matter was allowed to stand over till after Christmas.

We will now change the scene to Noningsby, the judge's country
seat, near Alston, at which a party was assembled for the Christmas
holidays. The judge was there of course,--without his wig; in which
guise I am inclined to think that judges spend the more comfortable
hours of their existence; and there also was Lady Staveley, her
presence at home being altogether a matter of course, inasmuch as she
had no other home than Noningsby. For many years past, ever since the
happy day on which Noningsby had been acquired, she had repudiated
London; and the poor judge, when called upon by his duties to reside
there, was compelled to live like a bachelor, in lodgings. Lady
Staveley was a good, motherly, warm-hearted woman, who thought a
great deal about her flowers and fruit, believing that no one else
had them so excellent,--much also about her butter and eggs, which
in other houses were, in her opinion, generally unfit to be eaten;
she thought also a great deal about her children, who were all
swans,--though, as she often observed with a happy sigh, those of her
neighbours were so uncommonly like geese. But she thought most of
all of her husband, who in her eyes was the perfection of all manly
virtues. She had made up her mind that the position of a puisne judge
in England was the highest which could fall to the lot of any mere
mortal. To become a Lord Chancellor, or a Lord Chief Justice, or
a Chief Baron, a man must dabble with Parliament, politics, and
dirt; but the bench-fellows of these politicians were selected for
their wisdom, high conduct, knowledge, and discretion. Of all such
selections, that made by the late king when he chose her husband, was
the one which had done most honour to England, and had been in all
its results most beneficial to Englishmen. Such was her creed with
reference to domestic matters.

The Staveley young people at present were only two in number,
Augustus, namely, and his sister Madeline. The eldest daughter was
married, and therefore, though she spent these Christmas holidays at
Noningsby, must not be regarded as one of the Noningsby family. Of
Augustus we have said enough; but as I intend that Madeline Staveley
shall, to many of my readers, be the most interesting personage
in this story, I must pause to say something of her. I must say
something of her; and as, with all women, the outward and visible
signs of grace and beauty are those which are thought of the most, or
at any rate spoken of the oftenest, I will begin with her exterior
attributes. And that the muses may assist me in my endeavour,
teaching my rough hands to draw with some accuracy the delicate lines
of female beauty, I now make to them my humble but earnest prayer.

Madeline Staveley was at this time about nineteen years of age. That
she was perfect in her beauty I cannot ask the muses to say, but that
she will some day become so, I think the goddesses may be requested
to prophesy. At present she was very slight, and appeared to be
almost too tall for her form. She was indeed above the average height
of women, and from her brother encountered some ridicule on this
head; but not the less were all her movements soft, graceful, and
fawnlike as should be those of a young girl. She was still at this
time a child in heart and spirit, and could have played as a child
had not the instinct of a woman taught to her the expediency of a
staid demeanour. There is nothing among the wonders of womanhood more
wonderful than this, that the young mind and young heart,--hearts and
minds young as youth can make them, and in their natures as gay,--can
assume the gravity and discretion of threescore years and maintain
it successfully before all comers. And this is done, not as a lesson
that has been taught, but as the result of an instinct implanted from
the birth. Let us remember the mirth of our sisters in our homes, and
their altered demeanours when those homes were opened to strangers;
and remember also that this change had come from the inward working
of their own feminine natures!

But I am altogether departing from Madeline Staveley's external
graces. It was a pity almost that she should ever have become grave,
because with her it was her smile that was so lovely. She smiled with
her whole face. There was at such moments a peculiar laughing light
in her gray eyes, which inspired one with an earnest desire to be in
her confidence; she smiled with her soft cheek, the light tints of
which would become a shade more pink from the excitement, as they
softly rippled into dimples; she smiled with her forehead which would
catch the light from her eyes and arch itself in its glory; but above
all she smiled with her mouth, just showing, but hardly showing, the
beauty of the pearls within. I never saw the face of a woman whose
mouth was equal in pure beauty, in beauty that was expressive of
feeling, to that of Madeline Staveley. Many have I seen with a richer
lip, with a more luxurious curve, much more tempting as baits to the
villainy and rudeness of man; but never one that told so much by
its own mute eloquence of a woman's happy heart and a woman's happy
beauty. It was lovely as I have said in its mirth, but if possible it
was still more lovely in its woe; for then the lips would separate,
and the breath would come, and in the emotion of her suffering the
life of her beauty would be unrestrained.

Her face was oval, and some might say that it was almost too thin;
they might say so till they knew it well, but would never say so when
they did so know it. Her complexion was not clear, though it would be
wrong to call her a brunette. Her face and forehead were never brown,
but yet she could not boast the pure pink and the pearly white which
go to the formation of a clear complexion. For myself I am not sure
that I love a clear complexion. Pink and white alone will not give
that hue which seems best to denote light and life, and to tell of
a mind that thinks and of a heart that feels. I can name no colour
in describing the soft changing tints of Madeline Staveley's face,
but I will make bold to say that no man ever found it insipid or
inexpressive.

And now what remains for me to tell? Her nose was Grecian, but
perhaps a little too wide at the nostril to be considered perfect
in its chiselling. Her hair was soft and brown,--that dark brown
which by some lights is almost black; but she was not a girl whose
loveliness depended much upon her hair. With some women it is their
great charm,--Neaeras who love to sit half sleeping in the shade,--but
it is a charm that possesses no powerful eloquence. All beauty of a
high order should speak, and Madeline's beauty was ever speaking. And
now that I have said that, I believe that I have told all that may
be necessary to place her outward form before the inward eyes of my
readers.

In commencing this description I said that I would begin with her
exterior; but it seems to me now that in speaking of these I have
sufficiently noted also that which was within. Of her actual thoughts
and deeds up to this period it is not necessary for our purposes that
anything should be told; but of that which she might probably think
or might possibly do, a fair guess may, I hope, be made from that
which has been already written.

Such was the Staveley family. Those of their guests whom it is
necessary that I should now name, have been already introduced to us.
Miss Furnival was there, as was also her father. He had not intended
to make any prolonged stay at Noningsby,--at least so he had said in
his own drawing-room; but nevertheless he had now been there for a
week, and it seemed probable that he might stay over Christmas-day.
And Felix Graham was there. He had been asked with a special purpose
by his friend Augustus, as we already have heard; in order, namely,
that he might fall in love with Sophia Furnival, and by the aid of
her supposed hatful of money avoid the evils which would otherwise so
probably be the consequence of his highly impracticable turn of mind.
The judge was not averse to Felix Graham; but as he himself was a
man essentially practical in all his views, it often occurred that,
in his mild kindly way, he ridiculed the young barrister. And Sir
Peregrine Orme was there, being absent from home as on a very rare
occasion; and with him of course were Mrs. Orme and his grandson.
Young Perry was making, or was prepared to make, somewhat of a
prolonged stay at Noningsby. He had a horse there with him for the
hunting, which was changed now and again; his groom going backwards
and forwards between that place and The Cleeve. Sir Peregrine,
however, intended to return before Christmas, and Mrs. Orme would go
with him. He had come for four days, which for him had been a long
absence from home, and at the end of the four days he would be gone.

They were all sitting in the dining-room round the luncheon-table
on a hopelessly wet morning, listening to a lecture from the judge
on the abomination of eating meat in the middle of the day, when a
servant came behind young Orme's chair and told him that Mr. Mason
was in the breakfast-parlour and wished to see him.

"Who wishes to see you?" said the baronet in a tone of surprise. He
had caught the name, and thought at the moment that it was the owner
of Groby Park.

"Lucius Mason," said Peregrine, getting up. "I wonder what he can
want me for?"

"Oh, Lucius Mason," said the grandfather. Since the discourse about
agriculture he was not personally much attached even to Lucius; but
for his mother's sake he could be forgiven.

"Pray ask him into lunch," said Lady Staveley. Something had been
said about Lady Mason since the Ormes had been at Noningsby, and the
Staveley family were prepared to regard her with sympathy, and if
necessary with the right hand of fellowship.

"He is the great agriculturist, is he not?" said Augustus. "Bring him
in by all means; there is no knowing how much we may not learn before
dinner on such a day as this."

"He is an ally of mine; and you must not laugh at him," said Miss
Furnival, who was sitting next to Augustus.

But Lucius Mason did not come in. Young Orme remained with him for
about a quarter of an hour, and then returned to the room, declaring
with rather a serious face, that he must ride to Hamworth and back
before dinner.

"Are you going with young Mason?" asked his grandfather.

"Yes, sir; he wishes me to do something for him at Hamworth, and I
cannot well refuse him."

"You are not going to fight a duel!" said Lady Staveley, holding up
her hands in horror as the idea came across her brain.

"A duel!" screamed Mrs. Orme. "Oh, Peregrine!"

"There can be nothing of the sort," said the judge. "I should think
that young Mason is not so foolish; and I am sure that Peregrine Orme
is not."

"I have not heard of anything of the kind," said Peregrine, laughing.

"Promise me, Peregrine," said his mother. "Say that you promise me."

"My dearest mother, I have no more thought of it than you
have;--indeed I may say not so much."

"You will be back to dinner?" said Lady Staveley.

"Oh yes, certainly."

"And tell Mr. Mason," said the judge, "that if he will return with
you we shall be delighted to see him."

The errand which took Peregrine Orme off to Hamworth will be
explained in the next chapter, but his going led to a discussion
among the gentlemen after dinner as to the position in which Lady
Mason was now placed. There was no longer any possibility of keeping
the matter secret, seeing that Mr. Dockwrath had taken great care
that every one in Hamworth should hear of it. He had openly declared
that evidence would now be adduced to prove that Sir Joseph Mason's
widow had herself forged the will, and had said to many people that
Mr. Mason of Groby had determined to indict her for forgery. This
had gone so far that Lucius had declared as openly that he would
prosecute the attorney for a libel, and Dockwrath had sent him word
that he was quite welcome to do so if he pleased.

"It is a scandalous state of things," said Sir Peregrine, speaking
with much enthusiasm, and no little temper, on the subject. "Here is
a question which was settled twenty years ago to the satisfaction of
every one who knew anything of the case, and now it is brought up
again that two men may wreak their vengeance on a poor widow. They
are not men; they are brutes."

"But why does she not bring an action against this attorney?" said
young Staveley.

"Such actions do not easily lie," said his father. "It may be quite
true that Dockwrath may have said all manner of evil things against
this lady, and yet it may be very difficult to obtain evidence of a
libel. It seems to me from what I have heard that the man himself
wishes such an action to be brought."

"And think of the state of poor Lady Mason!" said Mr. Furnival.
"Conceive the misery which it would occasion her if she were dragged
forward to give evidence on such a matter!"

"I believe it would kill her," said Sir Peregrine.

"The best means of assisting her would be to give her some
countenance," said the judge; "and from all that I can hear of her,
she deserves it."

"She does deserve it," said Sir Peregrine, "and she shall have it.
The people at Hamworth shall see at any rate that my daughter regards
her as a fit associate. I am happy to say that she is coming to The
Cleeve on my return home, and that she will remain there till after
Christmas."

"It is a very singular case," said Felix Graham, who had been
thinking over the position of the lady hitherto in silence.

"Indeed it is," said the judge; "and it shows how careful men should
be in all matters relating to their wills. The will and the codicil,
as it appears, are both in the handwriting of the widow, who acted
as an amanuensis not only for her husband but for the attorney. That
fact does not in my mind produce suspicion; but I do not doubt that
it has produced all this suspicion in the mind of the claimant. The
attorney who advised Sir Joseph should have known better."

"It is one of those cases," continued Graham, "in which the sufferer
should be protected by the very fact of her own innocence. No lawyer
should consent to take up the cudgels against her."

"I am afraid that she will not escape persecution from any such
professional chivalry," said the judge.

"All that is moonshine," said Mr. Furnival.

"And moonshine is a very pretty thing if you were not too much afraid
of the night air to go and look at it. If the matter be as you all
say, I do think that any gentleman would disgrace himself by lending
a hand against her."

"Upon my word, sir, I fully agree with you," said Sir Peregrine,
bowing to Felix Graham over his glass.

"I will take permission to think, Sir Peregrine," said Mr. Furnival,
"that you would not agree with Mr. Graham if you had given to the
matter much deep consideration."

"I have not had the advantage of a professional education," said Sir
Peregrine, again bowing, and on this occasion addressing himself to
the lawyer; "but I cannot see how any amount of learning should alter
my views on such a subject."

"Truth and honour cannot be altered by any professional
arrangements," said Graham; and then the conversation turned away
from Lady Mason, and directed itself to those great corrections of
legal reform which had been debated during the past autumn.

The Orley Farm Case, though in other forms and different language,
was being discussed also in the drawing-room. "I have not seen much
of her," said Sophia Furnival, who by some art had usurped the most
prominent part in the conversation, "but what I did see I liked much.
She was at The Cleeve when I was staying there, if you remember, Mrs.
Orme." Mrs. Orme said that she did remember.

"And we went over to Orley Farm. Poor lady! I think everybody ought
to notice her under such circumstances. Papa, I know, would move
heaven and earth for her if he could."

"I cannot move the heaven or the earth either," said Lady Staveley;
"but if I thought that my calling on her would be any satisfaction to
her--"

"It would, Lady Staveley," said Mrs. Orme. "It would be a great
satisfaction to her. I cannot tell you how warmly I regard her, nor
how perfectly Sir Peregrine esteems her."

"We will drive over there next week, Madeline."

"Do, mamma. Everybody says that she is very nice."

"It will be so kind of you, Lady Staveley," said Sophia Furnival.

"Next week she will be staying with us," said Mrs. Orme. "And that
would save you three miles, you know, and we should be so glad to see
you."

Lady Staveley declared that she would do both. She would call at
The Cleeve, and again at Orley Farm after Lady Mason's return home.
She well understood, though she could not herself then say so, that
the greater part of the advantage to be received from her kindness
would be derived from its being known at Hamworth that the Staveley
carriage had been driven up to Lady Mason's door.

"Her son is very clever, is he not?" said Madeline, addressing
herself to Miss Furnival.

Sophia shrugged her shoulders and put her head on one side with a
pretty grace. "Yes, I believe so. People say so. But who is to tell
whether a young man be clever or no?"

"But some are so much more clever than others. Don't you think so?"

"Oh yes, as some girls are so much prettier than others. But if Mr.
Mason were to talk Greek to you, you would not think him clever."

"I should not understand him, you know."

"Of course not; but you would understand that he was a blockhead to
show off his learning in that way. You don't want him to be clever,
you see; you only want him to be agreeable."

"I don't know that I want either the one or the other."

"Do you not? I know I do. I think that young men in society are bound
to be agreeable, and that they should not be there if they do not
know how to talk pleasantly, and to give something in return for all
the trouble we take for them."

"I don't take any trouble for them," said Madeline laughing.

"Surely you must, if you only think of it. All ladies do, and so they
ought. But if in return for that a man merely talks Greek to me, I,
for my part, do not think that the bargain is fairly carried out."

"I declare you will make me quite afraid of Mr. Mason."

"Oh, he never talks Greek;--at least he never has to me. I rather
like him. But what I mean is this, that I do not think a man a bit
more likely to be agreeable because he has the reputation of being
very clever. For my part I rather think that I like stupid young
men."

"Oh, do you? Then now I shall know what you think of Augustus. We
think he is very clever; but I do not know any man who makes himself
more popular with young ladies."

"Ah, then he is a gay deceiver."

"He is gay enough, but I am sure he is no deceiver. A man may make
himself nice to young ladies without deceiving any of them; may he
not?"

"You must not take me 'au pied de la lettre,' Miss Staveley, or I
shall be lost. Of course he may. But when young gentlemen are so very
nice, young ladies are so apt to--"

"To what?"

"Not to fall in love with them exactly, but to be ready to be fallen
in love with, and then if a man does do it he is a deceiver. I
declare it seems to me that we don't allow them a chance of going
right."

"I think that Augustus manages to steer through such difficulties
very cleverly."

"He sails about in the open sea, touching at all the most lovely
capes and promontories, and is never driven on shore by stress of
weather! What a happy sailor he must be!"

"I think he is happy, and that he makes others so."

"He ought to be made an admiral at once But we shall hear some day of
his coming to a terrible shipwreck."

"Oh, I hope not!"

"He will return home in desperate plight, with only two planks left
together, with all his glory and beauty broken and crumpled to pieces
against some rock that he has despised in his pride."

"Why do you prophesy such terrible things for him?"

"I mean that he will get married."

"Get married! of course he will. That's just what we all want. You
don't call that a shipwreck; do you?"

"It's the sort of shipwreck that these very gallant barks have to
encounter."

"You don't mean that he'll marry a disagreeable wife!"

"Oh, no; not in the least. I only mean to say that like other sons of
Adam, he will have to strike his colours. I dare say, if the truth
were known, he has done so already."

"I am sure he has not."

"I don't at all ask to know his secrets, and I should look upon you
as a very bad sister if you told them."

"But I am sure he has not got any,--of that kind."

"Would he tell you if he had?"

"Oh, I hope so; any serious secret. I am sure he ought, for I am
always thinking about him."

"And would you tell him your secrets?"

"I have none."

"But when you have, will you do so?"

"Will I? Well, yes; I think so. But a girl has no such secret," she
continued to say, after pausing for a moment. "None, generally, at
least, which she tells, even to herself, till the time comes in
which she tells it to all whom she really loves." And then there was
another pause for a moment.

"I am not quite so sure of that," said Miss Furnival. After which the
gentlemen came into the drawing-room.

Augustus Staveley had gone to work in a manner which he conceived to
be quite systematic, having before him the praiseworthy object of
making a match between Felix Graham and Sophia Furnival. "By George,
Graham," he had said, "the finest girl in London is coming down to
Noningsby; upon my word I think she is."

"And brought there expressly for your delectation, I suppose."

"Oh no, not at all; indeed, she is not exactly in my style; she is
too,--too,--too--in point of fact, too much of a girl for me. She has
lots of money, and is very clever, and all that kind of thing."

"I never knew you so humble before."

"I am not joking at all. She is a daughter of old Furnival's, whom
by-the-by I hate as I do poison. Why my governor has him down at
Noningsby I can't guess. But I tell you what, old fellow, he can give
his daughter five-and-twenty thousand pounds. Think of that, Master
Brook." But Felix Graham was a man who could not bring himself to
think much of such things on the spur of the moment, and when he was
introduced to Sophia, he did not seem to be taken with her in any
wonderful way.

Augustus had asked his mother to help him, but she had laughed at
him. "It would be a splendid arrangement," he had said with energy.
"Nonsense, Gus," she had answered. "You should always let those
things take their chance. All I will ask of you is that you don't
fall in love with her yourself; I don't think her family would be
nice enough for you."

But Felix Graham certainly was ungrateful for the friendship spent
upon him, and so his friend felt it. Augustus had contrived to
whisper into the lady's ear that Mr. Graham was the cleverest young
man now rising at the bar, and as far as she was concerned, some
amount of intimacy might at any rate have been produced; but he,
Graham himself, would not put himself forward. "I will pique him into
it," said Augustus to himself, and therefore when on this occasion
they came into the drawing-room, Staveley immediately took a vacant
seat beside Miss Furnival, with the very friendly object which he had
proposed to himself.

There was great danger in this, for Miss Furnival was certainly
handsome, and Augustus Staveley was very susceptible. But what will
not a man go through for his friend? "I hope we are to have the
honour of your company as far as Monkton Grange the day we meet
there," he said. The hounds were to meet at Monkton Grange, some
seven miles from Noningsby, and all the sportsmen from the house were
to be there.

"I shall be delighted," said Sophia, "that is to say if a seat in the
carriage can be spared for me."

"But we'll mount you. I know that you are a horsewoman." In answer to
which Miss Furnival confessed that she was a horsewoman, and owned
also to having brought a habit and hat with her.

"That will be delightful. Madeline will ride also, and you will meet
the Miss Tristrams. They are the famous horsewomen of this part of
the country."

"You don't mean that they go after the dogs, across the hedges."

"Indeed they do."

"And does Miss Staveley do that?"

"Oh, no--Madeline is not good at a five-barred gate, and would make
but a very bad hand at a double ditch. If you are inclined to remain
among the tame people, she will be true to your side."

"I shall certainly be one of the tame people, Mr. Staveley."

"I rather think I shall be with you myself; I have only one horse
that will jump well, and Graham will ride him. By-the-by, Miss
Furnival, what do you think of my friend Graham?"

"Think of him! Am I bound to have thought anything about him by this
time?"

"Of course you are;--or at any rate of course you have. I have
no doubt that you have composed in your own mind an essay on the
character of everybody here. People who think at all always do."

"Do they? My essay upon him then is a very short one."

"But perhaps not the less correct on that account. You must allow me
to read it."

"Like all my other essays of that kind, Mr. Staveley, it has been
composed solely for my own use, and will be kept quite private."

"I am so sorry for that, for I intended to propose a bargain to you.
If you would have shown me some of your essays, I would have been
equally liberal with some of mine." And in this way, before the
evening was over, Augustus Staveley and Miss Furnival became very
good friends.

"Upon my word she is a very clever girl," he said afterwards, as
young Orme and Graham were sitting with him in an outside room which
had been fitted up for smoking.

"And uncommonly handsome," said Peregrine.

"And they say she'll have lots of money," said Graham. "After all,
Staveley, perhaps you could not do better."

"She's not my style at all," said he. "But of course a man is obliged
to be civil to girls in his own house." And then they all went to
bed.




CHAPTER XX.

MR. DOCKWRATH IN HIS OWN OFFICE.


In the conversation which had taken place after dinner at Noningsby
with regard to the Masons Peregrine Orme took no part, but his
silence had not arisen from any want of interest on the subject.
He had been over to Hamworth that day on a very special mission
regarding it, and as he was not inclined to speak of what he had then
seen and done, he held his tongue altogether.

"I want you to do me a great favour," Lucius had said to him, when
the two were together in the breakfast-parlour at Noningsby; "but I
am afraid it will give you some trouble."

"I sha'n't mind that," said Peregrine, "if that's all."

"You have heard of this row about Joseph Mason and my mother? It has
been so talked of that I fear you must have heard it."

"About the lawsuit? Oh yes. It has certainly been spoken of at The
Cleeve."

"Of course it has. All the world is talking of it. Now there is a man
named Dockwrath in Hamworth--;" and then he went on to explain how it
had reached him from various quarters that Mr. Dockwrath was accusing
his mother of the crime of forgery; how he had endeavoured to
persuade his mother to indict the man for libel; how his mother had
pleaded to him with tears in her eyes that she found it impossible to
go through such an ordeal; and how he, therefore, had resolved to go
himself to Mr. Dockwrath. "But," said he, "I must have some one with
me, some gentleman whom I can trust, and therefore I have ridden over
to ask you to accompany me as far as Hamworth."

"I suppose he is not a man that you can kick," said Peregrine.

"I am afraid not," said Lucius; "he's over forty years old, and has
dozens of children."

"And then he is such a low beast," said Peregrine.

"I have no idea of kicking him, but I think it would be wrong to
allow him to go on saying these frightful things of my mother,
without showing him that we are not afraid of him." Upon this the
two young men got on horseback, and riding into Hamworth, put their
horses up at the inn.

"And now I suppose we might as well go at once," said Peregrine, with
a very serious face.

"Yes," said the other; "there's nothing to delay us. I cannot tell
you how much obliged I am to you for coming with me."

"Oh, don't say anything about that; of course I'm only too happy."
But all the same he felt that his heart was beating, and that he
was a little nervous. Had he been called upon to go in and thrash
somebody, he would have been quite at home; but he did not feel at
his ease in making an inimical visit to an attorney's office.

It would have been wise, perhaps, if in this matter Lucius had
submitted himself to Lady Mason's wishes. On the previous evening
they had talked the matter over with much serious energy. Lucius
had been told in the streets of Hamworth by an intermeddling little
busybody of an apothecary that it behoved him to do something, as Mr.
Dockwrath was making grievous accusations against his mother. Lucius
had replied haughtily, that he and his mother would know how to
protect themselves, and the apothecary had retreated, resolving to
spread the report everywhere. Lucius on his return home had declared
to the unfortunate lady that she had now no alternative left to her.
She must bring an action against the man, or at any rate put the
matter into the hands of a lawyer with a view of ascertaining whether
she could do so with any chance of success. If she could not, she
must then make known her reason for remaining quiet. In answer to
this, Lady Mason had begun by praying her son to allow the matter to
pass by.

"But it will not pass by," Lucius had said.

"Yes, dearest, if we leave it, it will,--in a month or two. We can do
nothing by interference. Remember the old saying, You cannot touch
pitch without being defiled."

But Lucius had replied, almost with anger, that the pitch had already
touched him, and that he was defiled. "I cannot consent to hold the
property," he had said, "unless something be done." And then his
mother had bowed her head as she sat, and had covered her face with
her hands.

"I shall go to the man myself," Lucius had declared with energy.

"As your mother, Lucius, I implore you not to do so," she had said to
him through her tears.

"I must either do that or leave the country. It is impossible that I
should live here, hearing such things said of you, and doing nothing
to clear your name." To this she had made no actual reply, and now
he was standing at the attorney's door about to do that which he had
threatened.

They found Mr. Dockwrath sitting at his desk at the other side of
which was seated his clerk. He had not yet promoted himself to the
dignity of a private office, but generally used his parlour as such
when he was desirous of seeing his clients without disturbance. On
this occasion, however, when he saw young Mason enter, he made no
offer to withdraw. His hat was on his head as he sat on his stool,
and he did not even take it off as he returned the stiff salutation
of his visitor. "Keep your hat on your head, Mr. Orme," he said, as
Peregrine was about to take his off. "Well, gentlemen, what can I do
for you?"

Lucius looked at the clerk, and felt that there would be great
difficulty in talking about his mother before such a witness. "We
wish to see you in private, Mr. Dockwrath, for a few minutes--if it
be convenient."

"Is not this private enough?" said Dockwrath. "There is no one here
but my confidential clerk."

"If you could make it convenient--" began Lucius.

"Well, then, Mr. Mason, I cannot make it convenient, and there is the
long and the short of it. You have brought Mr. Orme with you to hear
what you've got to say, and I choose that my clerk shall remain by
to hear it also. Seeing the position in which you stand there is no
knowing what may come of such an interview as this."

"In what position do I stand, sir?"

"If you don't know, Mr. Mason, I am not going to tell you. I feel
for you, I do upon my word. I feel for you, and I pity you." Mr.
Dockwrath as he thus expressed his commiseration was sitting with his
high chair tilted back, with his knees against the edge of his desk,
with his hat almost down upon his nose as he looked at his visitors
from under it, and he amused himself by cutting up a quill pen into
small pieces with his penknife. It was not pleasant to be pitied by
such a man as that, and so Peregrine Orme conceived.

"Sir, that is nonsense," said Lucius. "I require no pity from you or
from any man."

"I don't suppose there is one in all Hamworth that does not feel for
you," said Dockwrath.

"He means to be impudent," said Peregrine. "You had better come to
the point with him at once."

"No, I don't mean to be impudent, young gentleman. A man may speak
his own mind in his own house I suppose without any impudence. You
wouldn't stand cap in hand to me if I were to go down to you at The
Cleeve."

"I have come here to ask of you," said Lucius, "whether it be true
that you are spreading these reports about the town with reference to
Lady Mason. If you are a man you will tell me the truth."

"Well; I rather think I am a man."

"It is necessary that Lady Mason should be protected from such
infamous falsehoods, and it may be necessary to bring the matter into
a court of law--"

"You may be quite easy about that, Mr. Mason. It will be necessary."

"As it may be necessary, I wish to know whether you will acknowledge
that these reports have come from you?"

"You want me to give evidence against myself. Well, for once in a way
I don't mind if I do. The reports have come from me. Now, is that
manly?" And Mr. Dockwrath, as he spoke, pushed his hat somewhat off
his nose, and looked steadily across into the face of his opponent.

Lucius Mason was too young for the task which he had undertaken, and
allowed himself to be disconcerted. He had expected that the lawyer
would deny the charge, and was prepared for what he would say and do
in such a case; but now he was not prepared.

"How on earth could you bring yourself to be guilty of such
villainy?" said young Orme.

"Highty-tighty! What are you talking about, young man? The fact is,
you do not know what you are talking about. But as I have a respect
for your grandfather and for your mother I will give you and them a
piece of advice, gratis. Don't let them be too thick with Lady Mason
till they see how this matter goes."

"Mr. Dockwrath," said Lucius, "you are a mean, low, vile scoundrel."

"Very well, sir. Adams, just take a note of that. Don't mind what Mr.
Orme said. I can easily excuse him. He'll know the truth before long,
and then he'll beg my pardon."

"I'll take my oath I look upon you as the greatest miscreant that
ever I met," said Peregrine, who was of course bound to support his
friend.

"You'll change your mind, Mr. Orme, before long, and then you'll find
that you have met a worse miscreant than I am. Did you put down those
words, Adams?"

"Them as Mr. Mason spoke? Yes; I've got them down."

"Read them," said the master.

And the clerk read them, "Mr. Dockwrath, you are a mean, low, vile
scoundrel."

"And now, young gentlemen, if you have got nothing else to observe,
as I am rather busy, perhaps you will allow me to wish you good
morning."

"Very well, Mr. Dockwrath," said Mason; "you may be sure that you
will hear further from me."

"We shall be sure to hear of each other. There is no doubt in the
world about that," said the attorney. And then the two young men
withdrew with an unexpressed feeling in the mind of each of them,
that they had not so completely got the better of their antagonist as
the justice of their case demanded.

They then remounted their horses, and Orme accompanied his friend as
far as Orley Farm, from whence he got into the Alston road through
The Cleeve grounds. "And what do you intend to do now?" said
Peregrine as soon as they were mounted.

"I shall employ a lawyer," said he, "on my own footing; not my
mother's lawyer, but some one else. Then I suppose I shall be guided
by his advice." Had he done this before he made his visit to Mr.
Dockwrath, perhaps it might have been better. All this sat very
heavily on poor Peregrine's mind; and therefore as the company were
talking about Lady Mason after dinner, he remained silent, listening,
but not joining in the conversation.

The whole of that evening Lucius and his mother sat together, saying
nothing. There was not absolutely any quarrel between them, but on
this terrible subject there was an utter want of accordance, and
almost of sympathy. It was not that Lucius had ever for a moment
suspected his mother of aught that was wrong. Had he done so he
might perhaps have been more gentle towards her in his thoughts and
words. He not only fully trusted her, but he was quite fixed in
his confidence that nothing could shake either her or him in their
rights. But under these circumstances he could not understand how she
could consent to endure without resistance the indignities which were
put upon her. "She should combat them for my sake, if not for her
own," he said to himself over and over again. And he had said so also
to her, but his words had had no effect.

She, on the other hand, felt that he was cruel to her. She was
weighed down almost to the ground by these sufferings which had
fallen on her, and yet he would not be gentle and soft to her. She
could have borne it all, she thought, if he would have borne with
her. She still hoped that if she remained quiet no further trial
would take place. At any rate this might be so. That it would be so
she had the assurance of Mr. Furnival. And yet all this evil which
she dreaded worse than death was to be precipitated on her by her
son! So they sat through the long evening, speechless; each seated
with the pretence of reading, but neither of them capable of the
attention which a book requires.

He did not tell her then that he had been with Mr. Dockwrath, but she
knew by his manner that he had taken some terrible step. She waited
patiently the whole evening, hoping that he would tell her, but when
the hour came for her to go up to her room he had told her nothing.
If he now were to turn against her, that would be worse than all! She
went up to her room and sat herself down to think. All that passed
through her brain on that night I may not now tell; but the grief
which pressed on her at this moment with peculiar weight was the
self-will and obstinacy of her boy. She said to herself that she
would be willing now to die,--to give back her life at once, if such
might be God's pleasure; but that her son should bring down her hairs
with shame and sorrow to the grave--! In that thought there was a
bitterness of agony which she knew not how to endure!

The next morning at breakfast he still remained silent, and his brow
was still black. "Lucius," she said, "did you do anything in that
matter yesterday?"

"Yes, mother; I saw Mr. Dockwrath."

"Well?"

"I took Peregrine Orme with me that I might have a witness, and I
then asked him whether he had spread these reports. He acknowledged
that he had done so, and I told him that he was a villain."

Upon hearing this she uttered a long, low sigh, but she said nothing.
What use could there now be in her saying aught? Her look of agony
went to the young man's heart, but he still thought that he had been
right. "Mother," he continued to say, "I am very sorry to grieve
you in this way;--very sorry. But I could not hold up my head in
Hamworth,--I could not hold up my head anywhere, if I heard these
things said of you and did not resent it."

"Ah, Lucius, if you knew the weakness of a woman!"

"And therefore you should let me bear it all. There is nothing I
would not suffer; no cost I would not undergo rather than you should
endure all this. If you would only say that you would leave it to
me!"

"But it cannot be left to you. I have gone to a lawyer, to Mr.
Furnival. Why will you not permit that I should act in it as he
thinks best? Can you not believe that that will be the best for both
of us?"

"If you wish it, I will see Mr. Furnival."

Lady Mason did not wish that, but she was obliged so far to yield as
to say that he might do so if he would. Her wish was that he should
bear it all and say nothing. It was not that she was indifferent to
good repute among her neighbours, or that she was careless as to what
the apothecaries and attorneys said of her; but it was easier for
her to bear the evil than to combat it. The Ormes and the Furnivals
would support her. They and such-like persons would acknowledge her
weakness, and would know that from her would not be expected such
loud outbursting indignation as might be expected from a man. She had
calculated the strength of her own weakness, and thought that she
might still be supported by that,--if only her son would so permit.

It was two days after this that Lucius was allowed the honour of
a conference by appointment with the great lawyer; and at the
expiration of an hour's delay he was shown into the room by Mr.
Crabwitz. "And, Crabwitz," said the barrister, before he addressed
himself to his young friend, "just run your eye over those papers,
and let Mr. Bideawhile have them to-morrow morning; and, Crabwitz--."

"Yes, sir."

"That opinion of Sir Richard's in the Ahatualpaca Mining Company--I
have not seen it, have I?"

"It's all ready, Mr. Furnival."

"I will look at it in five minutes. And now, my young friend, what
can I do for you?"

It was quite clear from Mr. Furnival's tone and manner that he did
not mean to devote much time to Lucius Mason, and that he was not
generally anxious to hold any conversation with him on the subject in
question. Such, indeed, was the case. Mr. Furnival was determined to
pull Lady Mason out of the sea of trouble into which she had fallen,
let the effort cost him what it might, but he did not wish to do so
by the instrumentality, or even with the aid, of her son.

"Mr. Furnival," began Mason, "I want to ask your advice about these
dreadful reports which are being spread on every side in Hamworth
about my mother."

"If you will allow me then to say so, I think that the course which
you should pursue is very simple. Indeed there is, I think, only one
course which you can pursue with proper deference to your mother's
feelings."

"And what is that, Mr. Furnival?"

"Do nothing, and say nothing. I fear from what I have heard that you
have already done and said much more than was prudent."

"But how am I to hear such things as these spoken of my own mother?"

"That depends on the people by whom the things are spoken. In this
world, if we meet a chimney-sweep in the path we do not hustle with
him for the right of way. Your mother is going next week to The
Cleeve. It was only yesterday that I heard that the Noningsby people
are going to call on her. You can hardly, I suppose, desire for your
mother better friends than such as these. And can you not understand
why such people gather to her at this moment? If you can understand
it you will not trouble yourself to interfere much more with Mr.
Dockwrath."

There was a rebuke in this which Lucius Mason was forced to endure;
but nevertheless as he retreated disconcerted from the barrister's
chambers, he could not bring himself to think it right that such
calumny should be borne without resistance. He knew but little as yet
of the ordinary life of gentlemen in England; but he did know,--so at
least he thought,--that it was the duty of a son to shield his mother
from insult and libel.




CHAPTER XXI.

CHRISTMAS IN HARLEY STREET.


It seems singular to me myself, considering the idea which I have
in my own mind of the character of Lady Staveley, that I should be
driven to declare that about this time she committed an unpardonable
offence, not only against good nature, but also against the domestic
proprieties. But I am driven so to say, although she herself was of
all women the most good-natured and most domestic; for she asked
Mr. Furnival to pass his Christmas-day at Noningsby, and I find it
impossible to forgive her that offence against the poor wife whom in
that case he must leave alone by her desolate hearth. She knew that
he was a married man as well as I do. Sophia, who had a proper regard
for the domestic peace of her parents, and who could have been happy
at Noningsby without a father's care, not unfrequently spoke of her,
so that her existence in Harley Street might not be forgotten by
the Staveleys--explaining, however, as she did so, that her dear
mother never left her own fireside in winter, so that no suspicion
might be entertained that an invitation was desired for her also;
nevertheless, in spite of all this, on two separate occasions did
Lady Staveley say to Mr. Furnival that he might as well prolong his
visit over Christmas.

And yet Lady Staveley was not attached to Mr. Furnival with any
peculiar warmth of friendship; but she was one of those women whose
foolish hearts will not allow themselves to be controlled in the
exercise of their hospitality. Her nature demanded of her that she
should ask a guest to stay. She would not have allowed a dog to
depart from her house at this season of the year, without suggesting
to him that he had better take his Christmas bone in her yard. It
was for Mr. Furnival to adjust all matters between himself and his
wife. He was not bound to accept the invitation because she gave it;
but she, finding him there, already present in the house, did feel
herself bound to give it;--for which offence, as I have said before,
I cannot bring myself to forgive her.

At his sin in staying away from home, or rather--as far as the story
has yet carried us--in thinking that he would do so, I am by no means
so much surprised. An angry ill-pleased wife is no pleasant companion
for a gentleman on a long evening. For those who have managed that
things shall run smoothly over the domestic rug there is no happier
time of life than these long candlelight hours of home and silence.
No spoken content or uttered satisfaction is necessary. The fact that
is felt is enough for peace. But when the fact is not felt; when
the fact is by no means there; when the thoughts are running in a
direction altogether different; when bitter grievances from one to
the other fill the heart, rather than memories of mutual kindness;
then, I say, those long candlelight hours of home and silence are not
easy of endurance. Mr. Furnival was a man who chose to be the master
of his own destiny, so at least to himself he boasted; and therefore
when he found himself encountered by black looks and occasionally by
sullen words, he declared to himself that he was ill-used and that he
would not bear it. Since the domestic rose would no longer yield him
honey, he would seek his sweets from the stray honeysuckle on which
there grew no thorns.

Mr. Furnival was no coward. He was not one of those men who wrong
their wives by their absence, and then prolong their absence because
they are afraid to meet their wives. His resolve was to be free
himself, and to be free without complaint from her. He would have
it so, that he might remain out of his own house for a month at the
time and then return to it for a week--at any rate without outward
bickerings. I have known other men who have dreamed of such a state
of things, but at this moment I can remember none who have brought
their dream to bear.

Mr. Furnival had written to his wife,--not from Noningsby, but
from some provincial town, probably situated among the Essex
marshes,--saying various things, and among others that he should
not, as he thought, be at home at Christmas-day. Mrs. Furnival had
remarked about a fortnight since that Christmas-day was nothing to
her now; and the base man, for it was base, had hung upon this poor,
sore-hearted word an excuse for remaining away from home. "There are
lawyers of repute staying at Noningsby," he had said, "with whom it
is very expedient that I should remain at this present crisis."--When
yet has there been no crisis present to a man who has wanted an
excuse?--"And therefore I may probably stay,"--and so on. Who does
not know the false mixture of excuse and defiance which such a letter
is sure to maintain; the crafty words which may be taken as adequate
reason if the receiver be timid enough so to receive them, or as a
noisy gauntlet thrown to the ground if there be spirit there for the
picking of it up? Such letter from his little borough in the Essex
marshes did Mr. Furnival write to the partner of his cares, and there
was still sufficient spirit left for the picking up of the gauntlet.
"I shall be home to-morrow," the letter had gone on to say, "but
I will not keep you waiting for dinner, as my hours are always so
uncertain. I shall be at my chambers till late, and will be with you
before tea. I will then return to Alston on the following morning."
There was at any rate good courage in this on the part of Mr.
Furnival;--great courage; but with it coldness of heart, dishonesty
of purpose, and black ingratitude. Had she not given everything to
him?

Mrs. Furnival when she got the letter was not alone. "There,"
said she; throwing it over to a lady who sat on the other side of
the fireplace handling a loose sprawling mass of not very clean
crochet-work. "I knew he would stay away on Christmas-day. I told you
so."

"I didn't think it possible," said Miss Biggs, rolling up the big
ball of soiled cotton, that she might read Mr. Furnival's letter at
her leisure. "I didn't really think it possible--on Christmas-day!
Surely, Mrs. Furnival, he can't mean Christmas-day? Dear, dear, dear!
and then to throw it in your face in that way that you said you
didn't care about it."

"Of course I said so," answered Mrs. Furnival. "I was not going to
ask him to come home as a favour."

"Not to make a favour of it, of course not." This was Miss Biggs
from ----. I am afraid if I tell the truth I must say that she came
from Red Lion Square! And yet nothing could be more respectable than
Miss Biggs. Her father had been a partner with an uncle of Mrs.
Furnival's; and when Kitty Blacker had given herself and her young
prettinesses to the hardworking lawyer, Martha Biggs had stood at the
altar with her, then just seventeen years of age, and had promised
to her all manner of success for her coming life. Martha Biggs had
never, not even then, been pretty; but she had been very faithful.
She had not been a favourite with Mr. Furnival, having neither wit
nor grace to recommend her, and therefore in the old happy days of
Keppel Street she had been kept in the background; but now, in this
present time of her adversity, Mrs. Furnival found the benefit of
having a trusty friend.

"If he likes better to be with these people down at Alston, I am sure
it is the same to me," said the injured wife.

"But there's nobody special at Alston, is there?" asked Miss Biggs,
whose soul sighed for a tale more piquant than one of mere general
neglect. She knew that her friend had dreadful suspicions, but Mrs.
Furnival had never as yet committed herself by uttering the name of
any woman as her rival. Miss Biggs thought that a time had now come
in which the strength of their mutual confidence demanded that such
name should be uttered. It could not be expected that she should
sympathise with generalities for ever. She longed to hate, to
reprobate, and to shudder at the actual name of the wretch who had
robbed her friend of a husband's heart. And therefore she asked the
question, "There's nobody special at Alston, is there?"

Now Mrs. Furnival knew to a furlong the distance from Noningsby to
Orley Farm, and knew also that the station at Hamworth was only
twenty-five minutes from that at Alston. She gave no immediate
answer, but threw up her head and shook her nostrils, as though she
were preparing for war; and then Miss Martha Biggs knew that there
was somebody special at Alston. Between such old friends why should
not the name be mentioned?

On the following day the two ladies dined at six, and then waited tea
patiently till ten. Had the thirst of a desert been raging within
that drawing-room, and had tea been within immediate call, those
ladies would have died ere they would have asked for it before his
return. He had said he would be home to tea, and they would have
waited for him, had it been till four o'clock in the morning! Let the
female married victim ever make the most of such positive wrongs as
Providence may vouchsafe to her. Had Mrs. Furnival ordered tea on
this evening before her husband's return, she would have been a woman
blind to the advantages of her own position. At ten the wheels of Mr.
Furnival's cab were heard, and the faces of both the ladies prepared
themselves for the encounter.

"Well, Kitty, how are you?" said Mr. Furnival, entering the room with
his arms prepared for a premeditated embrace. "What, Miss Biggs with
you? I did not know. How do you do, Miss Biggs?" and Mr. Furnival
extended his hand to the lady. They both looked at him, and they
could tell from the brightness of his eye and from the colour of his
nose that he had been dining at his club, and that the bin with the
precious cork had been visited on his behalf.

"Yes, my dear, it's rather lonely being here in this big room all
by oneself so long; so I asked Martha Biggs to come over to me. I
suppose there's no harm in that."

"Oh, if I'm in the way," began Miss Biggs, "or if Mr. Furnival is
going to stay at home for long--"

"You are not in the way, and I am not going to stay at home for
long," said Mr. Furnival, speaking with a voice that was perhaps a
little thick,--only a very little thick. No wife on good terms with
her husband would have deigned to notice, even in her own mind, an
amount of thickness of voice which was so very inconsiderable. But
Mrs. Furnival at the present moment did notice it.

"Oh, I did not know," said Miss Biggs.

"You know now," said Mr. Furnival, whose ear at once appreciated the
hostility of tone which had been assumed.

"You need not be rude to my friend after she has been waiting tea for
you till near eleven o'clock," said Mrs. Furnival. "It is nothing to
me, but you should remember that she is not used to it."

"I wasn't rude to your friend, and who asked you to wait tea till
near eleven o'clock? It is only just ten now, if that signifies."

"You expressly desired me to wait tea, Mr. Furnival. I have got your
letter, and will show it you if you wish it."

"Nonsense; I just said I should be home--"

"Of course you just said you would be home, and so we waited; and
it's not nonsense; and I declare--! Never mind, Martha, don't mind
me, there's a good creature. I shall get over it soon;" and then fat,
solid, good-humoured Mrs. Furnival burst out into an hysterical fit
of sobbing. There was a welcome for a man on his return to his home
after a day's labour!

Miss Biggs immediately got up and came round behind the drawing-room
table to her friend's head. "Be calm, Mrs. Furnival," she said; "do
be calm, and then you will be better soon. Here is the hartshorn."

"It doesn't matter, Martha: never mind: leave me alone," sobbed the
poor woman.

"May I be excused for asking what is really the matter?" said Mr.
Furnival, "for I'll be whipped if I know." Miss Biggs looked at him
as if she thought that he ought to be whipped.

"I wonder you ever come near the place at all, I do," said Mrs.
Furnival.

"What place?" asked Mr. Furnival.

"This house in which I am obliged to live by myself, without a soul
to speak to, unless when Martha Biggs comes here."

"Which would be much more frequent, only that I know I am not welcome
by everybody."

"I know that you hate it. How can I help knowing it?--and you hate
me too; I know you do;--and I believe you would be glad if you need
never come back here at all; I do. Don't, Martha; leave me alone. I
don't want all that fuss. There; I can bear it now, whatever it is.
Do you choose to have your tea, Mr. Furnival? or do you wish to keep
the servants waiting out of their beds all night?"

"D---- the servants," said Mr. Furnival.

"Oh laws!" exclaimed Miss Biggs, jumping up out of her chair with her
hands and fingers outstretched, as though never, never in her life
before, had her ears been wounded by such wicked words as those.

"Mr. Furnival, I am ashamed of you," said his wife with gathered
calmness of stern reproach.

Mr. Furnival was very wrong to swear; doubly wrong to swear before
his wife; trebly wrong to swear before a lady visitor; but it must
be confessed that there was provocation. That he was at this present
period of his life behaving badly to his wife must be allowed, but on
this special evening he had intended to behave well. The woman had
sought a ground of quarrel against him, and had driven him on till he
had forgotten himself in his present after-dinner humour. When a man
is maintaining a whole household on his own shoulders, and working
hard to maintain it well, it is not right that he should be brought
to book because he keeps the servants up half an hour later than
usual to wash the tea-things. It is very proper that the idle members
of the establishment should conform to hours, but these hours must
give way to his requirements. In those old days of which we have
spoken so often he might have had his tea at twelve, one, two, or
three without a murmur. Though their staff of servants then was
scanty enough, there was never a difficulty then in supplying any
such want for him. If no other pair of hands could boil the kettle,
there was one pair of hands there which no amount of such work on his
behalf could tire. But now, because he had come in for his tea at
ten o'clock, he was asked if he intended to keep the servants out of
their beds all night!

"Oh laws!" said Miss Biggs, jumping up from her chair as though she
had been electrified.

Mr. Furnival did not think it consistent with his dignity to keep up
any dispute in the presence of Miss Biggs, and therefore sat himself
down in his accustomed chair without further speech. "Would you
wish to have tea now, Mr. Furnival?" asked his wife again, putting
considerable stress upon the word now.

"I don't care about it," said he.

"And I am sure I don't at this late hour," said Miss Biggs. "But so
tired as you are, dear--"

"Never mind me, Martha; as for myself, I shall take nothing now." And
then they all sat without a word for the space of some five minutes.
"If you like to go, Martha," said Mrs. Furnival, "don't mind waiting
for me."

"Oh, very well," and then Miss Biggs took her bedcandle and left the
room. Was it not hard upon her that she should be forced to absent
herself at this moment, when the excitement of the battle was about
to begin in earnest? Her footsteps lingered as she slowly retreated
from the drawing-room door, and for one instant she absolutely
paused, standing still with eager ears. It was but for an instant,
and then she went on up stairs, out of hearing, and sitting herself
down by her bedside allowed the battle to rage in her imagination.

Mr. Furnival would have sat there silent till his wife had gone also,
and so the matter would have terminated for that evening,--had she
so willed it. But she had been thinking of her miseries; and, having
come to some sort of resolution to speak of them openly, what time
could she find more appropriate for doing so than the present? "Tom,"
she said,--and as she spoke there was still a twinkle of the old
love in her eye, "we are not going on together as well as we should
do,--not lately. Would it not be well to make a change before it is
too late?"

"What change?" he asked; not exactly in an ill humour, but with a
husky, thick voice. He would have preferred now that she should have
followed her friend to bed.

"I do not want to dictate to you, Tom, but--! Oh Tom, if you knew how
wretched I am!"

"What makes you wretched?"

"Because you leave me all alone; because you care more for other
people than you do for me; because you never like to be at home,
never if you can possibly help it. You know you don't. You are always
away now upon some excuse or other; you know you are. I don't have
you home to dinner not one day in the week through the year. That
can't be right, and you know it is not. Oh Tom! you are breaking my
heart, and deceiving me,--you are. Why did I go down and find that
woman in your chamber with you, when you were ashamed to own to me
that she was coming to see you? If it had been in the proper way of
law business, you wouldn't have been ashamed. Oh, Tom!"

The poor woman had begun her plaint in a manner that was not
altogether devoid of a discreet eloquence. If only she could have
maintained that tone, if she could have confined her words to the
tale of her own grievances, and have been contented to declare that
she was unhappy, only because he was not with her, it might have
been well. She might have touched his heart, or at any rate his
conscience, and there might have been some enduring result for good.
But her feelings had been too many for her, and as her wrongs came to
her mind, and the words heaped themselves upon her tongue, she could
not keep herself from the one subject which she should have left
untouched. Mr. Furnival was not the man to bear any interference such
as this, or to permit the privacy of Lincoln's Inn to be invaded even
by his wife. His brow grew very black, and his eyes became almost
bloodshot. The port wine which might have worked him to softness, now
worked him to anger, and he thus burst forth with words of marital
vigour:

"Let me tell you once for ever, Kitty, that I will admit of no
interference with what I do, or the people whom I may choose to
see in my chambers in Lincoln's Inn. If you are such an infatuated
simpleton as to believe--"

"Yes; of course I am a simpleton; of course I am a fool; women always
are."

"Listen to me, will you?"

"Listen, yes; it's my business to listen. Would you like that I
should give this house up for her, and go into lodgings somewhere? I
shall have very little objection as matters are going now. Oh dear,
oh dear, that things should ever have come to this!"

"Come to what?"

"Tom, I could put up with a great deal,--more I think than most
women; I could slave for you like a drudge, and think nothing about
it. And now that you have got among grand people, I could see you go
out by yourself without thinking much about that either. I am very
lonely sometimes,--very; but I could bear that. Nobody has longed to
see you rise in the world half so anxious as I have done. But, Tom,
when I know what your goings on are with a nasty, sly, false woman
like that, I won't bear it; and there's an end." In saying which
final words Mrs. Furnival rose from her seat, and thrice struck her
hand by no means lightly on the loo table in the middle of the room.

"I did not think it possible that you should be so silly. I did not
indeed."

"Oh, yes, silly! very well. Women always are silly when they mind
that kind of thing. Have you got anything else to say, sir?"

"Yes, I have; I have this to say, that I will not endure this sort of
usage."

"Nor I won't," said Mrs. Furnival; "so you may as well understand it
at once. As long as there was nothing absolutely wrong, I would put
up with it for the sake of appearances, and because of Sophia. For
myself I don't mind what loneliness I may have to bear. If you had
been called on to go out to the East Indies or even to China, I could
have put up with it. But this sort of thing I won't put up with;--nor
I won't be blind to what I can't help seeing. So now, Mr. Furnival,
you may know that I have made up my mind." And then, without waiting
further parley, having wisked herself in her energy near to the door,
she stalked out, and went up with hurried steps to her own room.

Occurrences of a nature such as this are in all respects unpleasant
in a household. Let the master be ever so much master, what is he to
do? Say that his wife is wrong from the beginning to the end of the
quarrel,--that in no way improves the matter. His anxiety is that the
world abroad shall not know he has ought amiss at home; but she, with
her hot sense of injury, and her loud revolt against supposed wrongs,
cares not who hears it. "Hold your tongue, madam," the husband says.
But the wife, bound though she be by an oath of obedience, will not
obey him, but only screams the louder.

All which, as Mr. Furnival sat there thinking of it, disturbed his
mind much. That Martha Biggs would spread the tale through all
Bloomsbury and St. Pancras of course he was aware. "If she drives
me to it, it must be so," he said to himself at last. And then he
also betook himself to his rest. And so it was that preparations for
Christmas were made in Harley Street.




CHAPTER XXII.

CHRISTMAS AT NONINGSBY.


The house at Noningsby on Christmas-day was quite full, and yet it
was by no means a small house. Mrs. Arbuthnot, the judge's married
daughter, was there, with her three children; and Mr. Furnival was
there, having got over those domestic difficulties in which we lately
saw him as best he might; and Lucius Mason was there, having been
especially asked by Lady Staveley when she heard that his mother was
to be at The Cleeve. There could be no more comfortable country-house
than Noningsby; and it was, in its own way, pretty, though
essentially different in all respects from The Cleeve. It was a new
house from the cellar to the ceiling, and as a house was no doubt the
better for being so. All the rooms were of the proper proportion, and
all the newest appliances for comfort had been attached to it. But
nevertheless it lacked that something, in appearance rather than in
fact, which age alone can give to the residence of a gentleman in the
country. The gardens also were new, and the grounds around them trim,
and square, and orderly. Noningsby was a delightful house; no one
with money and taste at command could have created for himself one
more delightful; but then there are delights which cannot be created
even by money and taste.

It was a pleasant sight to see, the long, broad, well-filled
breakfast table, with all that company round it. There were some
eighteen or twenty gathered now at the table, among whom the judge
sat pre-eminent, looming large in an arm-chair and having a double
space allotted to him;--some eighteen or twenty, children included.
At the bottom of the table sat Lady Staveley, who still chose to
preside among her own tea cups as a lady should do; and close to her,
assisting in the toils of that presidency, sat her daughter Madeline.
Nearest to them were gathered the children, and the rest had formed
themselves into little parties, each of which already well knew its
own place at the board. In how very short a time will come upon one
that pleasant custom of sitting in an accustomed place! But here, at
these Noningsby breakfasts, among other customs already established,
there was one by which Augustus Staveley was always privileged to
sit by the side of Sophia Furnival. No doubt his original object was
still unchanged. A match between that lady and his friend Graham was
still desirable, and by perseverance he might pique Felix Graham to
arouse himself. But hitherto Felix Graham had not aroused himself in
that direction, and one or two people among the party were inclined
to mistake young Staveley's intentions.

"Gus," his sister had said to him the night before, "I declare I
think you are going to make love to Sophia Furnival."

"Do you?" he had replied. "As a rule I do not think there is any one
in the world for whose discernment I have so much respect as I have
for yours. But in this respect even you are wrong."

"Ah, of course you say so."

"If you won't believe me, ask her. What more can I say?"

"I certainly sha'n't ask her, for I don't know her well enough."

"She's a very clever girl; let me tell you that, whoever falls in
love with her."

"I'm sure she is, and she is handsome too, very; but for all that she
is not good enough for our Gus."

"Of course she is not, and therefore I am not thinking of her. And
now go to bed and dream that you have got the Queen of the Fortunate
Islands for your sister-in-law."

But although Staveley was himself perfectly indifferent to all the
charms of Miss Furnival, nevertheless he could hardly restrain his
dislike to Lucius Mason, who, as he thought, was disposed to admire
the lady in question. In talking of Lucius to his own family and to
his special friend Graham, he had called him conceited, pedantic,
uncouth, unenglish, and detestable. His own family, that is, his
mother and sister, rarely contradicted him in anything; but Graham
was by no means so cautious, and usually contradicted him in
everything. Indeed, there was no sign of sterling worth so plainly
marked in Staveley's character as the full conviction which he
entertained of the superiority of his friend Felix.

"You are quite wrong about him," Felix had said. "He has not been at
an English school, or English university, and therefore is not like
other young men that you know; but he is, I think, well educated
and clever. As for conceit, what man will do any good who is not
conceited? Nobody holds a good opinion of a man who has a low opinion
of himself."

"All the same, my dear fellow, I do not like Lucius Mason."

"And some one else, if you remember, did not like Dr. Fell."

"And now, good people, what are you all going to do about church?"
said Staveley, while they were still engaged with their rolls and
eggs.

"I shall walk," said the judge.

"And I shall go in the carriage," said the judge's wife.

"That disposes of two; and now it will take half an hour to settle
for the rest. Miss. Furnival, you no doubt will accompany my mother.
As I shall be among the walkers you will see how much I sacrifice by
the suggestion."

It was a mile to the church, and Miss Furnival knew the advantage
of appearing in her seat unfatigued and without subjection to wind,
mud, or rain. "I must confess," she said, "that under all the
circumstances, I shall prefer your mother's company to yours;"
whereupon Staveley, in the completion of his arrangements, assigned
the other places in the carriage to the married ladies of the
company.

"But I have taken your sister Madeline's seat in the carriage,"
protested Sophia with great dismay.

"My sister Madeline generally walks."

"Then of course I shall walk with her;" but when the time came Miss
Furnival did go in the carriage whereas Miss Staveley went on foot.

It so fell out, as they started, that Graham found himself walking at
Miss Staveley's side, to the great disgust, no doubt, of half a dozen
other aspirants for that honour. "I cannot help thinking," he said,
as they stepped briskly over the crisp white frost, "that this
Christmas-day of ours is a great mistake."

"Oh, Mr. Graham!" she exclaimed

"You need not regard me with horror,--at least not with any special
horror on this occasion."

"But what you say is very horrid."

"That, I flatter myself, seems so only because I have not yet said
it. That part of our Christmas-day which is made to be in any degree
sacred is by no means a mistake."

"I am glad you think that."

"Or rather, it is not a mistake in as far as it is in any degree made
sacred. But the peculiar conviviality of the day is so ponderous! Its
roast-beefiness oppresses one so thoroughly from the first moment
of one's waking, to the last ineffectual effort at a bit of fried
pudding for supper!"

"But you need not eat fried pudding for supper. Indeed, here, I am
afraid, you will not have any supper offered you at all."

"No; not to me individually, under that name. I might also manage
to guard my own self under any such offers. But there is always the
flavour of the sweetmeat, in the air,--of all the sweetmeats edible
and non-edible."

"You begrudge the children their snap-dragon. That's what it all
means, Mr. Graham."

"No; I deny it; unpremeditated snap-dragon is dear to my soul; and I
could expend myself in blindman's buff."

"You shall then, after dinner; for of course you know that we all
dine early."

"But blindman's buff at three, with snap-dragon at a quarter to
four--charades at five, with wine and sweet cake at half-past six,
is ponderous. And that's our mistake. The big turkey would be very
good;--capital fun to see a turkey twice as big as it ought to
be! But the big turkey, and the mountain of beef, and the pudding
weighing a hundredweight, oppress one's spirits by their combined
gravity. And then they impart a memory of indigestion, a halo as it
were of apoplexy, even to the church services."

"I do not agree with you the least in the world."

"I ask you to answer me fairly. Is not additional eating an ordinary
Englishman's ordinary idea of Christmas-day?"

"I am only an ordinary Englishwoman and therefore cannot say. It is
not my idea."

"I believe that the ceremony, as kept by us, is perpetuated by the
butchers and beersellers, with a helping hand from the grocers. It is
essentially a material festival; and I would not object to it even on
that account if it were not so grievously overdone. How the sun is
moistening the frost on the ground. As we come back the road will be
quite wet."

"We shall be going home then and it will not signify. Remember, Mr.
Graham, I shall expect you to come forward in great strength for
blindman's buff." As he gave her the required promise, he thought
that even the sports of Christmas-day would be bearable, if she also
were to make one of the sportsmen; and then they entered the church.

[Illustration: Christmas at Noningsby--Morning.]

I do not know of anything more pleasant to the eye than a pretty
country church, decorated for Christmas-day. The effect in a city is
altogether different. I will not say that churches there should not
be decorated, but comparatively it is a matter of indifference. No
one knows who does it. The peculiar munificence of the squire who
has sacrificed his holly bushes is not appreciated. The work of the
fingers that have been employed is not recognised. The efforts made
for hanging the pendent wreaths to each capital have been of no
special interest to any large number of the worshippers. It has
been done by contract, probably, and even if well done has none of
the grace of association. But here at Noningsby church, the winter
flowers had been cut by Madeline and the gardener, and the red
berries had been grouped by her own hands. She and the vicar's wife
had stood together with perilous audacity on the top of the clerk's
desk while they fixed the branches beneath the cushion of the
old-fashioned turret, from which the sermons were preached. And
all this had of course been talked about at the house; and some of
the party had gone over to see, including Sophia Furnival, who had
declared that nothing could be so delightful, though she had omitted
to endanger her fingers by any participation in the work. And the
children had regarded the operation as a triumph of all that was
wonderful in decoration; and thus many of them had been made happy.

On their return from church, Miss Furnival insisted on walking,
in order, as she said, that Miss Staveley might not have all the
fatigue; but Miss Staveley would walk also, and the carriage, after
a certain amount of expostulation and delay, went off with its load
incomplete.

"And now for the plum-pudding part of the arrangement," said Felix
Graham.

"Yes, Mr. Graham," said Madeline, "now for the plum-pudding--and the
blindman's buff."

"Did you ever see anything more perfect than the church, Mr. Mason?"
said Sophia.

"Anything more perfect? no; in that sort of way, perhaps, never. I
have seen the choir of Cologne."

"Come, come; that's not fair," said Graham. "Don't import Cologne in
order to crush us here down in our little English villages. You never
saw the choir of Cologne bright with holly berries."

"No; but I have with cardinal's stockings, and bishop's robes."

"I think I should prefer the holly," said Miss Furnival. "And why
should not our churches always look like that, only changing the
flowers and the foliage with the season? It would make the service so
attractive."

"It would hardly do at Lent," said Madeline, in a serious tone.

"No, perhaps not at Lent exactly."

Peregrine and Augustus Staveley were walking on in front, not perhaps
as well satisfied with the day as the rest of the party. Augustus, on
leaving the church, had made a little effort to assume his place as
usual by Miss Furnival's side, but by some accident of war, Mason
was there before him. He had not cared to make one of a party of
three, and therefore had gone on in advance with young Orme. Nor was
Peregrine himself much more happy. He did not know why, but he felt
within his breast a growing aversion to Felix Graham. Graham was a
puppy, he thought, and a fellow that talked too much; and then he
was such a confoundedly ugly dog, and--and--and--Peregrine Orme did
not like him. He was not a man to analyze his own feelings in such
matters. He did not ask himself why he should have been rejoiced to
hear that instant business had taken Felix Graham off to Hong Kong;
but he knew that he would have rejoiced. He knew also that Madeline
Staveley was--. No; he did not know what she was; but when he was
alone, he carried on with her all manner of imaginary conversations,
though when he was in her company he had hardly a word to say to her.
Under these circumstances he fraternized with her brother; but even
in that he could not receive much satisfaction, seeing that he could
not abuse Graham to Graham's special friend, nor could he breathe a
sigh as to Madeline's perfections into the ear of Madeline's brother.

The children,--and there were three or four assembled there besides
those belonging to Mrs. Arbuthnot, were by no means inclined to agree
with Mr. Graham's strictures as to the amusements of Christmas-day.
To them it appeared that they could not hurry fast enough into the
vortex of its dissipations. The dinner was a serious consideration,
especially with reference to certain illuminated mince-pies which
were the crowning glory of that banquet; but time for these was
almost begrudged in order that the fast handkerchief might be tied
over the eyes of the first blindman.

"And now we'll go into the schoolroom," said Marian Arbuthnot,
jumping up and leading the way. "Come along, Mr. Felix," and Felix
Graham followed her.

Madeline had declared that Felix Graham should be blinded first, and
such was his doom. "Now mind you catch me, Mr. Felix; pray do," said
Marian, when she had got him seated in a corner of the room. She was
a beautiful fair little thing, with long, soft curls, and lips red as
a rose, and large, bright blue eyes, all soft and happy and laughing,
loving the friends of her childhood with passionate love, and fully
expecting an equal devotion from them. It is of such children that
our wives and sweethearts should be made.

"But how am I to find you when my eyes are blinded?"

"Oh, you can feel, you know. You can put your hand on the top of my
head. I mustn't speak, you know; but I'm sure I shall laugh; and
then you must guess that it's Marian." That was her idea of playing
blindman's buff according to the strict rigour of the game.

"And you'll give me a big kiss?" said Felix.

"Yes, when we've done playing," she promised with great seriousness.

And then a huge white silk handkerchief, as big as a small sail, was
brought down from grandpapa's dressing-room, so that nobody should
see the least bit "in the world," as Marian had observed with great
energy; and the work of blinding was commenced. "I ain't big enough
to reach round," said Marian, who had made an effort, but in vain.
"You do it, aunt Mad," and she tendered the handkerchief to Miss
Staveley, who, however, did not appear very eager to undertake the
task.

"I'll be the executioner," said grandmamma, "the more especially as
I shall not take any other share in the ceremony. This shall be the
chair of doom. Come here, Mr. Graham, and submit yourself to me." And
so the first victim was blinded. "Mind you remember," said Marian,
whispering into his ear as he was led away. "Green spirits and white;
blue spirits and gray--," and then he was twirled round in the room
and left to commence his search as best he might.

Marian Arbuthnot was not the only soft little laughing darling that
wished to be caught, and blinded, so that there was great pulling
at the blindman's tails, and much grasping at his outstretched arms
before the desired object was attained. And he wandered round the
room skilfully, as though a thought were in his mind false to his
treaty with Marian,--as though he imagined for a moment that some
other prize might be caught. But if so, the other prize evaded him
carefully, and in due progress of play, Marian's soft curls were
within his grasp. "I'm sure I didn't speak, or say a word," said she,
as she ran up to her grandmother to have the handkerchief put over
her eyes. "Did I, grandmamma?"

"There are more ways of speaking than one," said Lady Staveley. "You
and Mr. Graham understand each other, I think."

"Oh, I was caught quite fairly," said Marian--"and now lead me round
and round." To her at any rate the festivities of Christmas-day were
not too ponderous for real enjoyment.

And then, at last, somebody caught the judge. I rather think it
was Madeline; but his time in truth was come, and he had no chance
of escape. The whole room was set upon his capture, and though he
barricaded himself with chairs and children, he was duly apprehended
and named. "That's papa; I know by his watch-chain, for I made it."

"Nonsense, my dears," said the judge. "I will do no such thing. I
should never catch anybody, and should remain blind for ever."

"But grandpapa must," said Marian. "It's the game that he should be
blinded when he's caught."

"Suppose the game was that we should be whipped when we are caught,
and I was to catch you," said Augustus.

"But I would not play that game," said Marian.

"Oh, papa, you must," said Madeline. "Do--and you shall catch Mr.
Furnival."

"That would be a temptation," said the judge. "I've never been able
to do that yet, though I've been trying it for some years."

"Justice is blind," said Graham. "Why should a judge be ashamed to
follow the example of his own goddess?" And so at last the owner of
the ermine submitted, and the stern magistrate of the bench was led
round with the due incantation of the spirits, and dismissed into
chaos to seek for a new victim.

[Illustration: Christmas at Noningsby--Evening.]

One of the rules of blindman's buff at Noningsby was this, that
it should not be played by candlelight,--a rule that is in every
way judicious, as thereby an end is secured for that which might
otherwise be unending. And therefore when it became so dark in the
schoolroom that there was not much difference between the blind man
and the others, the handkerchief was smuggled away, and the game was
at an end.

"And now for snap-dragon," said Marian.

"Exactly as you predicted, Mr. Graham," said Madeline: "blindman's
buff at a quarter past three, and snap-dragon at five."

"I revoke every word that I uttered, for I was never more amused in
my life."

"And you will be prepared to endure the wine and sweet cake when they
come."

"Prepared to endure anything, and go through everything. We shall be
allowed candles now, I suppose."

"Oh, no, by no means. Snap-dragon by candlelight! who ever heard
of such a thing? It would wash all the dragon out of it, and leave
nothing but the snap. It is a necessity of the game that it should be
played in the dark,--or rather by its own lurid light."

"Oh, there is a lurid light; is there?"

"You shall see;" and then she turned away to make her preparations.

To the game of snap-dragon, as played at Noningsby, a ghost was
always necessary, and aunt Madeline had played the ghost ever since
she had been an aunt, and there had been any necessity for such a
part. But in previous years the spectators had been fewer in number
and more closely connected with the family. "I think we must drop the
ghost on this occasion," she said, coming up to her brother.

"You'll disgust them all dreadfully if you do," said he. "The young
Sebrights have come specially to see the ghost."

"Well, you can do ghost for them."

"I! no; I can't act a ghost. Miss Furnival, you'd make a lovely
ghost."

"I shall be most happy to be useful," said Sophia.

"Oh, aunt Mad, you must be ghost," said Marian, following her.

"You foolish little thing, you; we are going to have a beautiful
ghost--a divine ghost," said uncle Gus.

"But we want Madeline to be the ghost," said a big Miss Sebright, ten
or eleven years old.

"She's always ghost," said Marian.

"To be sure; it will be much better," said Miss Furnival. "I only
offered my poor services hoping to be useful. No Banquo that ever
lived could leave a worse ghost behind him than I should prove."

It ended in there being two ghosts. It had become quite impossible
to rob Miss Furnival of her promised part, and Madeline could not
refuse to solve the difficulty in this way without making more of the
matter than it deserved. The idea of two ghosts was delightful to
the children, more especially as it entailed two large dishes full
of raisins, and two blue fires blazing up from burnt brandy. So the
girls went out, not without proffered assistance from the gentlemen,
and after a painfully long interval of some fifteen or twenty
minutes,--for Miss Furnival's back hair would not come down and
adjust itself into ghostlike lengths with as much readiness as that
of her friend,--they returned bearing the dishes before them on large
trays. In each of them the spirit was lighted as they entered the
schoolroom door, and thus, as they walked in, they were illuminated
by the dark-blue flames which they carried.

"Oh, is it not grand?" said Marian, appealing to Felix Graham.

"Uncommonly grand," he replied.

"And which ghost do you think is the grandest? I'll tell you which
ghost I like the best,--in a secret, you know; I like aunt Mad the
best, and I think she's the grandest too."

"And I'll tell you in a secret that I think the same. To my mind she
is the grandest ghost I ever saw in my life."

"Is she indeed?" asked Marian, solemnly, thinking probably that her
new friend's experience in ghosts must be extensive. However that
might be, he thought that as far as his experience in women went, he
had never seen anything more lovely than Madeline Staveley dressed in
a long white sheet, with a long bit of white cambric pinned round her
face.

And it may be presumed that the dress altogether is not unbecoming
when accompanied by blue flames, for Augustus Staveley and Lucius
Mason thought the same thing of Miss Furnival, whereas Peregrine Orme
did not know whether he was standing on his head or his feet as he
looked at Miss Staveley. Miss Furnival may possibly have had some
inkling of this when she offered to undertake the task, but I protest
that such was not the case with Madeline. There was no second thought
in her mind when she first declined the ghosting, and afterwards
undertook the part. No wish to look beautiful in the eyes of Felix
Graham had come to her--at any rate as yet; and as to Peregrine Orme,
she had hardly thought of his existence. "By heavens!" said Peregrine
to himself, "she is the most beautiful creature that I ever saw;" and
then he began to speculate within his own mind how the idea might be
received at The Cleeve.

But there was no such realised idea with Felix Graham. He saw that
Madeline Staveley was very beautiful, and he felt in an unconscious
manner that her character was very sweet. He may have thought that he
might have loved such a girl, had such love been a thing permitted to
him. But this was far from being the case. Felix Graham's lot in this
life, as regarded that share which his heart might have in it, was
already marked out for him;--marked out for himself and by himself.
The future wife of his bosom had already been selected, and was now
in course of preparation for the duties of her future life. He was
one of those few wise men who have determined not to take a partner
in life at hazard, but to mould a young mind and character to those
pursuits and modes of thought which may best fit a woman for the
duties she will have to perform. What little it may be necessary to
know of the earlier years of Mary Snow shall be told hereafter. Here
it will be only necessary to say that she was an orphan, that as yet
she was little more than a child, and that she owed her maintenance
and the advantage of her education to the charity and love of her
destined husband. Therefore, as I have said, it was manifest that
Felix Graham could not think of falling in love with Miss Staveley,
even had not his very low position, in reference to worldly affairs,
made any such passion on his part quite hopeless. But with Peregrine
Orme the matter was different. There could be no possible reason why
Peregrine Orme should not win and wear the beautiful girl whom he so
much admired.

But the ghosts are kept standing over their flames, the spirit is
becoming exhausted, and the raisins will be burnt. At snap-dragon,
too, the ghosts here had something to do. The law of the game is
this--a law on which Marian would have insisted had not the flames
been so very hot--that the raisins shall become the prey of those
audacious marauders only who dare to face the presence of the ghost,
and to plunge their hands into the burning dish. As a rule the boys
do this, clawing out the raisins, while the girls pick them up and
eat them. But here at Noningsby the boys were too little to act thus
as pioneers in the face of the enemy, and the raisins might have
remained till the flames were burnt out, had not the beneficent ghost
scattered abroad the richness of her own treasures.

"Now, Marian," said Felix Graham, bringing her up in his arms.

"But it will burn, Mr. Felix. Look there; see; there are a great many
at that end. You do it."

"I must have another kiss then."

"Very well, yes; if you get five." And then Felix dashed his hand in
among the flames and brought forth a fistful of fruit, which imparted
to his fingers and wristband a smell of brandy for the rest of the
evening.

"If you take so many at a time I shall rap your knuckles with the
spoon," said the ghost, as she stirred up the flames to keep them
alive.

"But the ghost shouldn't speak," said Marian, who was evidently
unacquainted with the best ghosts of tragedy.

"But the ghost must speak when such large hands invade the caldron;"
and then another raid was effected, and the threatened blow was
given. Had any one told her in the morning that she would that day
have rapped Mr. Graham's knuckles with a kitchen spoon, she would not
have believed that person; but it is thus that hearts are lost and
won.

And Peregrine Orme looked on from a distance, thinking of it all.
That he should have been stricken dumb by the beauty of any girl was
surprising even to himself; for though young and almost boyish in his
manners, he had never yet feared to speak out in any presence. The
tutor at his college had thought him insolent beyond parallel; and
his grandfather, though he loved him for his open face and plain
outspoken words, found them sometimes almost too much for him. But
now he stood there looking and longing, and could not summon courage
to go up and address a few words to this young girl even in the midst
of their sports. Twice or thrice during the last few days he had
essayed to speak to her, but his words had been dull and vapid, and
to himself they had appeared childish. He was quite conscious of his
own weakness. More than once, during that period of the snap-dragon,
did he say to himself that he would descend into the lists and break
a lance in that tourney; but still he did not descend, and his lance
remained inglorious in its rest.

At the other end of the long table the ghost also had two attendant
knights, and neither of them refrained from the battle. Augustus
Staveley, if he thought it worth his while to keep the lists at
all, would not be allowed to ride through them unopposed from any
backwardness on the part of his rival. Lucius Mason was not likely
to become a timid, silent, longing lover. To him it was not possible
that he should fear the girl whom he loved. He could not worship that
which he wished to obtain for himself. It may be doubted whether he
had much faculty of worshipping anything in the truest meaning of
that word. One worships that which one feels, through the inner and
unexpressed conviction of the mind, to be greater, better, higher
than oneself; but it was not probable that Lucius Mason should so
think of any woman that he might meet.

Nor, to give him his due, was it probable that he should be in any
way afraid of any man that he might encounter. He would fear neither
the talent, nor the rank, nor the money influence, nor the dexterity
of any such rival. In any attempt that he might make on a woman's
heart he would regard his own chance as good against that of any
other possible he. Augustus Staveley was master here at Noningsby,
and was a clever, dashing, handsome, fashionable young fellow; but
Lucius Mason never dreamed of retreating before such forces as those.
He had words with which to speak as fair as those of any man, and
flattered himself that he as well knew how to use them.

It was pretty to see with what admirable tact and judicious
management of her smiles Sophia received the homage of the two young
men, answering the compliments of both with ease, and so conducting
herself that neither could fairly accuse her of undue favour to the
other. But unfairly, in his own mind, Augustus did so accuse her.
And why should he have been so venomous, seeing that he entertained
no regard for the lady himself? His object was still plain
enough,--that, namely, of making a match between his needy friend and
the heiress.

His needy friend in the mean time played on through the long evening
in thoughtless happiness; and Peregrine Orme, looking at the game
from a distance, saw that rap given to the favoured knuckles with a
bitterness of heart and an inner groaning of the spirit that will not
be incomprehensible to many.

"I do so love that Mr. Felix!" said Marian, as her aunt Madeline
kissed her in her little bed on wishing her good night. "Don't you,
aunt Mad--?"

And so it was that Christmas-day was passed at Noningsby.




CHAPTER XXIII.

CHRISTMAS AT GROBY PARK.


Christmas-day was always a time of very great trial to Mrs. Mason of
Groby Park. It behoved her, as the wife of an old English country
gentleman, to spread her board plenteously at that season, and in
some sort to make an open house of it. But she could not bring
herself to spread any board with plenty, and the idea of an open
house would almost break her heart. Unlimited eating! There was
something in the very sounds of such words which was appalling to the
inner woman.

And on this Christmas-day she was doomed to go through an ordeal of
very peculiar severity. It so happened that the cure of souls in the
parish of Groby had been intrusted for the last two or three years to
a young, energetic, but not very opulent curate. Why the rector of
Groby should be altogether absent, leaving the work in the hands
of a curate, whom he paid by the lease of a cottage and garden and
fifty-five pounds a year,--thereby behaving as he imagined with
extensive liberality,--it is unnecessary here to inquire. Such was
the case, and the Rev. Adolphus Green, with Mrs. A. Green and the
four children, managed to live with some difficulty on the produce
of the garden and the allotted stipend; but could not probably have
lived at all in that position had not Mrs. Adolphus Green been
blessed with some small fortune.

It had so happened that Mrs. Adolphus Green had been instrumental in
imparting some knowledge of singing to two of the Miss Masons, and
had continued her instructions over the last three years. This had
not been done in any preconcerted way, but the lessons had grown by
chance. Mrs. Mason the while had looked on with a satisfied eye at an
arrangement that was so much to her taste.

"There are no regular lessons you know," she had said to her husband,
when he suggested that some reward for so much work would be
expedient. "Mrs. Green finds it convenient to have the use of my
drawing-room, and would never see an instrument from year's end to
year's end if she were not allowed to come up here. Depend upon it
she gets a great deal more than she gives."

But after two years of tuition Mr. Mason had spoken a second time.
"My dear," he said, "I cannot allow the girls to accept so great a
favour from Mrs. Green without making her some compensation."

"I don't see that it is at all necessary," Mrs. Mason had
answered; "but if you think so, we could send her down a hamper of
apples,--that is, a basketful." Now it happened that apples were very
plentiful that year, and that the curate and his wife were blessed
with as many as they could judiciously consume.

"Apples! nonsense!" said Mr. Mason.

"If you mean money, my dear, I couldn't do it. I wouldn't so offend a
lady for all the world."

"You could buy them something handsome, in the way of furniture. That
little room of theirs that they call the drawing-room has nothing in
it at all. Get Jones from Leeds to send them some things that will
do for them." And hence, after many inner misgivings, had arisen
that purchase of a drawing-room set from Mr. Kantwise,--that set of
metallic "Louey Catorse furniture," containing three tables, eight
chairs, &c., &c., as to which it may be remembered that Mrs. Mason
made such an undoubted bargain, getting them for less than cost
price. That they had been "strained," as Mr. Kantwise himself
admitted in discoursing on the subject to Mr. Dockwrath, was not
matter of much moment. They would do extremely well for a curate's
wife.

And now on this Christmas-day the present was to be made over to the
happy lady. Mr. and Mrs. Green were to dine at Groby Park,--leaving
their more fortunate children to the fuller festivities of the
cottage; and the intention was that before dinner the whole
drawing-room set should be made over. It was with grievous pangs of
heart that Mrs. Mason looked forward to such an operation. Her own
house was plenteously furnished from the kitchens to the attics,
but still she would have loved to keep that metallic set of painted
trumpery. She knew that the table would not screw on; she knew that
the pivot of the music stool was bent; she knew that there was no
place in the house in which they could stand; she must have known
that in no possible way could they be of use to her or hers,--and
yet she could not part with them without an agony. Her husband was
infatuated in this matter of compensation for the use of Mrs. Green's
idle hours; no compensation could be necessary;--and then she paid
another visit to the metallic furniture. She knew in her heart of
hearts that they could never be of use to anybody, and yet she made
up her mind to keep back two out of the eight chairs. Six chairs
would be quite enough for Mrs. Green's small room.

As there was to be feasting at five, real roast beef, plum-pudding
and mince-pies;--"Mince-pies and plum-pudding together are vulgar,
my dear," Mrs. Mason had said to her husband; but in spite of the
vulgarity he had insisted;--the breakfast was of course scanty. Mr.
Mason liked a slice of cold meat in the morning, or the leg of a
fowl, or a couple of fresh eggs as well as any man; but the matter
was not worth a continual fight. "As we are to dine an hour earlier
to-day I did not think you would eat meat," his wife said to him.
"Then there would be less expense in putting it on the table," he
had answered; and after that there was nothing more said about it.
He always put off till some future day that great contest which he
intended to wage and to win, and by which he hoped to bring it about
that plenty should henceforward be the law of the land at Groby Park.
And then they all went to church. Mrs. Mason would not on any account
have missed church on Christmas-day or a Sunday. It was a cheap duty,
and therefore rigidly performed. As she walked from her carriage up
to the church-door she encountered Mrs. Green, and smiled sweetly as
she wished that lady all the compliments of the season.

"We shall see you immediately after church," said Mrs. Mason.

"Oh yes, certainly," said Mrs. Green.

"And Mr. Green with you?"

"He intends to do himself the pleasure," said the curate's wife.

"Mind he comes, because we have a little ceremony to go through
before we sit down to dinner," and Mrs. Mason smiled again ever
so graciously. Did she think, or did she not think, that she was
going to do a kindness to her neighbour? Most women would have sunk
into their shoes as the hour grew nigh at which they were to show
themselves guilty of so much meanness.

She stayed for the sacrament, and it may here be remarked that on
that afternoon she rated both the footman and housemaid because they
omitted to do so. She thought, we must presume, that she was doing
her duty, and must imagine her to have been ignorant that she was
cheating her husband and cheating her friend. She took the sacrament
with admirable propriety of demeanour, and then, on her return home,
withdrew another chair from the set. There would still be six,
including the rocking chair, and six would be quite enough for that
little hole of a room.

There was a large chamber up stairs at Groby Park which had been used
for the children's lessons, but which now was generally deserted.
There was in it an old worn-out pianoforte,--and though Mrs. Mason
had talked somewhat grandly of the use of her drawing-room, it was
here that the singing had been taught. Into this room the metallic
furniture had been brought, and up to that Christmas morning it had
remained here packed in its original boxes. Hither immediately after
breakfast Mrs. Mason had taken herself, and had spent an hour in her
efforts to set the things forth to view. Two of the chairs she then
put aside into a cupboard, and a third she added to her private store
on her return to her work after church.

But, alas, alas! let her do what she would, she could not get the top
on to the table. "It's all smashed, ma'am," said the girl whom she
at last summoned to her aid. "Nonsense, you simpleton; how can it be
smashed when it's new," said the mistress. And then she tried again,
and again, declaring as she did do, that she would have the law of
the rogue who had sold her a damaged article. Nevertheless she had
known that it was damaged, and had bought it cheap on that account,
insisting in very urgent language that the table was in fact worth
nothing because of its injuries.

At about four Mr. and Mrs. Green walked up to the house and were
shown into the drawing-room. Here was Mrs. Mason supported by
Penelope and Creusa. As Diana was not musical, and therefore under
no compliment to Mrs. Green, she kept out of the way. Mr. Mason also
was absent. He knew that something very mean was about to be done,
and would not show his face till it was over. He ought to have taken
the matter in hand himself, and would have done so had not his mind
been full of other things. He himself was a man terribly wronged and
wickedly injured, and could not therefore in these present months
interfere much in the active doing of kindnesses. His hours were
spent in thinking how he might best obtain justice,--how he might
secure his pound of flesh. He only wanted his own, but that he
would have;--his own, with due punishment on those who had for so
many years robbed him of it. He therefore did not attend at the
presentation of the furniture.

"And now we'll go up stairs, if you please," said Mrs. Mason, with
that gracious smile for which she was so famous. "Mr. Green, you must
come too. Dear Mrs. Green has been so very kind to my two girls; and
now I have got a few articles,--they are of the very newest fashion,
and I do hope that Mrs. Green will like them." And so they all went
up into the schoolroom.

"There's a new fashion come up lately," said Mrs. Mason as she walked
along the corridor, "quite new:--of metallic furniture. I don't know
whether you have seen any." Mrs. Green said she had not seen any as
yet.

"The Patent Steel Furniture Company makes it, and it has got very
greatly into vogue for small rooms. I thought that perhaps you would
allow me to present you with a set for your drawing-room."

"I'm sure it is very kind of you to think of it," said Mrs. Green.

"Uncommonly so," said Mr. Green. But both Mr. Green and Mrs. Green
knew the lady, and their hopes did not run high.

And then the door was opened and there stood the furniture to view.
There stood the furniture, except the three subtracted chairs, and
the loo table. The claw and leg of the table indeed were standing
there, but the top was folded up and lying on the floor beside it. "I
hope you'll like the pattern," began Mrs. Mason. "I'm told that it
is the prettiest that has yet been brought out. There has been some
little accident about the screw of the table, but the smith in the
village will put that to rights in five minutes. He lives so close to
you that I didn't think it worth while to have him up here."

"It's very nice," said Mrs. Green, looking round her almost in
dismay.

"Very nice indeed," said Mr. Green, wondering in his mind for
what purpose such utter trash could have been manufactured, and
endeavouring to make up his mind as to what they might possibly do
with it. Mr. Green knew what chairs and tables should be, and was
well aware that the things before him were absolutely useless for any
of the ordinary purposes of furniture.

"And they are the most convenient things in the world," said Mrs.
Mason, "for when you are going to change house you pack them all up
again in those boxes. Wooden furniture takes up so much room, and is
so lumbersome."

"Yes, it is," said Mrs. Green.

"I'll have them all put up again and sent down in the cart
to-morrow."

"Thank you; that will be very kind," said Mr. Green, and then the
ceremony of the presentation was over. On the following day the boxes
were sent down, and Mrs. Mason might have abstracted even another
chair without detection, for the cases lay unheeded from month to
month in the curate's still unfurnished room. "The fact is they
cannot afford a carpet," Mrs. Mason afterwards said to one of her
daughters, "and with such things as those they are quite right to
keep them up till they can be used with advantage. I always gave Mrs.
Green credit for a good deal of prudence."

And then, when the show was over, they descended again into the
drawing-room,--Mr. Green and Mrs. Mason went first, and Creusa
followed. Penelope was thus so far behind as to be able to speak to
her friend without being heard by the others.

"You know mamma," she said, with a shrug of her shoulders and a look
of scorn in her eye.

"The things are very nice."

"No, they are not, and you know they are not. They are worthless;
perfectly worthless."

"But we don't want anything."

"No; and if there had been no pretence of a gift it would all have
been very well. What will Mr. Green think?"

"I rather think he likes iron chairs;" and then they were in the
drawing-room.

Mr. Mason did not appear till dinner-time, and came in only just in
time to give his arm to Mrs. Green. He had had letters to write,--a
letter to Messrs. Round and Crook, very determined in its tone; and a
letter also to Mr. Dockwrath, for the little attorney had so crept on
in the affair that he was now corresponding with the principal. "I'll
teach those fellows in Bedford Row to know who I am," he had said to
himself more than once, sitting on his high stool at Hamworth.

And then came the Groby Park Christmas dinner. To speak the truth Mr.
Mason had himself gone to the neighbouring butcher, and ordered the
surloin of beef, knowing that it would be useless to trust to orders
conveyed through his wife. He had seen the piece of meat put on
one side for him, and had afterwards traced it on to the kitchen
dresser. But nevertheless when it appeared at table it had been
sadly mutilated. A steak had been cut off the full breadth of it--a
monstrous cantle from out its fair proportions. The lady had seen the
jovial, thick, ample size of the goodly joint, and her heart had been
unable to spare it. She had made an effort and turned away, saying to
herself that the responsibility was all with him. But it was of no
use. There was that within her which could not do it. "Your master
will never be able to carve such a mountain of meat as that," she had
said, turning back to the cook. "Deed, an' it's he that will, ma'am,"
said the Irish mistress of the spit; for Irish cooks are cheaper than
those bred and born in England. But nevertheless the thing was done,
and it was by her own fair hands that the envious knife was used. "I
couldn't do it, ma'am," the cook had said; "I couldn't railly."

Mr. Mason's face became very black when he saw the raid that had been
effected, and when he looked up across the table his wife's eye was
on him. She knew what she had to expect, and she knew also that it
would not come now. Her eye steadily looked at his, quivering with
fear; for Mr. Mason could be savage enough in his anger. And what had
she gained? One may as well ask what does the miser gain who hides
away his gold in an old pot, or what does that other madman gain
who is locked up for long long years because he fancies himself the
grandmother of the Queen of England?

But there was still enough beef on the table for all of them to
eat, and as Mrs. Mason was not intrusted with the carving of it,
their plates were filled. As far as a sufficiency of beef can make
a good dinner Mr. and Mrs. Green did have a good dinner on that
Christmas-day. Beyond that their comfort was limited, for no one was
in a humour for happy conversation.

And over and beyond the beef there was a plum-pudding and three
mince-pies. Four mince-pies had originally graced the dish, but
before dinner one had been conveyed away to some up stairs receptacle
for such spoils. The pudding also was small, nor was it black and
rich, and laden with good things as a Christmas pudding should be
laden. Let us hope that what the guests so lost was made up to them
on the following day, by an absence of those ill effects which
sometimes attend upon the consumption of rich viands.

"And now, my dear, we'll have a bit of bread and cheese and a glass
of beer," Mr. Green said when he arrived at his own cottage. And so
it was that Christmas-day was passed at Groby Park.




CHAPTER XXIV.

CHRISTMAS IN GREAT ST. HELENS.


We will now look in for a moment at the Christmas doings of our fat
friend, Mr. Moulder. Mr. Moulder was a married man living in lodgings
over a wine-merchant's vaults in Great St. Helens. He was blessed--or
troubled, with no children, and prided himself greatly on the
material comfort with which his humble home was surrounded. "His
wife," he often boasted, "never wanted for plenty of the best of
eating; and for linen and silks and such-like, she could show her
drawers and her wardrobes with many a great lady from Russell Square,
and not be ashamed, neither!" And then, as for drink,--"tipple," as
Mr. Moulder sportively was accustomed to name it among his friends,
he opined that he was not altogether behind the mark in that respect.
"He had got some brandy--he didn't care what anybody might say about
Cognac and eau de vie; but the brandy which he had got from Betts'
private establishment seventeen years ago, for richness of flavour
and fullness of strength, would beat any French article that anybody
in the city could show. That at least was his idea. If anybody didn't
like it, they needn't take it. There was whisky that would make your
hair stand on end." So said Mr. Moulder, and I can believe him; for
it has made my hair stand on end merely to see other people drinking
it.

And if comforts of apparel, comforts of eating and drinking, and
comforts of the feather-bed and easy-chair kind can make a woman
happy, Mrs. Moulder was no doubt a happy woman. She had quite fallen
in to the mode of life laid out for her. She had a little bit of hot
kidney for breakfast at about ten; she dined at three, having seen
herself to the accurate cooking of her roast fowl, or her bit of
sweetbread, and always had her pint of Scotch ale. She turned over
all her clothes almost every day. In the evening she read Reynolds's
Miscellany, had her tea and buttered muffins, took a thimbleful of
brandy and water at nine, and then went to bed. The work of her
life consisted in sewing buttons on to Moulder's shirts, and seeing
that his things were properly got up when he was at home. No doubt
she would have done better as to the duties of the world, had the
world's duties come to her. As it was, very few such had come in her
direction. Her husband was away from home three-fourths of the year,
and she had no children that required attention. As for society, some
four or five times a year she would drink tea with Mrs. Hubbles at
Clapham. Mrs. Hubbles was the wife of the senior partner in the firm,
and on such occasions Mrs. Moulder dressed herself in her best, and
having travelled to Clapham in an omnibus, spent the evening in dull
propriety on one corner of Mrs. Hubbles's sofa. When I have added to
this that Moulder every year took her to Broadstairs for a fortnight,
I think that I have described with sufficient accuracy the course of
Mrs. Moulder's life.

On the occasion of this present Christmas-day Mr. Moulder entertained
a small party. And he delighted in such occasional entertainments,
taking extraordinary pains that the eatables should be of the
very best; and he would maintain an hospitable good humour to the
last,--unless anything went wrong in the cookery, in which case he
could make himself extremely unpleasant to Mrs. M. Indeed, proper
cooking for Mr. M. and the proper starching of the bands of his
shirts were almost the only trials that Mrs. Moulder was doomed to
suffer. "What the d---- are you for?" he would say, almost throwing
the displeasing viands at her head across the table, or tearing the
rough linen from off his throat. "It ain't much I ask of you in
return for your keep;" and then he would scowl at her with bloodshot
eyes till she shook in her shoes. But this did not happen often, as
experiences had made her careful.

But on this present Christmas festival all went swimmingly to the
end. "Now, bear a hand, old girl," was the harshest word he said
to her; and he enjoyed himself like Duncan, shut up in measureless
content. He had three guests with him on this auspicious day. There
was his old friend Snengkeld, who had dined with him on every
Christmas since his marriage; there was his wife's brother, of whom
we will say a word or two just now;--and there was our old friend,
Mr. Kantwise. Mr. Kantwise was not exactly the man whom Moulder would
have chosen as his guest, for they were opposed to each other in
all their modes of thought and action; but he had come across the
travelling agent of the Patent Metallic Steel Furniture Company on
the previous day, and finding that he was to be alone in London on
this general holiday, he had asked him out of sheer good nature.
Moulder could be very good natured, and full of pity when the sorrow
to be pitied arose from some such source as the want of a Christmas
dinner. So Mr. Kantwise had been asked, and precisely at four o'clock
he made his appearance at Great St. Helens.

But now, as to this brother-in-law. He was no other than that John
Kenneby whom Miriam Usbech did not marry,--whom Miriam Usbech might,
perhaps, have done well to marry. John Kenneby, after one or two
attempts in other spheres of life, had at last got into the house
of Hubbles and Grease, and had risen to be their book-keeper. He
had once been tried by them as a traveller, but in that line he had
failed. He did not possess that rough, ready, self-confident tone
of mind which is almost necessary for a man who is destined to move
about quickly from one circle of persons to another. After a six
months' trial he had given that up, but during the time, Mr. Moulder,
the senior traveller of the house, had married his sister. John
Kenneby was a good, honest, painstaking fellow, and was believed
by his friends to have put a few pounds together in spite of the
timidity of his character.

When Snengkeld and Kenneby were shown up into the room, they found
nobody there but Kantwise. That Mrs. Moulder should be down stairs
looking after the roast turkey was no more than natural; but why
should not Moulder himself be there to receive his guests? He soon
appeared, however, coming up without his coat.

"Well, Snengkeld, how are you, old fellow; many happy returns, and
all that; the same to you, John. I'll tell you what, my lads; it's a
prime 'un. I never saw such a bird in all my days."

"What, the turkey?" said Snengkeld.

"You didn't think it'd be a ostrich, did you?"

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Snengkeld. "No, I didn't expect nothing but a
turkey here on Christmas-day."

"And nothing but a turkey you'll have, my boys. Can you eat turkey,
Kantwise?"

Mr. Kantwise declared that his only passion in the way of eating was
for a turkey.

"As for John, I'm sure of him. I've seen him at the work before."
Whereupon John grinned but said nothing.

"I never see such a bird in my life, certainly."

"From Norfolk, I suppose," said Snengkeld, with a great appearance of
interest.

"Oh, you may swear to that. It weighed twenty-four pounds, for I put
it into the scales myself, and old Gibbetts let me have it for a
guinea. The price marked on it was five-and-twenty, for I saw it.
He's had it hanging for a fortnight, and I've been to see it wiped
down with vinegar regular every morning. And now, my boys, it's done
to a turn. I've been in the kitchen most of the time myself; and
either I or Mrs. M. has never left it for a single moment."

"How did you manage about divine service?" said Kantwise; and then,
when he had spoken, closed his eyes and sucked his lips.

Mr. Moulder looked at him for a minute, and then said, "Gammon."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Snengkeld. And then Mrs. Moulder appeared,
bringing the turkey with her; for she would trust it to no hands less
careful than her own.

"By George, it is a bird," said Snengkeld, standing over it and
eyeing it minutely.

"Uncommon nice it looks," said Kantwise.

"All the same, I wouldn't eat none, if I were you," said Moulder,
"seeing what sinners have been a basting it." And then they all sat
down to dinner, Moulder having first resumed his coat.

For the next three or four minutes Moulder did not speak a word. The
turkey was on his mind, with the stuffing, the gravy, the liver, the
breast, the wings, and the legs. He stood up to carve it, and while
he was at the work he looked at it as though his two eyes were hardly
sufficient. He did not help first one person and then another, so
ending by himself; but he cut up artistically as much as might
probably be consumed, and located the fragments in small heaps or
shares in the hot gravy; and then, having made a partition of the
spoils, he served it out with unerring impartiality. To have robbed
any one of his or her fair slice of the breast would, in his mind,
have been gross dishonesty. In his heart he did not love Kantwise,
but he dealt by him with the utmost justice in the great affair of
the turkey's breast. When he had done all this, and his own plate was
laden, he gave a long sigh. "I shall never cut up such another bird
as that, the longest day that I have to live," he said; and then he
took out his large red silk handkerchief and wiped the perspiration
from his brow.

"Deary me, M.; don't think of that now," said the wife.

"What's the use?" said Snengkeld. "Care killed a cat."

"And perhaps you may," said John Kenneby, trying to comfort him; "who
knows?"

"It's all in the hands of Providence," said Kantwise, "and we should
look to him."

"And how does it taste?" asked Moulder, shaking the gloomy thoughts
from his mind.

"Uncommon," said Snengkeld, with his mouth quite full. "I never eat
such a turkey in all my life."

"Like melted diamonds," said Mrs. Moulder, who was not without a
touch of poetry.

"Ah, there's nothing like hanging of 'em long enough, and watching of
'em well. It's that vinegar as done it;" and then they went seriously
to work, and there was nothing more said of any importance until the
eating was nearly over.

And now Mrs. M. had taken away the cloth, and they were sitting
cozily over their port wine. The very apple of the eye of the evening
had not arrived even yet. That would not come till the pipes were
brought out, and the brandy was put on the table, and the whisky was
there that made the people's hair stand on end. It was then that the
floodgates of convivial eloquence would be unloosed. In the mean time
it was necessary to sacrifice something to gentility, and therefore
they sat over their port wine.

"Did you bring that letter with you, John?" said his sister. John
replied that he had done so, and that he had also received another
letter that morning from another party on the same subject.

"Do show it to Moulder, and ask him," said Mrs. M.

"I've got 'em both on purpose," said John; and then he brought
forth two letters, and handed one of them to his brother-in-law.
It contained a request, very civilly worded, from Messrs. Round
and Crook, begging him to call at their office in Bedford Row on
the earliest possible day, in order that they might have some
conversation with him regarding the will of the late Sir Joseph
Mason, who died in 18--.

"Why, this is law business," said Moulder, who liked no business
of that description. "Don't you go near them, John, if you ain't
obliged."

And then Kenneby gave his explanation on the matter, telling how in
former years,--many years ago, he had been a witness in a lawsuit.
And then as he told it he sighed, remembering Miriam Usbech, for
whose sake he had remained unmarried even to this day. And he went
on to narrate how he had been bullied in the court, though he had
valiantly striven to tell the truth with exactness; and as he spoke,
an opinion of his became manifest that old Usbech had not signed
the document in his presence. "The girl signed it certainly," said
he, "for I handed her the pen. I recollect it, as though it were
yesterday."

"They are the very people we were talking of at Leeds," said Moulder,
turning to Kantwise. "Mason and Martock; don't you remember how you
went out to Groby Park to sell some of them iron gimcracks? That was
old Mason's son. They are the same people."

"Ah, I shouldn't wonder," said Kantwise, who was listening all the
while. He never allowed intelligence of this kind to pass by him
idly.

"And who's the other letter from?" asked Moulder. "But, dash my wigs,
it's past six o'clock. Come, old girl, why don't you give us the
tobacco and stuff?"

"It ain't far to fetch," said Mrs. Moulder. And then she put the
tobacco and "stuff" upon the table.

"The other letter is from an enemy of mine," said John Kenneby,
speaking very solemnly; "an enemy of mine, named Dockwrath, who lives
at Hamworth. He's an attorney too."

"Dockwrath!" said Moulder.

Mr. Kantwise said nothing, but he looked round over his shoulder at
Kenneby, and then shut his eyes.

"That was the name of the man whom we left in the commercial room at
the Bull," said Snengkeld.

"He went out to Mason's at Groby Park that same day," said Moulder.

"Then it's the same man," said Kenneby; and there was as much
solemnity in the tone of his voice as though the unravelment of
all the mysteries of the iron mask was now about to take place. Mr.
Kantwise still said nothing, but he also perceived that it was the
same man.

"Let me tell you, John Kenneby," said Moulder, with the air of one
who understood well the subject that he was discussing, "if they two
be the same man, then the man who wrote that letter to you is as big
a blackguard as there is from this to hisself." And Mr. Moulder in
the excitement of the moment puffed hard at his pipe, took a long
pull at his drink, and dragged open his waistcoat. "I don't know
whether Kantwise has anything to say upon that subject," added
Moulder.

"Not a word at present," said Kantwise. Mr. Kantwise was a very
careful man, and usually calculated with accuracy the value which he
might extract from any circumstances with reference to his own main
chance. Mr. Dockwrath had not as yet paid him for the set of metallic
furniture, and therefore he also might well have joined in that
sweeping accusation; but it might be that by a judicious use of what
he now heard he might obtain the payment of that little bill,--and
perhaps other collateral advantages.

And then the letter from Dockwrath to Kenneby was brought forth and
read. "My dear John," it began,--for the two had known each other
when they were lads together,--and it went on to request Kenneby's
attendance at Hamworth for the short space of a few hours,--"I want
to have a little conversation with you about a matter of considerable
interest to both of us; and as I cannot expect you to undertake
expense I enclose a money order for thirty shillings."

"He's in earnest at any rate," said Mr. Moulder.

"No mistake about that," said Snengkeld.

But Mr. Kantwise spoke never a word.

It was at last decided that John Kenneby should go both to Hamworth
and to Bedford Row, but that he should go to Hamworth first. Moulder
would have counselled him to have gone to neither, but Snengkeld
remarked that there were too many at work to let the matter sleep,
and John himself observed that "anyways he hadn't done anything to be
ashamed of."

"Then go," said Moulder at last, "only don't say more than you are
obliged to."

"I does not like these business talkings on Christmas night," said
Mrs. Moulder, when the matter was arranged.

"What can one do?" asked Moulder.

"It's a tempting of Providence in my mind," said Kantwise, as he
replenished his glass, and turned his eyes up to the ceiling.

"Now that's gammon," said Moulder. And then there arose among them a
long and animated discussion on matters theological.

"I'll tell you what my idea of death is," said Moulder, after a
while. "I ain't a bit afeard of it. My father was an honest man as
did his duty by his employers, and he died with a bottom of brandy
before him and a pipe in his mouth. I sha'n't live long myself--"

"Gracious, Moulder, don't!" said Mrs. M.

"No, more I sha'n't, 'cause I'm fat as he was; and I hope I may die
as he did. I've been honest to Hubbles and Grease. They've made
thousands of pounds along of me, and have never lost none. Who can
say more than that? When I took to the old girl there, I insured my
life, so that she shouldn't want her wittles and drink--"

"Oh, M., don't!"

"And I ain't afeard to die. Snengkeld, my old pal, hand us the
brandy."

Such is the modern philosophy of the Moulders, pigs out of the sty
of Epicurus. And so it was they passed Christmas-day in Great St.
Helens.




CHAPTER XXV.

MR. FURNIVAL AGAIN AT HIS CHAMBERS.


The Christmas doings at The Cleeve were not very gay. There was no
visitor there, except Lady Mason, and it was known that she was
in trouble. It must not, however, be supposed that she constantly
bewailed herself while there, or made her friends miserable by a
succession of hysterical tears. By no means. She made an effort to be
serene, and the effort was successful--as such efforts usually are.
On the morning of Christmas-day they duly attended church, and Lady
Mason was seen by all Hamworth sitting in The Cleeve pew. In no way
could the baronet's friendship have been shown more plainly than
in this, nor could a more significant mark of intimacy have been
given;--all which Sir Peregrine well understood. The people of
Hamworth had chosen to talk scandal about Lady Mason, but he at any
rate would show how little attention he paid to the falsehoods that
there were circulated. So he stood by her at the pew door as she
entered, with as much deference as though she had been a duchess; and
the people of Hamworth, looking on, wondered which would be right,
Mr. Dockwrath or Sir Peregrine.

After dinner Sir Peregrine gave a toast. "Lady Mason, we will drink
the health of the absent boys. God bless them! I hope they are
enjoying themselves."

"God bless them!" said Mrs. Orme, putting her handkerchief to her
eyes.

"God bless them both!" said Lady Mason, also putting her handkerchief
to her eyes. Then the ladies left the room, and that was the extent
of their special festivity. "Robert," said Sir Peregrine immediately
afterwards to his butler, "let them have what port wine they want in
the servants' hall--within measure."

"Yes, Sir Peregrine."

"And Robert, I shall not want you again."

"Thank you, Sir Peregrine."

From all which it may be imagined that the Christmas doings at The
Cleeve were chiefly maintained below stairs.

"I do hope they are happy," said Mrs. Orme, when the two ladies
were together in the drawing-room. "They have a very nice party at
Noningsby."

"Your boy will be happy, I'm sure," said Lady Mason.

"And why not Lucius also?"

It was sweet in Lady Mason's ear to hear her son called by his
Christian name. All these increasing signs of interest and intimacy
were sweet, but especially any which signified some favour shown to
her son. "This trouble weighs heavy on him," she replied. "It is only
natural that he should feel it."

"Papa does not seem to think much of it," said Mrs. Orme. "If I were
you, I would strive to forget it."

"I do strive," said the other; and then she took the hand which Mrs.
Orme had stretched out to her, and that lady got up and kissed her.

"Dearest friend," said Mrs. Orme, "if we can comfort you we will."
And then they sobbed in each other's arms.

In the mean time Sir Peregrine was sitting alone, thinking. He sat
thinking, with his glass of claret untouched by his side, and with
the biscuit which he had taken lying untouched upon the table. As he
sat he had raised one leg upon the other, placing his foot on his
knee, and he held it there with his hand upon his instep. And so he
sat without moving for some quarter of an hour, trying to use all
his mind on the subject which occupied it. At last he roused himself,
almost with a start, and leaving his chair, walked three or four
times the length of the room. "Why should I not?" at last he said to
himself, stopping suddenly and placing his hand upon the table. "Why
should I not, if it pleases me? It shall not injure him--nor her."
And then he walked again. "But I will ask Edith," he said, still
speaking to himself. "If she says that she disapproves of it, I will
not do it." And then he left the room, while the wine still remained
untasted on the table.

[Illustration: "Why should I not?"]

On the day following Christmas Mr. Furnival went up to town, and Mr.
Round junior,--Mat Round, as he was called in the profession,--came
to him at his chambers. A promise had been made to the barrister by
Round and Crook that no active steps should be taken against Lady
Mason on the part of Joseph Mason of Groby, without notice being
given to Mr. Furnival. And this visit by appointment was made in
consequence of that promise.

"You see," said Matthew Round, when that visit was nearly brought to
a close, "that we are pressed very hard to go on with this, and if we
do not, somebody else will."

"Nevertheless, if I were you, I should decline," said Mr. Furnival.

"You're looking to your client, not to ours, sir," said the attorney.
"The fact is that the whole case is very queer. It was proved on the
last trial that Bolster and Kenneby were witnesses to a deed on the
14th of July, and that was all that was proved. Now we can prove that
they were on that day witnesses to another deed. Were they witnesses
to two?"

"Why should they not be?"

"That is for us to see. We have written to them both to come up to
us, and in order that we might be quite on the square I thought it
right to tell you."

"Thank you; yes; I cannot complain of you. And what form do you think
that your proceedings will take?"

"Joseph Mason talks of indicting her for--forgery," said the
attorney, pausing a moment before he dared to pronounce the dread
word.

"Indict her for forgery!" said Furnival, with a start. And yet the
idea was one which had been for some days present to his mind's eye.

"I do not say so," said Round. "I have as yet seen none of the
witnesses myself. If they are prepared to prove that they did sign
two separate documents on that day, the thing must pass off." It was
clear to Mr. Furnival that even Mr. Round junior would be glad that
it should pass off. And then he also sat thinking. Might it not be
probable that, with a little judicious exercise of their memory,
those two witnesses would remember that they had signed two
documents; or at any rate, looking to the lapse of the time, that
they might be induced to forget altogether whether they had signed
one, two, or three? Or even if they could be mystified so that
nothing could be proved, it would still be well with his client.
Indeed no magistrate would commit such a person as Lady Mason,
especially after so long an interval, and no grand jury would find a
bill against her, except upon evidence that was clear, well defined,
and almost indubitable. If any point of doubt could be shown, she
might be brought off without a trial, if only she would be true
to herself. At the former trial there was the existing codicil,
and the fact also that the two surviving reputed witnesses would
not deny their signatures. These signatures--if they were genuine
signatures--had been attached with all proper formality, and the form
used went to state that the testator had signed the instrument in the
presence of them all, they all being present together at the same
time. The survivors had both asserted that when they did affix their
names the three were then present, as was also Sir Joseph; but
there had been a terrible doubt even then as to the identity of the
document; and a doubt also as to there having been any signature made
by one of the reputed witnesses--by that one, namely, who at the
time of that trial was dead. Now another document was forthcoming,
purporting to have been witnessed, on the same day, by these two
surviving witnesses! If that document were genuine, and if these
two survivors should be clear that they had written their names but
once on that 14th of July, in such case could it be possible to
quash further public inquiry? The criminal prosecution might not be
possible as a first proceeding, but if the estate were recovered at
common law, would not the criminal prosecution follow as a matter of
course? And then Mr. Furnival thought it all over again and again.

If this document were genuine,--this new document which the man
Dockwrath stated that he had found,--this deed of separation of
partnership which purported to have been executed on that 14th of
July! That was now the one important question. If it were genuine!
And why should there not be as strong a question of the honesty
of that document as of the other? Mr. Furnival well knew that no
fraudulent deed would be forged and produced without a motive; and
that if he impugned this deed he must show the motive. Motive enough
there was, no doubt. Mason might have had it forged in order to get
the property, or Dockwrath to gratify his revenge. But in such case
it would be a forgery of the present day. There could have been no
motive for such a forgery twenty years ago. The paper, the writing,
the attested signature of Martock, the other party to it, would prove
that it had not been got up and manufactured now. Dockwrath would not
dare to bring forward such a forgery as that. There was no hope of
any such result.

But might not he, Furnival, if the matter were pushed before a jury,
make them think that the two documents stood balanced against each
other? and that Lady Mason's respectability, her long possession,
together with the vile malignity of her antagonists, gave the greater
probability of honesty to the disputed codicil? Mr. Furnival did
think that he might induce a jury to acquit her; but he terribly
feared that he might not be able to induce the world to acquit her
also. As he thought of all the case, he seemed to put himself apart
from the world at large. He did not question himself as to his own
belief, but seemed to feel that it would suffice for him if he could
so bring it about that her other friends should think her innocent.
It would by no means suffice for him to secure for her son the
property, and for her a simple acquittal. It was not that he dreaded
the idea of thinking her guilty himself; perhaps he did so think her
now--he half thought her so, at any rate; but he greatly dreaded the
idea of others thinking so. It might be well to buy up Dockwrath, if
it were possible. If it were possible! But then it was not possible
that he himself could have a hand in such a matter. Could Crabwitz do
it? No; he thought not. And then, at this moment, he was not certain
that he could depend on Crabwitz.

And why should he trouble himself in this way? Mr. Furnival was a
man loyal to his friends at heart. Had Lady Mason been a man, and had
he pulled that man through great difficulties in early life, he
would have been loyally desirous of carrying him through the same or
similar difficulties at any after period. In that cause which he had
once battled he was always ready to do battle, without reference to
any professional consideration of triumph or profit. It was to this
feeling of loyalty that he had owed much of his success in life. And
in such a case as this it may be supposed that that feeling would be
strong. But then such a feeling presumed a case in which he could
sympathise--in which he could believe. Would it be well that he
should allow himself to feel the same interest in this case, to
maintain respecting it the same personal anxiety, if he ceased to
believe in it? He did ask himself the question, and he finally
answered it in the affirmative. He had beaten Joseph Mason once in a
good stand-up fight; and having done so, having thus made the matter
his own, it was necessary to his comfort that he should beat him
again, if another fight were to be fought. Lady Mason was his client,
and all the associations of his life taught him to be true to her as
such.

And as we are thus searching into his innermost heart we must say
more than this. Mrs. Furnival perhaps had no sufficient grounds for
those terrible fears of hers; but nevertheless the mistress of Orley
Farm was very comely in the eyes of the lawyer. Her eyes, when full
of tears, were very bright, and her hand, as it lay in his, was very
soft. He laid out for himself no scheme of wickedness with reference
to her; he purposely entertained no thoughts which he knew to be
wrong; but, nevertheless, he did feel that he liked to have her by
him, that he liked to be her adviser and friend, that he liked to
wipe the tears from those eyes--not by a material handkerchief from
his pocket, but by immaterial manly sympathy from his bosom; and that
he liked also to feel the pressure of that hand. Mrs. Furnival had
become solid, and heavy, and red; and though he himself was solid,
and heavy, and red also--more so, indeed, in proportion than his poor
wife, for his redness, as I have said before, had almost reached a
purple hue; nevertheless his eye loved to look upon the beauty of a
lovely woman, his ear loved to hear the tone of her voice, and his
hand loved to meet the soft ripeness of her touch. It was very wrong
that it should have been so, but the case is not without a parallel.

And therefore he made up his mind that he would not desert Lady
Mason. He would not desert her; but how would he set about the
fighting that would be necessary in her behalf? He was well aware of
this, that if he fought at all, he must fight now. It would not do to
let the matter go on till she should be summoned to defend herself.
Steps which might now be available would be altogether unavailable in
two or three months' time--would be so, perhaps, if he allowed two or
three weeks to pass idly by him. Mr. Round, luckily, was not disposed
to hurry his proceedings; nor, as far as he was concerned, was there
any bitterness of antagonism. But with both Mason and Dockwrath there
would be hot haste, and hotter malice. From those who were really her
enemies she could expect no quarter.

He was to return on that evening to Noningsby, and on the following
day he would go over to The Cleeve. He knew that Lady Mason was
staying there; but his object in making that visit would not be
merely that he might see her, but also that he might speak to Sir
Peregrine, and learn how far the baronet was inclined to support
his neighbour in her coming tribulation. He would soon be able to
ascertain what Sir Peregrine really thought--whether he suspected the
possibility of any guilt; and he would ascertain also what was the
general feeling in the neighbourhood of Hamworth. It would be a great
thing if he could spread abroad a conviction that she was an injured
woman. It would be a great thing even if he could make it known that
the great people of the neighbourhood so thought. The jurymen of
Alston would be mortal men; and it might be possible that they should
be imbued with a favourable bias on the subject before they assembled
in their box for its consideration.

He wished that he knew the truth in the matter; or rather he wished
he could know whether or no she were innocent, without knowing
whether or no she were guilty. The fight in his hands would be
conducted on terms so much more glorious if he could feel sure of her
innocence. But then if he attempted that, and she were not innocent,
all might be sacrificed by the audacity of his proceedings. He could
not venture that, unless he were sure of his ground. For a moment or
two he thought that he would ask her the question. He said to himself
that he could forgive the fault. That it had been repented ere this
he did not doubt, and it would be sweet to say to her that it was
very grievous, but that yet it might be forgiven. It would be sweet
to feel that she was in his hands, and that he would treat her with
mercy and kindness. But then a hundred other thoughts forbade him to
think more of this. If she had been, guilty,--if she declared her
guilt to him,--would not restitution be necessary? In that case her
son must know it, and all the world must know it. Such a confession
would be incompatible with that innocence before the world which it
was necessary that she should maintain. Moreover, he must be able to
proclaim aloud his belief in her innocence; and how could he do that,
knowing her to be guilty--knowing that she also knew that he had such
knowledge? It was impossible that he should ask any such question, or
admit of any such confidence.

It would be necessary, if the case did come to a trial, that
she should employ some attorney. The matter must come into the
barrister's hands in the usual way, through a solicitor's house, and
it would be well that the person employed should have a firm faith in
his client. What could he say--he, as a barrister--if the attorney
suggested to him that the lady might possibly be guilty? As he
thought of all these things he almost dreaded the difficulties before
him.

He rang the bell for Crabwitz,--the peculiar bell which Crabwitz was
bound to answer,--having first of all gone through a little ceremony
with his cheque-book. Crabwitz entered, still sulky in his demeanour,
for as yet the old anger had not been appeased, and it was still a
doubtful matter in the clerk's mind whether or no it might not be
better for him to seek a master who would better appreciate his
services. A more lucrative position it might be difficult for him to
find; but money is not everything, as Crabwitz said to himself more
than once.

"Crabwitz," said Mr. Furnival, looking with a pleasant face at his
clerk, "I am leaving town this evening, and I shall be absent for the
next ten days. If you like you can go away for a holiday."

"It's rather late in the season now, sir," said Crabwitz, gloomily,
as though he were determined not to be pleased.

"It is a little late, as you say; but I really could not manage it
earlier. Come, Crabwitz, you and I should not quarrel. Your work has
been a little hard, but then so has mine also."

"I fancy you like it, sir."

"Ha! ha! Like it, indeed! But so do you like it--in its way. Come,
Crabwitz, you have been an excellent servant to me; and I don't think
that, on the whole, I have been a bad master to you."

"I am making no complaint, sir."

"But you're cross because I've kept you in town a little too long.
Come, Crabwitz, you must forget all that. You have worked very hard
this year past. Here is a cheque for fifty pounds. Get out of town
for a fortnight or so, and amuse yourself."

"I'm sure I'm very much obliged, sir," said Crabwitz, putting out
his hand and taking the cheque. He felt that his master had got the
better of him, and he was still a little melancholy on that account.
He would have valued his grievance at that moment almost more
than the fifty pounds, especially as by the acceptance of it he
surrendered all right to complain for some considerable time to come.

"By-the-by, Crabwitz," said Mr. Furnival, as the clerk was about to
leave the room.

"Yes, sir," said Crabwitz.

"You have never chanced to hear of an attorney named Dockwrath, I
suppose?"

"What! in London, Mr. Furnival?"

"No; I fancy he has no place of business in town. He lives I know at
Hamworth."

"It's he you mean, sir, that is meddling in this affair of Lady
Mason's."

"What! you have heard of that; have you?"

"Oh! yes, sir. It's being a good deal talked about in the profession.
Messrs. Round and Crook's leading young man was up here with me the
other day, and he did say a good deal about it. He's a very decent
young man, considering his position, is Smart."

"And he knows Dockwrath, does he?"

"Well, sir, I can't say that he knows much of the man; but Dockwrath
has been at their place of business pretty constant of late, and he
and Mr. Matthew seem thick enough together."

"Oh! they do; do they?"

"So Smart tells me. I don't know how it is myself, sir. I don't
suppose this Dockwrath is a very--"

"No, no; exactly. I dare say not. You've never seen him yourself,
Crabwitz?"

"Who, sir? I, sir? No, sir, I've never set eyes on the man, sir. From
all I hear it's not very likely he should come here; and I'm sure it
is not at all likely that I should go to him."

Mr. Furnival sat thinking awhile, and the clerk stood waiting
opposite to him, leaning with both his hands upon the table. "You
don't know any one in the neighbourhood of Hamworth, I suppose?" Mr.
Furnival said at last.

"Who, sir? I, sir? Not a soul, sir. I never was there in my life."

"I'll tell you why I ask. I strongly suspect that that man Dockwrath
is at some very foul play." And then he told to his clerk so much of
the whole story of Lady Mason and her affairs as he chose that he
should know. "It is plain enough that he may give Lady Mason a great
deal of annoyance," he ended by saying.

"There's no doubting that, sir," said Crabwitz. "And, to tell the
truth, I believe his mind is made up to do it."

"You don't think that anything could be done by seeing him? Of course
Lady Mason has got nothing to compromise. Her son's estate is as safe
as my hat; but--"

"The people at Round's think it isn't quite so safe, sir."

"Then the people at Round's know nothing about it. But Lady Mason is
so averse to legal proceedings that it would be worth her while to
have matters settled. You understand?"

"Yes, sir; I understand. Would not an attorney be the best person,
sir?"

"Not just at present, Crabwitz. Lady Mason is a very dear friend of
mine--"

"Yes, sir; we know that," said Crabwitz.

"If you could make any pretence for running down to Hamworth--change
of air, you know, for a week or so. It's a beautiful country; just
the place you like. And you might find out whether anything could be
done, eh?"

Mr. Crabwitz was well aware, from the first, that he did not get
fifty pounds for nothing.




CHAPTER XXVI.

WHY SHOULD I NOT?


A day or two after his conversation with Crabwitz, as described in
the last chapter, Mr. Furnival was driven up to the door of Sir
Peregrine Orme's house in a Hamworth fly. He had come over by train
from Alston on purpose to see the baronet, whom he found seated in
his library. At that very moment he was again asking himself those
questions which he had before asked as he was walking up and down his
own dining-room. "Why should I not?" he said to himself,--"unless,
indeed, it will make her unhappy." And then the barrister was shown
into his room, muffled up to his eyes in his winter clothing.

Sir Peregrine and Mr. Furnival were well known to each other, and had
always met as friends. They had been interested on the same side in
the first Orley Farm Case, and possessed a topic of sympathy in their
mutual dislike to Joseph Mason of Groby Park. Sir Peregrine therefore
was courteous, and when he learned the subject on which he was to be
consulted he became almost more than courteous.

"Oh! yes; she's staying here, Mr. Furnival. Would you like to see
her?"

"Before I leave I shall be glad to see her, Sir Peregrine; but if I
am justified in regarding you as specially her friend, it may perhaps
be well that I should first have some conversation with you." Sir
Peregrine in answer to this declared that Mr. Furnival certainly
would be so justified; that he did regard himself as Lady Mason's
special friend, and that he was ready to hear anything that the
barrister might have to say to him.

Many of the points of this case have already been named so often, and
will, I fear, be necessarily named so often again that I will spare
the repetition when it is possible. Mr. Furnival on this occasion
told Sir Peregrine--not all that he had heard, but all that he
thought it necessary to tell, and soon became fully aware that in the
baronet's mind there was not the slightest shadow of suspicion that
Lady Mason could have been in any way to blame. He, the baronet, was
thoroughly convinced that Mr. Mason was the great sinner in this
matter, and that he was prepared to harass an innocent and excellent
lady from motives of disappointed cupidity and long-sustained malice,
which made him seem in Sir Peregrine's eyes a being almost too vile
for humanity. And of Dockwrath he thought almost as badly--only that
Dockwrath was below the level of his thinking. Of Lady Mason he spoke
as an excellent and beautiful woman driven to misery by unworthy
persecution; and so spoke with an enthusiasm that was surprising
to Mr. Furnival. It was very manifest that she would not want for
friendly countenance, if friendly countenance could carry her through
her difficulties.

There was no suspicion against Lady Mason in the mind of Sir
Peregrine, and Mr. Furnival was careful not to arouse any such
feeling. When he found that the baronet spoke of her as being
altogether pure and good, he also spoke of her in the same tone; but
in doing so his game was very difficult. "Let him do his worst, Mr.
Furnival," said Sir Peregrine; "and let her remain tranquil; that is
my advice to Lady Mason. It is not possible that he can really injure
her."

"It is possible that he can do nothing--very probable that he can do
nothing; but nevertheless, Sir Peregrine--"

"I would have no dealing with him or his. I would utterly disregard
them. If he, or they, or any of them choose to take steps to annoy
her, let her attorney manage that in the usual way. I am no lawyer
myself, Mr. Furnival, but that I think is the manner in which things
of this kind should be arranged. I do not know whether they have
still the power of disputing the will, but if so, let them do it."

Gradually, by very slow degrees, Mr. Furnival made Sir Peregrine
understand that the legal doings now threatened were not of that
nature;--that Mr. Mason did not now talk of proceeding at law for
the recovery of the property, but for the punishment of his father's
widow as a criminal; and at last the dreadful word "forgery" dropped
from his lips.

"Who dares to make such a charge as that?" demanded the baronet,
while fire literally flashed from his eyes in his anger. And when he
was told that Mr. Mason did make such a charge he called him "a mean,
unmanly dastard." "I do not believe that he would dare to make it
against a man," said Sir Peregrine.

But there was the fact of the charge--the fact that it had been
placed in the hands of respectable attorneys, with instructions to
them to press it on--and the fact also that the evidence by which
that charge was to be supported possessed at any rate a _prima facie_
appearance of strength. All that it was necessary to explain to Sir
Peregrine, as it would also be necessary to explain it to Lady Mason.

"Am I to understand, then, that you also think--?" began Sir
Peregrine.

"You are not to understand that I think anything injurious to the
lady; but I do fear that she is in a position of much jeopardy, and
that great care will be necessary."

"Good heavens! Do you mean to say that an innocent person can under
such circumstances be in danger in this country?"

"An innocent person, Sir Peregrine, may be in danger of very great
annoyance, and also of very great delay in proving that innocence.
Innocent people have died under the weight of such charges. We must
remember that she is a woman, and therefore weaker than you or I."

"Yes, yes; but still--. You do not say that you think she can be in
any real danger?" It seemed, from the tone of the old man's voice, as
though he were almost angry with Mr. Furnival for supposing that such
could be the case. "And you intend to tell her all this?" he asked.

"I fear that, as her friend, neither you nor I will be warranted in
keeping her altogether in the dark. Think what her feelings would be
if she were summoned before a magistrate without any preparation!"

"No magistrate would listen to such a charge," said Sir Peregrine.

"In that he must be guided by the evidence."

"I would sooner throw up my commission than lend myself in any way to
a proceeding so iniquitous."

This was all very well, and the existence of such a feeling showed
great generosity, and perhaps also poetic chivalry on the part of
Sir Peregrine Orme; but it was not the way of the world, and so Mr.
Furnival was obliged to explain. Magistrates would listen to the
charge--would be forced to listen to the charge,--if the evidence
were apparently sound. A refusal on the part of a magistrate to do
so would not be an act of friendship to Lady Mason, as Mr. Furnival
endeavoured to explain. "And you wish to see her?" Sir Peregrine
asked at last.

"I think she should be told; but as she is in your house, I will,
of course, do nothing in which you do not concur." Upon which
Sir Peregrine rang the bell and desired the servant to take his
compliments to Lady Mason and beg her attendance in the library if
it were quite convenient. "Tell her," said Sir Peregrine, "that Mr.
Furnival is here."

When the message was given to her she was seated with Mrs. Orme, and
at the moment she summoned strength to say that she would obey the
invitation, without displaying any special emotion while the servant
was in the room; but when the door was shut, her friend looked at her
and saw that she was as pale as death. She was pale and her limbs
quivered, and that look of agony, which now so often marked her face,
was settled on her brow. Mrs. Orme had never yet seen her with such
manifest signs of suffering as she wore at this instant.

"I suppose I must go to them," she said, slowly rising from her seat;
and it seemed to Mrs. Orme that she was forced to hold by the table
to support herself.

"Mr. Furnival is a friend, is he not?"

"Oh, yes! a kind friend, but--"

"They shall come in here if you like it better, dear."

"Oh, no! I will go to them. It would not do that I should seem so
weak. What must you think of me to see me so?"

"I do not wonder at it, dear," said Mrs. Orme, coming round to her;
"such cruelty would kill me. I wonder at your strength rather than
your weakness." And then she kissed her. What was there about the
woman that had made all those fond of her that came near her?

Mrs. Orme walked with her across the hall, and left her only at the
library door. There she pressed her hand and again kissed her, and
then Lady Mason turned the handle of the door and entered the room.
Mr. Furnival, when he looked at her, was startled by the pallor of
her face, but nevertheless he thought that she had never looked so
beautiful. "Dear Lady Mason," said he, "I hope you are well."

Sir Peregrine advanced to her and handed her over to his own
arm-chair. Had she been a queen in distress she could not have been
treated with more gentle deference. But she never seemed to count
upon this, or in any way to assume it as her right. I should accuse
her of what I regard as a sin against all good taste were I to say
that she was humble in her demeanour; but there was a soft meekness
about her, an air of feminine dependence, a proneness to lean
and almost to cling as she leaned, which might have been felt as
irresistible by any man. She was a woman to know in her deep sorrow
rather than in her joy and happiness; one with whom one would love to
weep rather than to rejoice. And, indeed, the present was a time with
her for weeping, not for rejoicing.

Sir Peregrine looked as though he were her father as he took her
hand, and the barrister immediately comforted himself with the
remembrance of the baronet's great age. It was natural, too, that
Lady Mason should hang on him in his own house. So Mr. Furnival
contented himself at the first moment with touching her hand and
hoping that she was well. She answered hardly a word to either of
them, but she attempted to smile as she sat down, and murmured
something about the trouble she was giving them.

"Mr. Furnival thinks it best that you should be made aware of the
steps which are being taken by Mr. Mason of Groby Park," began Sir
Peregrine. "I am no lawyer myself, and therefore of course I cannot
put my advice against his."

"I am sure that both of you will tell me for the best," she said.

"In such a matter as this it is right that you should be guided by
him. That he is as firmly your friend as I am there can be no doubt."

"I believe Lady Mason trusts me in that," said the lawyer.

"Indeed I do; I would trust you both in anything," she said.

"And there can be no doubt that he must be able to direct you for
the best. I say so much at the first, because I myself so thoroughly
despise that man in Yorkshire,--I am so convinced that anything which
his malice may prompt him to do must be futile, that I could not
myself have thought it needful to pain you by what must now be said."

This was a dreadful commencement, but she bore it, and even was
relieved by it. Indeed, no tale that Mr. Furnival could have to tell
after such an exordium would be so bad as that which she had feared
as the possible result of his visit. He might have come there to let
her know that she was at once to be carried away--immediately to be
taken to her trial--perhaps to be locked up in gaol. In her ignorance
of the law she could only imagine what might or might not happen to
her at any moment, and therefore the words which Sir Peregrine had
spoken relieved her rather than added to her fears.

And then Mr. Furnival began his tale, and gradually put before her
the facts of the matter. This he did with a choice of language and a
delicacy of phraseology which were admirable, for he made her clearly
understand the nature of the accusation which was brought against her
without using any word which was in itself harsh in its bearing. He
said nothing about fraud, or forgery, or false evidence, but he made
it manifest to her that Joseph Mason had now instructed his lawyer
to institute a criminal proceeding against her for having forged a
codicil to her husband's will.

"I must bear it as best I may," she said. "May the Lord give me
strength to bear it!"

"It is terrible to think of," said Sir Peregrine; "but nobody can
doubt how it will end. You are not to suppose that Mr. Furnival
intends to express any doubt as to your ultimate triumph. What we
fear for you is the pain you must endure before this triumph comes."

Ah, if that were all! As the baronet finished speaking she looked
furtively into the lawyer's face to see how far the meaning of these
smooth words would be supported by what she might read there. Would
he also think that a final triumph did certainly await her? Sir
Peregrine's real opinion was easily to be learned, either from his
countenance or from his words; but it was not so with Mr. Furnival.
In Mr. Furnival's face, and from Mr. Furnival's words, could be
learned only that which Mr. Furnival wished to declare. He saw that
glance, and fully understood it; and he knew instinctively, on the
spur of the moment, that he must now either assure her by a lie, or
break down all her hopes by the truth. That final triumph was not
certain to her--was very far from certain! Should he now be honest to
his friend, or dishonest? One great object with him was to secure the
support which Sir Peregrine could give by his weight in the county;
and therefore, as Sir Peregrine was present, it was needful that he
should be dishonest. Arguing thus he looked the lie, and Lady Mason
derived more comfort from that look than from all Sir Peregrine's
words.

And then those various details were explained to her which Mr.
Furnival understood that Mr. Dockwrath had picked up. They went into
that matter of the partnership deed, and questions were asked as to
the man Kenneby and the woman Bolster. They might both, Lady Mason
said, have been witnesses to half a dozen deeds on that same day, for
aught she knew to the contrary. She had been present with Sir Joseph,
as far as she could now remember, during the whole of that morning,
"in and out, Sir Peregrine, as you can understand." Sir Peregrine
said that he did understand perfectly. She did know that Mr. Usbech
had been there for many hours that day, probably from ten to two
or three, and no doubt therefore much business was transacted. She
herself remembered nothing but the affair of the will; but then that
was natural, seeing that there was no other affair in which she had
specially interested herself.

"No doubt these people did witness both the deeds," said Sir
Peregrine. "For myself, I cannot conceive how that wretched man can
be so silly as to spend his money on such a case as this."

"He would do anything for revenge," said Mr. Furnival.

And then Lady Mason was allowed to go back to the drawing-room, and
what remained to be said was said between the two gentlemen alone.
Sir Peregrine was very anxious that his own attorneys should be
employed, and he named Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile, than whom there
were no more respectable men in the whole profession. But then Mr.
Furnival feared that they were too respectable. They might look at
the matter in so straightforward a light as to fancy their client
really guilty; and what might happen then? Old Slow would not conceal
the truth for all the baronets in England--no, nor for all the pretty
women. The touch of Lady Mason's hand and the tear in her eye would
be nothing to old Slow. Mr. Furnival, therefore, was obliged to
explain that Slow and Bideawhile did not undertake that sort of
business.

"But I should wish it to be taken up through them. There must be
some expenditure, Mr. Furnival, and I should prefer that they should
arrange about that."

Mr. Furnival made no further immediate objection, and consented at
last to having an interview with one of the firm on the subject,
provided, of course, that that member of the firm came to him at his
chambers. And then he took his leave. Nothing positive had been done,
or even settled to be done, on this morning; but the persons most
interested in the matter had been made to understand that the affair
was taking an absolute palpable substance, and that steps must be
taken--indeed would be taken almost immediately. Mr. Furnival, as he
left the house, resolved to employ the attorneys whom he might think
best adapted for the purpose. He would settle that matter with Slow
and Bideawhile afterwards.

And then, as he returned to Noningsby, he wondered at his persistence
in the matter. He believed that his client had been guilty; he
believed that this codicil was no real instrument made by Sir Joseph
Mason. And so believing, would it not be better for him to wash his
hands of the whole affair? Others did not think so, and would it not
be better that such others should be her advisers? Was he not taking
up for himself endless trouble and annoyance that could have no
useful purpose? So he argued with himself, and yet by the time that
he had reached Noningsby he had determined that he would stand by
Lady Mason to the last. He hated that man Mason, as he declared to
himself when providing himself with reasons for his resolve, and
regarded his bitter, malicious justice as more criminal than any
crime of which Lady Mason might have been guilty. And then as he
leaned back in the railway carriage he still saw her pale face before
him, still heard the soft tone of her voice, and was still melted by
the tear in her eye. Young man, young friend of mine, who art now
filled to the overflowing of thy brain with poetry, with chivalry,
and love, thou seest seated opposite to thee there that grim old man,
with long snuffy nose, with sharp piercing eyes, with scanty frizzled
hairs. He is rich and cross, has been three times married, and has
often quarrelled with his children. He is fond of his wine, and
snores dreadfully after dinner. To thy seeming he is a dry, withered
stick, from which all the sap of sentiment has been squeezed by the
rubbing and friction of years. Poetry, the feeling if not the words
of poetry,--is he not dead to it, even as the pavement is dead over
which his wheels trundle? Oh, my young friend! thou art ignorant in
this--as in most other things. He may not twitter of sentiment, as
thou doest; nor may I trundle my hoop along the high road as do the
little boys. The fitness of things forbids it. But that old man's
heart is as soft as thine, if thou couldst but read it. The body
dries up and withers away, and the bones grow old; the brain, too,
becomes decrepit, as do the sight, the hearing, and the soul. But the
heart that is tender once remains tender to the last.

Lady Mason, when she left the library, walked across the hall towards
the drawing-room, and then she paused. She would fain remain alone
for a while if it were possible, and therefore she turned aside into
a small breakfast parlour, which was used every morning, but which
was rarely visited afterwards during the day. Here she sat, leaving
the door slightly open, so that she might know when Mr. Furnival left
the baronet. Here she sat for a full hour, waiting--waiting--waiting.
There was no sofa or lounging-chair in the room, reclining in which
she could remain there half sleeping, sitting comfortably at her
ease; but she placed herself near the table, and leaning there with
her face upon her hand, she waited patiently till Mr. Furnival had
gone. That her mind was full of thoughts I need hardly say, but yet
the hour seemed very long to her. At last she heard the library door
open, she heard Sir Peregrine's voice as he stood in the hall and
shook hands with his departing visitor, she heard the sound of the
wheels as the fly moved upon the gravel, and then she heard Sir
Peregrine again shut the library door behind him.

She did not immediately get up from her chair; she still waited
awhile, perhaps for another period of ten minutes, and then she
noiselessly left the room, and moving quickly and silently across the
hall she knocked at Sir Peregrine's door. This she did so gently that
at first no answer was made to her. Then she knocked again, hardly
louder but with a repeated rap, and Sir Peregrine summoned her to
come in. "May I trouble you once more--for one moment?" she said.

"Certainly, certainly; it is no trouble. I am glad that you are here
in the house at this time, that you may see me at any moment that you
may wish."

"I do not know why you should be so good to me."

"Because you are in great grief, in undeserved grief, because--. Lady
Mason, my services are at your command. I will act for you as I would
for a--daughter."

"You hear now of what it is that they accuse me."

"Yes, he said; I do hear;" and as he spoke he came round so that he
was standing near to her, but with his back to the fireplace. "I do
hear, and I blush to think that there is a man in England, holding
the position of a county magistrate, who can so forget all that is
due to honesty, to humanity, and to self-respect."

"You do not then think that I have been guilty of this thing?"

"Guilty--I think you guilty! No, nor does he think so. It is
impossible that he should think so. I am no more sure of my own
innocence than of yours;" and as he spoke he took both her hands and
looked into her face, and his eyes also were full of tears. "You
may be sure of this, that neither I nor Edith will ever think you
guilty."

"Dearest Edith," she said; she had never before called Sir
Peregrine's daughter-in-law by her Christian name, and as she now did
so she almost felt that she had sinned. But Sir Peregrine took it in
good part. "She is dearest," he said; "and be sure of this, that she
will be true to you through it all."

And so they stood for a while without further speech. He still held
both her hands, and the tears still stood in his eyes. Her eyes were
turned to the ground, and from them the tears were running fast. At
first they ran silently, without audible sobbing, and Sir Peregrine,
with his own old eyes full of salt water, hardly knew that she was
weeping. But gradually the drops fell upon his hand, one by one at
first, and then faster and faster; and soon there came a low sob, a
sob all but suppressed, but which at last forced itself forth, and
then her head fell upon his shoulder. "My dear," he said, himself
hardly able to speak; "my poor dear, my ill-used dear!" and as she
withdrew one hand from his, that she might press a handkerchief to
her face, his vacant arm passed itself round her waist. "My poor,
ill-used dear!" he said again, as he pressed her to his old heart,
and leaning over her he kissed her lips.

So she stood for some few seconds, feeling that she was pressed
close by the feeble pressure of his arm, and then she gradually sank
through from his embrace, and fell upon her knees at his feet. She
knelt at his feet, supporting herself with one arm upon the table,
and with the other hand she still held his hand over which her head
was bowed. "My friend," she said, still sobbing, and sobbing loudly
now; "my friend, that God has sent me in my trouble." And then, with
words that were wholly inaudible, she murmured some prayer on his
behalf.

"I am better now," she said, raising herself quickly to her feet when
a few seconds had passed. "I am better now," and she stood erect
before him. "By God's mercy I will endure it; I think I can endure it
now."

"If I can lighten the load--"

"You have lightened it--of half its weight; but, Sir Peregrine, I
will leave this--"

"Leave this! go away from The Cleeve!"

"Yes; I will not destroy the comfort of your home by the wretchedness
of my position. I will not--"

"Lady Mason, my house is altogether at your service. If you will be
led by me in this matter, you will not leave it till this cloud shall
have passed by you. You will be better to be alone now;" and then
before she could answer him further, he led her to the door. She
felt that it was better for her to be alone, and she hastened up the
stairs to her own chamber.

"And why should I not?" said Sir Peregrine to himself, as he again
walked the length of the library.




CHAPTER XXVII.

COMMERCE.


Lucius Mason was still staying at Noningsby when Mr. Furnival made
his visit to Sir Peregrine, and on that afternoon he received a note
from his mother. Indeed, there were three notes passed between them
on that afternoon, for he wrote an answer to his mother, and then
received a reply to that answer. Lady Mason told him that she did not
intend to return home to the Farm quite immediately, and explained
that her reason for not doing so was the necessity that she should
have assistance and advice at this period of her trouble. She did
not say that she misdoubted the wisdom of her son's counsels; but it
appeared to him that she intended to signify to him that she did so,
and he answered her in words that were sore and almost bitter. "I am
sorry," he said, "that you and I cannot agree about a matter that is
of such vital concern to both of us; but as it is so, we can only act
as each thinks best, you for yourself and I for myself. I am sure,
however, that you will believe that my only object is your happiness
and your fair name, which is dearer to me than anything else in the
world." In answer to this, she had written again immediately, filling
her letter with sweet words of motherly love, telling him that she
was sure, quite sure, of his affection and kind spirit, and excusing
herself for not putting the matter altogether in his hands by saying
that she was forced to lean on those who had supported her from the
beginning--through that former trial which had taken place when he,
Lucius, was yet a baby. "And, dearest Lucius, you must not be angry
with me," she went on to say; "I am suffering much under this cruel
persecution, but my sufferings would be more than doubled if my own
boy quarrelled with me." Lucius, when he received this, flung up his
head. "Quarrel with her," he said to himself; "nothing on earth would
make me quarrel with her; but I cannot say that that is right which I
think to be wrong." His feelings were good and honest, and kindly too
in their way; but tenderness of heart was not his weakness. I should
wrong him if I were to say that he was hard-hearted, but he flattered
himself that he was just-hearted, which sometimes is nearly the
same--as had been the case with his father before him, and was now
the case with his half-brother Joseph.

The day after this was his last at Noningsby. He had told Lady
Staveley that he intended to go, and though she had pressed his
further stay, remarking that none of the young people intended to
move till after twelfth-night, nevertheless he persisted. With
the young people of the house themselves he had not much advanced
himself; and altogether he did not find himself thoroughly happy in
the judge's house. They were more thoughtless than he--as he thought;
they did not understand him, and therefore he would leave them.
Besides, there was a great day of hunting coming on, at which
everybody was to take a part, and as he did not hunt that gave
him another reason for going. "They have nothing to do but amuse
themselves," he said to himself; "but I have a man's work before me,
and a man's misfortunes. I will go home and face both."

In all this there was much of conceit, much of pride, much of
deficient education,--deficiency in that special branch of education
which England has imparted to the best of her sons, but which
is now becoming out of fashion. He had never learned to measure
himself against others,--I do not mean his knowledge or his
book-acquirements, but the every-day conduct of his life,--and
to perceive that that which is insignificant in others must be
insignificant in himself also. To those around him at Noningsby his
extensive reading respecting the Iapetidae recommended him not at all,
nor did his agricultural ambitions;--not even to Felix Graham, as a
companion, though Felix Graham could see further into his character
than did the others. He was not such as they were. He had not the
unpretentious, self-controlling humour, perfectly free from all
conceit, which was common to them. Life did not come easy to him,
and the effort which he was ever making was always visible. All men
should ever be making efforts, no doubt; but those efforts should
not be conspicuous. But yet Lucius Mason was not a bad fellow, and
young Staveley showed much want of discernment when he called him
empty-headed and selfish. Those epithets were by no means applicable
to him. That he was not empty-headed is certain; and he was moreover
capable of a great self-sacrifice.

That his talents and good qualities were appreciated by one person
in the house, seemed evident to Lady Staveley and the other married
ladies of the party. Miss Furnival, as they all thought, had not
found him empty-headed. And, indeed, it may be doubted whether Lady
Staveley would have pressed his stay at Noningsby, had Miss Furnival
been less gracious. Dear Lady Staveley was always living in a fever
lest her only son, the light of her eyes, should fall irrevocably
in love with some lady that was by no means good enough for him.
Revocably in love he was daily falling; but some day he would go too
deep, and the waters would close over his well-loved head. Now in her
dear old favouring eyes Sophia Furnival was by no means good enough,
and it had been quite clear that Augustus had become thoroughly lost
in his attempts to bring about a match between Felix Graham and
the barrister's daughter. In preparing the bath for his friend he
had himself fallen bodily into the water. He was always at Miss
Furnival's side as long as Miss Furnival would permit it. But it
seemed to Lady Staveley that Miss Furnival, luckily, was quite as
fond of having Lucius Mason at her side;--that of the two she perhaps
preferred Lucius Mason. That her taste and judgment should be so bad
was wonderful to Lady Staveley; but this depravity though wonderful
was useful; and therefore Lucius Mason might have been welcome to
remain at Noningsby.

It may, however, be possible that Miss Furnival knew what she was
doing quite as well as Lady Staveley could know for her. In the
first place she may possibly have thought it indiscreet to admit Mr.
Staveley's attentions with too much freedom. She may have doubted
their sincerity; or feared to give offence to the family, or Mr.
Mason may in her sight have been the preferable suitor. That his
gifts of intellect were at any rate equal to those of the other there
can be no doubt. Then, his gifts of fortune were already his own, and
for ought that Miss Furnival knew, might be equal to any that would
ever appertain to the other gentleman. That Lady Staveley should
think her swan better looking than Lady Mason's goose was very
natural; but then Lady Mason would no doubt have regarded the two
birds in an exactly opposite light. It is only fair to conceive that
Miss Furnival was a better judge than either of them.

On the evening before his departure the whole party had been playing
commerce; for the rule of the house during these holidays was this,
that all the amusements brought into vogue were to be adapted to the
children. If the grown-up people could adapt themselves to them, so
much the better for them; if not, so much the worse; they must in
such case provide for themselves. On the whole, the grown-up people
seemed to live nearly as jovial a life as did the children. Whether
the judge himself was specially fond of commerce I cannot say; but he
persisted in putting in the whole pool, and played through the entire
game, rigidly fighting for the same pool on behalf of a very small
grandchild, who sat during the whole time on his knee. There are
those who call cards the devil's books, but we will presume that the
judge was of a different way of thinking.

On this special evening Sophia had been sitting next to Augustus,--a
young man can always arrange these matters in his own house,--but had
nevertheless lost all her lives early in the game. "I will not have
any cheating to-night," she had said to her neighbour; "I will take
my chance, and if I die, I die. One can die but once." And so she
had died, three times indeed instead of once only, and had left the
table. Lucius Mason also had died. He generally did die the first,
having no aptitude for a collection of kings or aces, and so they two
came together over the fire in the second drawing-room, far away from
the card-players. There was nothing at all remarkable in this, as Mr.
Furnival and one or two others who did not play commerce were also
there; but nevertheless they were separated from those of the party
who were most inclined to criticise their conduct.

"So you are leaving to-morrow, Mr. Mason," said Sophia.

"Yes. I go home to-morrow after breakfast; to my own house, where for
some weeks to come I shall be absolutely alone."

"Your mother is staying at The Cleeve, I think."

"Yes,--and intends remaining there as she tells me. I wish with all
my heart she were at Orley Farm."

"Papa saw her yesterday. He went over to The Cleeve on purpose to see
her; and this morning he has been talking to me about her. I cannot
tell you how I grieve for her."

"It is very sad; very sad. But I wish she were in her own house.
Under the circumstances as they now are, I think it would be better
for her to be there than elsewhere. Her name has been disgraced--"

"No, Mr. Mason; not disgraced."

"Yes; disgraced. Mark you; I do not say that she has been disgraced;
and pray do not suppose it possible that I should think so. But a
great opprobrium has been thrown on her name, and it would be better,
I think, that she should remain at home till she has cast it off from
her. Even for myself, I feel it almost wrong to be here; nor would I
have come had I known when I did come as much as I do know now."

"But no one can for a moment think that your mother has done anything
that she should not have done."

"Then why do so many people talk of her as though she had committed a
great crime? Miss Furnival, I know that she is innocent. I know it as
surely as I know the fact of my own existence--"

"And we all feel the same thing."

"But if you were in my place,--if it were your father whose name was
so bandied about in people's mouths, you would think that it behoved
him to do nothing, to go nowhere, till he had forced the world to
confess his innocence. And this is ten times stronger with regard to
a woman. I have given my mother my counsel, and I regret to say that
she differs from me."

"Why do you not speak to papa?"

"I did once. I went to him at his chambers, and he rebuked me."

"Rebuked you, Mr. Mason! He did not do that intentionally I am sure.
I have heard him say that you are an excellent son."

"But nevertheless he did rebuke me. He considered that I was
travelling beyond my own concerns, in wishing to interfere for the
protection of my mother's name. He said that I should leave it to
such people as the Staveleys and the Ormes to guard her from ignominy
and disgrace."

"Oh, he did not mean that!"

"But to me it seems that it should be a son's first duty. They are
talking of trouble and of cost. I would give every hour I have in the
day, and every shilling I own in the world to save her from one week
of such suffering as she now endures; but it cuts me to the heart
when she tells me that because she is suffering, therefore she must
separate herself from me. I think it would be better for her, Miss
Furnival, to be staying at home with me, than to be at The Cleeve."

"The kindness of Mrs. Orme must be a great support to her."

"And why should not my kindness be a support to her,--or rather my
affection? We know from whom all these scandals come. My desire is to
meet that man in a court of law and thrust these falsehoods down his
throat."

"Ah! but you are a man."

"And therefore I would take the burden from her shoulders. But no;
she will not trust to me. The truth, Miss Furnival, is this, that she
has not yet learned to think of me as a man. To her I am still the
boy for whom she is bound to provide, not the son who should bear
for her all her cares. As it is I feel that I do not dare again to
trouble her with my advice."

"Grandmamma is dead," shouted out a shrill small voice from the
card-table. "Oh, grandmamma, do have one of my lives. Look! I've got
three," said another.

"Thank you, my dears; but the natural term of my existence has come,
and I will not rebel against fate."

"Oh, grandmamma,--we'll let you have another grace."

"By no means, Charley. Indeed I am not clear that I am entitled to
Christian burial, as it is."

"A case of felo de se, I rather think," said her son. "About this
time of the night suicide does become common among the elders.
Unfortunately for me, the pistol that I have been snapping at my own
head for the last half-hour always hangs fire."

There was not much of love-making in the conversation which had taken
place between young Mason and Sophia; not much at least up to this
point; but a confidence had been established, and before he left her
he did say a word or two that was more tender in its nature. "You
must not be in dudgeon with me," he said, "for speaking to you of all
this. Hitherto I have kept it all to myself, and perhaps I should
still have done so."

"Oh no; do not say that."

"I am in great grief. It is dreadful to me to hear these things said,
and as yet I have found no sympathy."

"I can assure you, Mr. Mason, that I do sympathise with you most
sincerely. I only wish my sympathy could be of more value."

"It will be invaluable," he said, not looking at her, but fixing his
eyes upon the fire, "if it be given with constancy from the first to
the last of this sad affair."

"It shall be so given," said Miss Furnival, also looking at the fire.

"It will be tolerably long, and men will say cruel things of us. I
can foresee this, that it will be very hard to prove to the world
with certainty that there is no foundation whatever for these
charges. If those who are now most friendly to us turn away from
us--"

"I will never turn away from you, Mr. Mason."

"Then give me your hand on that, and remember that such a promise
in my ears means much." He in his excitement had forgotten that
there were others in the room who might be looking at them, and that
there was a vista open upon them direct from all the eyes at the
card-table; but she did not forget it. Miss Furnival could be very
enthusiastic, but she was one of those who in her enthusiasm rarely
forgot anything. Nevertheless, after a moment's pause, she gave him
her hand. "There it is," she said; "and you may be sure of this, that
with me also such a promise does mean something. And now I will say
good night." And so, having received the pressure of her hand, she
left him.

"I will get you your candle," he said, and so he did.

"Good night, papa," she said, kissing her father. And then, with
a slight muttered word to Lady Staveley, she withdrew, having
sacrificed the remainder of that evening for the sake of acceding to
Mr. Mason's request respecting her pledge. It could not be accounted
strange that she should give her hand to the gentleman with whom she
was immediately talking as she bade him good night.

"And now grandpapa is dead too," said Marian, "and there's nobody
left but us three."

"And we'll divide," said Fanny Sebright; and so the game of commerce
was brought to an end.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

MONKTON GRANGE.


During these days Peregrine Orme--though he was in love up to his
very chin, seriously in love, acknowledging this matter to himself
openly, pulling his hair in the retirement of his bedroom, and
resolving that he would do that which he had hitherto in life always
been successful in doing--ask, namely, boldly for that he wanted
sorely--Peregrine Orme, I say, though he was in this condition, did
not in these days neglect his hunting. A proper attendance upon the
proceedings of the H. H. was the only duty which he had hitherto
undertaken in return for all that his grandfather had done for him,
and I have no doubt that he conceived that he was doing a duty in
going hither and thither about the county to their most distant
meets. At this period of the present season it happened that
Noningsby was more central to the proceedings of the hunt than The
Cleeve, and therefore he was enabled to think that he was remaining
away from home chiefly on business. On one point, however, he had
stoutly come to a resolution. That question should be asked of
Madeline Staveley before he returned to his grandfather's house.

And now had arrived a special hunting morning,--special, because
the meet was in some degree a show meet, appropriate for ladies,
at a comfortable distance from Noningsby, and affording a chance
of amusement to those who sat in carriages as well as to those on
horseback. Monkton Grange was the well-known name of the place,
a name perhaps dearer to the ladies than to the gentlemen of the
country, seeing that show meets do not always give the best sport.
Monkton Grange is an old farm-house, now hardly used as such,
having been left, as regards the habitation, in the hands of a head
labourer; but it still possesses the marks of ancient respectability
and even of grandeur. It is approached from the high road by a long
double avenue of elms, which still stand in all their glory. The road
itself has become narrow, and the space between the side row of trees
is covered by soft turf, up which those coming to the meet love to
gallop, trying the fresh metal of their horses. And the old house
itself is surrounded by a moat, dry indeed now for the most part, but
nevertheless an evident moat, deep and well preserved, with a bridge
over it which Fancy tells us must once have been a drawbridge. It
is here, in front of the bridge, that the old hounds sit upon their
haunches, resting quietly round the horses of the huntsmen, while
the young dogs move about, and would wander if the whips allowed
them--one of the fairest sights to my eyes that this fair country
of ours can show. And here the sportsmen and ladies congregate by
degrees, men from a distance in dog-carts generally arriving first,
as being less able to calculate the time with accuracy. There is room
here too in the open space for carriages, and there is one spot on
which always stands old Lord Alston's chariot with the four posters;
an ancient sportsman he, who still comes to some few favourite meets;
and though Alston Court is but eight miles from the Grange, the
post-horses always look as though they had been made to do their
best, for his lordship likes to move fast even in his old age. He is
a tall thin man, bent much with age, and apparently too weak for much
walking; he is dressed from head to foot in a sportsman's garb, with
a broad stiffly starched  handkerchief tied rigidly round his
neck. One would say that old as he is he has sacrificed in no way
to comfort. It is with difficulty that he gets into his saddle, his
servant holding his rein and stirrup and giving him perhaps some
other slight assistance; but when he is there, there he will remain
all day, and when his old blood warms he will gallop along the road
with as much hot fervour as his grandson. An old friend he of Sir
Peregrine's. "And why is not your grandfather here to-day?" he said
on this occasion to young Orme. "Tell him from me that if he fails
us in this way, I shall think he is getting old." Lord Alston was in
truth five years older than Sir Peregrine, but Sir Peregrine at this
time was thinking of other things.

[Illustration: Monkton Grange.]

And then a very tidy little modern carriage bustled up the road,
a brougham made for a pair of horses which was well known to all
hunting men in these parts. It was very unpretending in its colour
and harness; but no vehicle more appropriate to its purpose ever
carried two thorough-going sportsmen day after day about the country.
In this as it pulled up under the head tree of the avenue were seated
the two Miss Tristrams. The two Miss Tristrams were well known to the
Hamworth Hunt--I will not merely say as fearless riders,--of most
girls who hunt as much can be said as that; but they were judicious
horsewomen; they knew when to ride hard, and when hard riding, as
regarded any necessary for the hunt, would be absolutely thrown
away. They might be seen for half the day moving about the roads as
leisurely, or standing as quietly at the covert's side as might the
seniors of the fields. But when the time for riding did come, when
the hounds were really running--when other young ladies had begun
to go home--then the Miss Tristrams were always there;--there or
thereabouts, as their admirers would warmly boast.

Nor did they commence their day's work as did other girls who came
out on hunting mornings. With most such it is clear to see that the
object is pretty much the same here as in the ballroom. "Spectatum
veniunt; veniunt spectentur ut ipsae," as it is proper, natural, and
desirable that they should do. By that word "spectatum" I would wish
to signify something more than the mere use of the eyes. Perhaps an
occasional word dropped here and there into the ears of a cavalier
may be included in it; and the "spectentur" also may include a word
so received. But the Miss Tristrams came for hunting. Perhaps there
might be a slight shade of affectation in the manner by which they
would appear to come for that and that only. They would talk of
nothing else, at any rate during the earlier portion of the day, when
many listeners were by. They were also well instructed as to the
country to be drawn, and usually had a word of import to say to the
huntsman. They were good-looking, fair-haired girls, short in size,
with bright gray eyes, and a short decisive mode of speaking. It must
not be imagined that they were altogether indifferent to such matters
as are dear to the hearts of other girls. They were not careless as
to admiration, and if report spoke truth of them were willing enough
to establish themselves in the world; but all their doings of that
kind had a reference to their favourite amusement, and they would as
soon have thought of flirting with men who did not hunt as some other
girls would with men who did not dance.

I do not know that this kind of life had been altogether successful
with them, or that their father had been right to permit it. He
himself had formerly been a hunting man, but he had become fat and
lazy, and the thing had dropped away from him. Occasionally he did
come out with them, but when he did not do so some other senior of
the field would have them nominally under charge; but practically
they were as independent when going across the country as the young
men who accompanied them. I have expressed a doubt whether this life
was successful with them, and indeed such doubt was expressed by many
of their neighbours. It had been said of each of them for the last
three years that she was engaged, now to this man, and then to that
other; but neither this man nor that other had yet made good the
assertion, and now people were beginning to say that no man was
engaged to either of them. Hunting young ladies are very popular
in the hunting-field; I know no place in which girls receive more
worship and attention; but I am not sure but they may carry their
enthusiasm too far for their own interests, let their horsemanship be
as perfect as it may be.

The two girls on this occasion sat in their carriage till the groom
brought up their horses, and then it was wonderful to see with what
ease they placed themselves in their saddles. On such occasions they
admitted no aid from the gentlemen around them, but each stepping
for an instant on a servant's hand, settled herself in a moment on
horseback. Nothing could be more perfect than the whole thing, but
the wonder was that Mr. Tristram should have allowed it.

The party from Noningsby consisted of six or seven on horseback,
besides those in the carriage. Among the former there were the two
young ladies, Miss Furnival and Miss Staveley, and our friends Felix
Graham, Augustus Staveley, and Peregrine Orme. Felix Graham was not
by custom a hunting man, as he possessed neither time nor money for
such a pursuit; but to-day he was mounted on his friend Staveley's
second horse, having expressed his determination to ride him as long
as they two, the man and the horse, could remain together.

"I give you fair warning," Felix had said, "if I do not spare my own
neck, you cannot expect me to spare your horse's legs."

"You may do your worst," Staveley had answered. "If you give him his
head, and let him have his own way, he won't come to grief, whatever
you may do."

On their road to Monkton Grange, which was but three miles from
Noningsby, Peregrine Orme had ridden by the side of Miss Staveley,
thinking more of her than of the affairs of the hunt, prominent as
they were generally in his thoughts. How should he do it, and when,
and in what way should he commence the deed? He had an idea that it
might be better for him if he could engender some closer intimacy
between himself and Madeline before he absolutely asked the fatal
question; but the closer intimacy did not seem to produce itself
readily. He had, in truth, known Madeline Staveley for many years,
almost since they were children together; but lately, during these
Christmas holidays especially, there had not been between them that
close conversational alliance which so often facilitates such an
overture as that which Peregrine was now desirous of making. And,
worse again, he had seen that there was such close conversational
alliance between Madeline and Felix Graham. He did not on that
account dislike the young barrister, or call him, even within his own
breast, a snob or an ass. He knew well that he was neither the one
nor the other; but he knew as well that he could be no fit match
for Miss Staveley, and, to tell the truth, he did not suspect that
either Graham or Miss Staveley would think of such a thing. It was
not jealousy that tormented him, so much as a diffidence in his
own resources. He made small attempts which did not succeed, and
therefore he determined that he would at once make a grand attempt.
He would create himself an opportunity before he left Noningsby, and
would do it even to-day on horseback, if he could find sufficient
opportunity. In taking a determined step like that, he knew that he
would not lack the courage.

"Do you mean to ride to-day," he said to Madeline, as they were
approaching the bottom of the Grange avenue. For the last half-mile
he had been thinking what he would say to her, and thinking in
vain; and now, at the last moment, he could summon no words to his
assistance more potent for his purpose than these.

"If you mean by riding, Mr. Orme, going across the fields with you
and the Miss Tristrams, certainly not. I should come to grief, as you
call it, at the first ditch."

"And that is just what I shall do," said Felix Graham, who was at her
other side.

"Then, if you take my advice, you'll remain with us in the wood, and
act as squire of dames. What on earth would Marian do if aught but
good was to befall you?"

"Dear Marian! She gave me a special commission to bring her the fox's
tail. Foxes' tails are just like ladies."

"Thank you, Mr. Graham. I've heard you make some pretty compliments,
and that is about the prettiest."

"A faint heart will never win either the one or the other, Miss
Staveley."

"Oh, ah, yes. That will do very well. Under these circumstances I
will accept the comparison."

All of which very innocent conversation was overheard by Peregrine
Orme, riding on the other side of Miss Staveley's horse. And why not?
Neither Graham nor Miss Staveley had any objection. But how was it
that he could not join in and take his share in it? He had made one
little attempt at conversation, and that having failed he remained
perfectly silent till they reached the large circle at the head of
the avenue. "It's no use, this sort of thing," he said to himself. "I
must do it at a blow, if I do it at all;" and then he rode away to
the master of the hounds.

As our party arrived at the open space the Miss Tristrams were
stepping out of their carriage, and they came up to shake hands with
Miss Staveley.

"I am so glad to see you," said the eldest; "it is so nice to have
some ladies out besides ourselves."

"Do keep up with us," said the second. "It's a very open country
about here, and anybody can ride it." And then Miss Furnival was
introduced to them. "Does your horse jump, Miss Furnival?"

"I really do not know," said Sophia; "but I sincerely trust that if
he does, he will refrain to-day."

"Don't say so," said the eldest sportswoman. "If you'll only begin
it will come as easy to you as going along the road;" and then, not
being able to spare more of these idle moments, they both went off to
their horses, walking as though their habits were no impediments to
them, and in half a minute they were seated.

"What is Harriet on to-day?" asked Staveley of a constant member of
the hunt. Now Harriet was the eldest Miss Tristram.

"A little brown mare she got last week. That was a terrible brush we
had on Friday. You weren't out, I think. We killed in the open, just
at the edge of Rotherham Common. Harriet was one of the few that was
up, and I don't think the chestnut horse will be the better of it
this season."

"That was the horse she got from Griggs?"

"Yes; she gave a hundred and fifty for him; and I'm told he was as
nearly done on Friday as any animal you ever put your eyes on. They
say Harriet cried when she got home." Now the gentleman who was
talking about Harriet on this occasion was one with whom she would no
more have sat down to table than with her own groom.

But though Harriet may have cried when she got home on that fatal
Friday evening, she was full of the triumph of the hunt on this
morning. It is not often that the hounds run into a fox and
absolutely surround and kill him on the open ground, and when this
is done after a severe run, there are seldom many there to see it.
If a man can fairly take a fox's brush on such an occasion as that,
let him do it; otherwise let him leave it to the huntsman. On the
occasion in question it seems that Harriet Tristram might have done
so, and some one coming second to her had been gallant enough to do
it for her.

"Oh, my lord, you should have been out on Friday," she said to Lord
Alston. "We had the prettiest thing I ever saw."

"A great deal too pretty for me, my dear."

"Oh, you who know the roads so well would certainly have been up. I
suppose it was thirteen miles from Cobbleton's Bushes to Rotherham
Common."

"Not much less, indeed," said his lordship, unwilling to diminish the
lady's triumph. Had a gentleman made the boast his lordship would
have demonstrated that it was hardly more than eleven.

"I timed it accurately from the moment he went away," said the lady,
"and it was exactly fifty-seven minutes. The first part of it was
awfully fast. Then we had a little check at Moseley Bottom. But for
that, nobody could have lived through it. I never shall forget how
deep it was coming up from there to Cringleton. I saw two men get off
to ease their horses up the deep bit of plough; and I would have done
so too, only my horse would not have stood for me to get up."

"I hope he was none the worse for it," said the sporting character
who had been telling Staveley just now how she had cried when she got
home that night.

"To tell the truth, I fear it has done him no good. He would not
feed, you know, that night at all."

"And broke out into cold sweats," said the gentleman.

"Exactly," said the lady, not quite liking it, but still enduring
with patience.

"Rather groggy on his pins the next morning?" suggested her friend.

"Very groggy," said Harriet, regarding the word as one belonging to
fair sporting phraseology.

"And inclined to go very much on the points of his toes. I know all
about it, Miss Tristam, as well as though I'd seen him."

"There's nothing but rest for it, I suppose."

"Rest and regular exercise--that's the chief thing; and I should give
him a mash as often as three times a week. He'll be all right again
in three or four weeks,--that is if he's sound, you know."

"Oh, as sound as a bell," said Miss Tristram.

"He'll never be the same horse on a road though," said the sporting
gentlemen, shaking his head and whispering to Staveley.

And now the time had come at which they were to move. They always met
at eleven; and at ten minutes past, to the moment, Jacob the huntsman
would summons the old hounds from off their haunches. "I believe we
may be moving, Jacob," said Mr. Williams, the master.

"The time be up," said Jacob, looking at a ponderous timekeeper that
might with truth be called a hunting-watch; and then they all moved
slowly away back from the Grange, down a farm-road which led to
Monkton Wood, distant from the old house perhaps a quarter of a mile.

"May we go as far as the wood?" said Miss Furnival to Augustus.
"Without being made to ride over hedges, I mean."

"Oh, dear, yes; and ride about the wood half the day. It will be an
hour and a half before a fox will break--even if he ever breaks."

"Dear me! how tired you will be of us. Now do say something pretty,
Mr. Staveley."

"It's not my _metier_. We shall be tired, not of you, but of the
thing. Galloping up and down the same cuts in the wood for an hour
and a half is not exciting; nor does it improve the matter much if we
stand still, as one should do by rights."

"That would be very slow."

"You need not be afraid. They never do here. Everybody will be
rushing about as though the very world depended on their galloping."

"I'm so glad; that's just what I like."

"Everybody except Lord Alston, Miss Tristram, and, the other old
stagers. They will husband their horses, and come out as fresh at
two o'clock as though they were only just out. There is nothing so
valuable as experience in hunting."

"Do you think it nice seeing a young lady with so much hunting
knowledge?"

"Now you want me to talk slander, but I won't do it. I admire the
Miss Tristrams exceedingly, and especially Julia."

"And which is Julia?"

"The youngest; that one riding by herself."

"And why don't you go and express your admiration?"

"Ah, me! why don't we all express the admiration that we feel, and
pour sweet praises into the ears of the lady that excites it? Because
we are cowards, Miss Furnival, and are afraid even of such a weak
thing as a woman."

"Dear me! I should hardly have thought that you would suffer from
such terror as that."

"Because you don't quite know me, Miss Furnival."

"And Miss Julia Tristram is the lady that has excited it?"

"If it be not she, it is some other fair votary of Diana at present
riding into Monkton Wood."

"Ah, now you are giving me a riddle to guess, and I never guess
riddles. I won't even try at it. But they all seem to be stopping."

"Yes, they are putting the hounds into covert. Now if you want to
show yourself a good sportsman, look at your watch. You see that
Julia Tristram has got hers in her hand."

"What's that for?"

"To time the hounds; to see how long they'll be before they find.
It's very pretty work in a small gorse, but in a great wood like this
I don't care much for being so accurate. But for heaven's sake don't
tell Julia Tristram; I should not have a chance if she thought I was
so slack."

And now the hounds were scattering themselves in the wood, and the
party rode up the centre roadway towards a great circular opening in
the middle of it. Here it was the recognised practice of the horsemen
to stand, and those who properly did their duty would stand there;
but very many lingered at the gate, knowing that there was but one
other exit from the wood, without overcoming the difficulty of a very
intricate and dangerous fence.

"There be a gap, bain't there?" said one farmer to another, as they
were entering.

"Yes, there be a gap, and young Grubbles broke his 'orse's back a
getting over of it last year," said the second farmer.

"Did he though?" said the first; and so they both remained at the
gate.

And others, a numerous body, including most of the ladies, galloped
up and down the cross ways, because the master of the hounds and the
huntsman did so. "D---- those fellows riding up and down after me
wherever I go," said the master. "I believe they think I'm to be
hunted." This seemed to be said more especially to Miss Tristram, who
was always in the master's confidence; and I fear that the fellows
alluded to included Miss Furnival and Miss Staveley.

And then there came the sharp, eager sound of a hound's voice; a
single, sharp, happy opening bark, and Harriet Tristram was the first
to declare that the game was found. "Just five minutes and twenty
seconds, my lord," said Julia Tristram to Lord Alston. "That's not
bad in a large wood like this."

"Uncommonly good," said his lordship. "And when are we to get out of
it?"

"They'll be here for the next hour, I'm afraid," said the lady, not
moving her horse from the place where she stood, though many of the
more impetuous of the men were already rushing away to the gates.
"I have seen a fox go away from here without resting a minute; but
that was later in the season, at the end of February. Foxes are away
from home then." All which observations showed a wonderfully acute
sporting observation on the part of Miss Tristram.

And then the music of the dogs became fast and frequent, as they
drove the brute across and along from one part of the large wood to
another. Sure there is no sound like it for filling a man's heart
with an eager desire to be at work. What may be the trumpet in battle
I do not know, but I can imagine that it has the same effect. And
now a few of them were standing on that wide circular piece of grass,
when a sound the most exciting of them all reached their ears. "He's
away!" shouted a whip from a corner of the wood. The good-natured
beast, though as yet it was hardly past Christmas-time, had consented
to bless at once so many anxious sportsmen, and had left the back of
the covert with the full pack at his heels.

"There is no gate that way, Miss Tristram," said a gentleman.

"There's a double ditch and bank that will do as well," said she, and
away she went directly after the hounds, regardless altogether of the
gates. Peregrine Orme and Felix Graham, who were with her, followed
close upon her track.




CHAPTER XXIX.

BREAKING COVERT.


"There's a double ditch and bank that will do as well," Miss Tristram
had said when she was informed that there was no gate out of the
wood at the side on which the fox had broken. The gentleman who had
tendered the information might as well have held his tongue, for Miss
Tristram knew the wood intimately, was acquainted with the locality
of all its gates, and was acquainted also with the points at which it
might be left, without the assistance of any gate at all, by those
who were well mounted and could ride their horses. Therefore she had
thus replied, "There's a double ditch and bank that will do as well."
And for the double ditch and bank at the end of one of the grassy
roadways Miss Tristram at once prepared herself.

"That's the gap where Grubbles broke his horse's back," said a man in
a red coat to Peregrine Orme, and so saying he made up his wavering
mind and galloped away as fast as his nag could carry him. But
Peregrine Orme would not avoid a fence at which a lady was not afraid
to ride; and Felix Graham, knowing little but fearing nothing,
followed Peregrine Orme.

At the end of the roadway, in the middle of the track, there was the
gap. For a footman it was doubtless the easiest way over the fence,
for the ditch on that side was half filled up, and there was space
enough left of the half-broken bank for a man's scrambling feet; but
Miss Tristram at once knew that it was a bad place for a horse. The
second or further ditch was the really difficult obstacle, and there
was no footing in the gap from which a horse could take his leap. To
the right of this the fence was large and required a good horse, but
Miss Tristram knew her animal and was accustomed to large fences. The
trained beast went well across on to the bank, poised himself there
for a moment, and taking a second spring carried his mistress across
into the further field apparently with ease. In that field the dogs
were now running, altogether, so that a sheet might have covered
them; and Miss Tristram, exulting within her heart and holding in her
horse, knew that she had got away uncommonly well.

Peregrine Orme followed,--a little to the right of the lady's
passage, so that he might have room for himself, and do no mischief
in the event of Miss Tristram or her horse making any mistake at
the leap. He also got well over. But, alas! in spite of such early
success he was destined to see nothing of the hunt that day! Felix
Graham, thinking that he would obey instructions by letting his horse
do as he pleased, permitted the beast to come close upon Orme's track
and to make his jump before Orme's horse had taken his second spring.

"Have a care," said Peregrine, feeling that the two were together on
the bank, "or you'll shove me into the ditch." He however got well
over.

Felix, attempting to "have a care" just when his doing so could be
of no avail, gave his horse a pull with the curb as he was preparing
for his second spring. The outside ditch was broad and deep and well
banked up, and required that an animal should have all his power. It
was at such a moment as this that he should have been left to do his
work without injudicious impediment from his rider. But poor Graham
was thinking only of Orme's caution, and attempted to stop the beast
when any positive and absolute stop was out of the question. The
horse made his jump, and, crippled as he was, jumped short. He came
with his knees against the further bank, threw his rider, and then in
his struggle to right himself rolled over him.

Felix felt at once that he was much hurt--that he had indeed come to
grief; but still he was not stunned nor did he lose his presence of
mind. The horse succeeded in gaining his feet, and then Felix also
jumped up and even walked a step or two towards the head of the
animal with the object of taking the reins. But he found that he
could not raise his arm, and he found also that he could hardly
breathe.

Both Peregrine and Miss Tristram looked back. "There's nothing
wrong I hope," said the lady; and then she rode on. And let it be
understood that in hunting those who are in advance generally do
ride on. The lame and the halt and the wounded, if they cannot pick
themselves up, have to be picked up by those who come after them. But
Peregrine saw that there was no one else coming that way. The memory
of young Grubbles' fate had placed an interdict on that pass out
of the wood, which nothing short of the pluck and science of Miss
Tristram was able to disregard. Two cavaliers she had carried with
her. One she had led on to instant slaughter, and the other remained
to look after his fallen brother-in-arms. Miss Tristram in the mean
time was in the next field and had settled well down to her work.

"Are you hurt, old fellow?" said Peregrine, turning back his horse,
but still not dismounting.

"Not much, I think," said Graham, smiling. "There's something wrong
about my arm,--but don't you wait." And then he found that he spoke
with difficulty.

"Can you mount again?"

"I don't think I'll mind that. Perhaps I'd better sit down." Then
Peregrine Orme knew that Graham was hurt, and jumping off his own
horse he gave up all hope of the hunt.

"Here, you fellow, come and hold these horses." So invoked, a boy who
in following the sport had got as far as this ditch did as he was
bid, and scrambled over. "Sit down, Graham: there; I'm afraid you
are hurt. Did he roll on you?" But Felix merely looked up into his
face,--still smiling. He was now very pale, and for the moment could
not speak. Peregrine came close to him, and gently attempted to raise
the wounded limb; whereupon Graham shuddered, and shook his head.

"I fear it is broken," said Peregrine. Graham nodded his head, and
raised his left hand to his breast; and Peregrine then knew that
something else was amiss also.

I don't know any feeling more disagreeable than that produced by
being left alone in a field, when out hunting, with a man who has
been very much hurt and who is incapable of riding or walking.
The hurt man himself has the privilege of his infirmities and may
remain quiescent; but you, as his only attendant, must do something.
You must for the moment do all, and if you do wrong the whole
responsibility lies on your shoulders. If you leave a wounded man on
the damp ground, in the middle of winter, while you run away, five
miles perhaps, to the next doctor, he may not improbably--as you
then think--be dead before you come back. You don't know the way;
you are heavy yourself, and your boots are very heavy. You must stay
therefore; but as you are no doctor you don't in the least know what
is the amount of the injury. In your great trouble you begin to roar
for assistance; but the woods re-echo your words, and the distant
sound of the huntsman's horn, as he summons his hounds at a check,
only mocks your agony.

But Peregrine had a boy with him. "Get upon that horse," he said at
last; "ride round to Farmer Griggs, and tell them to send somebody
here with a spring cart. He has got a spring cart I know;--and a
mattress in it."

"But I hain't no gude at roiding like," said the boy, looking with
dismay at Orme's big horse.

"Then run; that will be better, for you can go through the wood. You
know where Farmer Griggs lives. The first farm the other side of the
Grange."

"Ay, ay, I knows where Farmer Griggs lives well enough."

"Run, then; and if the cart is here in half an hour I'll give you a
sovereign."

Inspirited by the hopes of such wealth, golden wealth, wealth for a
lifetime, the boy was quickly back over the fence, and Peregrine was
left alone with Felix Graham. He was now sitting down, with his feet
hanging into the ditch, and Peregrine was kneeling behind him. "I am
sorry I can do nothing more," said he; "but I fear we must remain
here till the cart comes."

"I am--so--vexed--about your hunt," said Felix, gasping as he spoke.
He had in fact broken his right arm which had been twisted under him
as the horse rolled, and two of his ribs had been staved in by the
pommel of his saddle. Many men have been worse hurt and have hunted
again before the end of the season, but the fracture of three bones
does make a man uncomfortable for the time. "Now the cart--is--sent
for, couldn't you--go on?" But it was not likely that Peregrine Orme
would do that. "Never mind me," he said. "When a fellow is hurt he
has always to do as he's told. You'd better have a drop of sherry.
Look here: I've got a flask at my saddle. There; you can support
yourself with that arm a moment. Did you ever see horses stand so
quiet. I've got hold of yours, and now I'll fasten them together. I
say, Whitefoot, you don't kick, do you?" And then he contrived to
picket the horses to two branches, and having got out his case of
sherry, poured a small modicum into the silver mug which was attached
to the apparatus and again supported Graham while he drank. "You'll
be as right as a trivet by-and-by; only you'll have to make Noningsby
your headquarters for the next six weeks." And then the same idea
passed through the mind of each of them;--how little a man need be
pitied for such a misfortune if Madeline Staveley would consent to be
his nurse.

[Illustration: Felix Graham in trouble.]

No man could have less surgical knowledge than Peregrine Orme, but
nevertheless he was such a man as one would like to have with him if
one came to grief in such a way. He was cheery and up-hearted, but at
the same time gentle and even thoughtful. His voice was pleasant and
his touch could be soft. For many years afterwards Felix remembered
how that sherry had been held to his lips, and how the young heir of
The Cleeve had knelt behind him in his red coat, supporting him as he
became weary with waiting, and saying pleasant words to him through
the whole. Felix Graham was a man who would remember such things.

In running through the wood the boy first encountered three horsemen.
They were the judge, with his daughter Madeline and Miss Furnival.
"There be a mon there who be a'most dead," said the boy, hardly able
to speak from want of breath. "I be agoing for Farmer Griggs' cart."
And then they stopped him a moment to ask for some description, but
the boy could tell them nothing to indicate that the wounded man
was one of their friends. It might however be Augustus, and so the
three rode on quickly towards the fence, knowing nothing of the
circumstances of the ditches which would make it out of their power
to get to the fallen sportsman.

But Peregrine heard the sound of the horses and the voices of the
horsemen. "By Jove, there's a lot of them coming down here," said he.
"It's the judge and two of the girls. Oh, Miss Staveley, I'm so glad
you've come. Graham has had a bad fall and hurt himself. You haven't
a shawl, have you? the ground is so wet under him."

"It doesn't signify at all," said Felix, looking round and seeing the
faces of his friends on the other side of the bank.

Madeline Staveley gave a slight shriek which her father did not
notice, but which Miss Furnival heard very plainly. "Oh papa," she
said, "cannot you get over to him?" And then she began to bethink
herself whether it were possible that she should give up something of
her dress to protect the man who was hurt from the damp muddy ground
on which he lay.

"Can you hold my horse, dear," said the judge, slowly dismounting;
for the judge, though he rode every day on sanitary considerations,
had not a sportsman's celerity in leaving and recovering his saddle.
But he did get down, and burdened as he was with a great-coat, he
did succeed in crossing that accursed fence. Accursed it was from
henceforward in the annals of the H. H., and none would ride it but
dare-devils who professed themselves willing to go at anything.
Miss Tristram, however, always declared that there was nothing in
it--though she avoided it herself, whispering to her friends that she
had led others to grief there, and might possibly do so again if she
persevered.

"Could you hold the horse?" said Madeline to Miss Furnival; "and I
will go for a shawl to the carriage." Miss Furnival declared that to
the best of her belief she could not, but nevertheless the animal was
left with her, and Madeline turned round and galloped back towards
the carriage. She made her horse do his best though her eyes were
nearly blinded with tears, and went straight on for the carriage,
though she would have given much for a moment to hide those tears
before she reached it.

"Oh, mamma! give me a thick shawl; Mr. Graham has hurt himself in the
field, and is lying on the grass." And then in some incoherent and
quick manner she had to explain what she knew of the accident before
she could get a carriage-cloak out of the carriage. This, however,
she did succeed in doing, and in some manner, very unintelligible
to herself afterwards, she did gallop back with her burden. She
passed the cloak over to Peregrine, who clambered up the bank to get
it, while the judge remained on the ground, supporting the young
barrister. Felix Graham, though he was weak, was not stunned or
senseless, and he knew well who it was that had procured for him that
comfort.

And then the carriage followed Madeline, and there was quite a
concourse of servants and horses and ladies on the inside of the
fence. But the wounded man was still unfortunately on the other side.
No cart from Farmer Griggs made its appearance, though it was now
more than half an hour since the boy had gone. Carts, when they are
wanted in such sudden haste, do not make their appearance. It was two
miles through the wood to Mr. Griggs's farm-yard, and more than three
miles back by any route which the cart could take. And then it might
be more than probable that in Farmer Griggs's establishment there was
not always a horse ready in harness, or a groom at hand prepared to
yoke him. Peregrine had become very impatient, and had more than once
invoked a silent anathema on the farmer's head; but nevertheless
there was no appearance of the cart.

"We must get him across the ditches into the carriage," said the
judge.

"If Lady Staveley will let us do that," said Peregrine.

"The difficulty is not with Lady Staveley but with these nasty
ditches," said the judge, for he had been up to his knees in one of
them, and the water had penetrated his boots. But the task was at
last done. Mrs. Arbuthnot stood up on the back seat of the carriage
so that she might hold the horses, and the coachman and footman got
across into the field. "It would be better to let me lie here all
day," said Felix, as three of them struggled back with their burden,
the judge bringing up the rear with two hunting-whips and Peregrine's
cap. "How on earth any one would think of riding over such a place as
that!" said the judge. But then, when he had been a young man it had
not been the custom for barristers to go out hunting.

Madeline, as she saw the wounded man carefully laid on the back seat
of the carriage, almost wished that she could have her mother's place
that she might support him. Would they be careful enough with him?
Would they remember how terrible must be the pain of that motion to
one so hurt as he was? And then she looked into his face as he was
made to lean back, and she saw that he still smiled. Felix Graham was
by no means a handsome man; I should hardly sin against the truth if
I were to say that he was ugly. But Madeline, as she looked at him
now lying there utterly without colour but always with that smile on
his countenance, thought that no face to her liking had ever been
more gracious. She still rode close to him as they went down the
grassy road, saying never a word. And Miss Furnival rode there also,
somewhat in the rear, condoling with the judge as to his wet feet.

"Miss Furnival," he said, "when a judge forgets himself and goes out
hunting he has no right to expect anything better. What would your
father have said had he seen me clambering up the bank with young
Orme's hunting-cap between my teeth? I positively did."

"He would have rushed to assist you," said Miss Furnival, with a
little burst of enthusiasm which was hardly needed on the occasion.
And then Peregrine came after them leading Graham's horse. He had
been compelled to return to the field and ride both the horses back
into the wood; one after the other, while the footman held them. That
riding back over fences in cold blood is the work that really tries
a man's nerve. And a man has to do it too when no one is looking on.
How he does crane and falter and look about for an easy place at such
a moment as that! But when the blood is cold, no places are easy.

The procession got back to Noningsby without adventure, and Graham
as a matter of course was taken up to his bed. One of the servants
had been despatched to Alston for a surgeon, and in an hour or
two the extent of the misfortune was known. The right arm was
broken--"very favourably," as the doctor observed. But two ribs were
broken--"rather unfavourably." There was some talk of haemorrhage and
inward wounds, and Sir Jacob from Saville Row was suggested by Lady
Staveley. But the judge, knowing the extent of Graham's means, made
some further preliminary inquiries, and it was considered that Sir
Jacob would not be needed--at any rate not as yet.

"Why don't they send for him?" said Madeline to her mother with
rather more than her wonted energy.

"Your papa does not think it necessary, my dear. It would be very
expensive, you know."

"But, mamma, would you let a man die because it would cost a few
pounds to cure him?"

"My dear, we all hope that Mr. Graham won't die--at any rate not at
present. If there be any danger you may be sure that your papa will
send for the best advice."

But Madeline was by no means satisfied. She could not understand
economy in a matter of life and death. If Sir Jacob's coming would
have cost fifty pounds, or a hundred, what would that have signified,
weighed in such a balance? Such a sum would be nothing to her father.
Had Augustus fallen and broken his arm all the Sir Jacobs in London
would not have been considered too costly could their joint coming
have mitigated any danger. She did not however dare to speak to her
mother again, so she said a word or two to Peregrine Orme, who was
constant in his attendance on Felix. Peregrine had been very kind,
and she had seen it, and her heart therefore warmed towards him.

"Don't you think he ought to have more advice, Mr. Orme?"

"Well, no; I don't know. He's very jolly, you know; only he can't
talk. One of the bones ran into him, but I believe he's all right."

"Oh, but that is so frightful!" and the tears were again in her eyes.

"If I were him I should think one doctor enough. But it's easy enough
having a fellow down from London, you know, if you like it."

"If he should get worse, Mr. Orme--." And then Peregrine made her a
sort of promise, but in doing so an idea shot through his poor heart
of what the truth might really be. He went back and looked at Felix
who was sleeping. "If it is so I must bear it," he said to himself;
"but I'll fight it on;" and a quick thought ran through his brain of
his own deficiencies. He knew that he was not clever and bright in
talk like Felix Graham. He could not say the right thing at the right
moment without forethought. How he wished that he could! But still he
would fight it on, as he would have done any losing match,--to the
last. And then he sat down by Felix's head, and resolved that he
would be loyal to his new friend all the same--loyal in all things
needful. But still he would fight it on.




CHAPTER XXX.

ANOTHER FALL.


Felix Graham had plenty of nurses, but Madeline was not one of them.
Augustus Staveley came home while the Alston doctor was still busy
at the broken bones, and of course he would not leave his friend. He
was one of those who had succeeded in the hunt, and consequently had
heard nothing of the accident till the end of it. Miss Tristram had
been the first to tell him that Mr. Graham had fallen in leaving the
covert, but having seen him rise to his legs she had not thought he
was seriously hurt.

"I do not know much about your friend," she had said; "but I think I
may comfort you by an assurance that your horse is none the worse. I
could see as much as that."

"Poor Felix!" said, Staveley. "He has lost a magnificent run. I
suppose we are nine or ten miles from Monkton Grange now?"

"Eleven if we are a yard," said the lady. "It was an ugly country,
but the pace was nothing wonderful." And then others dropped in, and
at last came tidings about Graham. At first there was a whisper that
he was dead. He had ridden over Orme, it was said; had nearly killed
him, and had quite killed himself. Then the report became less fatal.
Both horses were dead, but Graham was still living though with most
of his bones broken.

"Don't believe it," said Miss Tristram. "In what condition Mr. Graham
may be I won't say; but that your horse was safe and sound after he
got over the fence, of that you may take my word." And thus, in a
state of uncertainty, obtaining fresh rumours from every person he
passed, Staveley hurried home. "Right arm and two ribs," Peregrine
said to him, as he met him in the hall. "Is that all?" said Augustus.
It was clear therefore that he did not think so much about it as his
sister.

"If you'd let her have her head she'd never have come down like
that," Augustus said, as he sat that evening by his friend's bedside.

"But he pulled off, I fancy, to avoid riding over me," said
Peregrine.

"Then he must have come too quick at his leap," said Augustus. "You
should have steadied him as he came to it." From all which Graham
perceived that a man cannot learn how to ride any particular horse by
two or three words of precept.

"If you talk any more about the horse, or the hunt, or the accident,
neither of you shall stay in the room," said Lady Staveley, who came
in at that moment. But they both did stay in the room, and said a
great deal more about the hunt, and the horse, and the accident
before they left it; and even became so far reconciled to the
circumstance that they had a hot glass of brandy and water each,
sitting by Graham's fire.

"But, Augustus, do tell me how he is," Madeline said to her brother,
as she caught him going to his room. She had become ashamed of asking
any more questions of her mother.

"He's all right; only he'll be as fretful as a porcupine, shut up
there. At least I should be. Are there lots of novels in the house?
Mind you send for a batch to-morrow. Novels are the only chance a man
has when he's laid up like that." Before breakfast on the following
morning Madeline had sent off to the Alston circulating library a
list of all the best new novels of which she could remember the
names.

No definite day had hitherto been fixed for Peregrine's return to
The Cleeve, and under the present circumstances he still remained at
Noningsby assisting to amuse Felix Graham. For two days after the
accident such seemed to be his sole occupation; but in truth he was
looking for an opportunity to say a word or two to Miss Staveley, and
paving his way as best he might for that great speech which he was
fully resolved that he would make before he left the house. Once or
twice he bethought himself whether he would not endeavour to secure
for himself some confidant in the family, and obtain the sanction and
special friendship either of Madeline's mother, or her sister, or her
brother. But what if after that she should reject him? Would it not
be worse for him then that any one should have known of his defeat?
He could, as he thought, endure to suffer alone; but on such a matter
as that pity would be unendurable. So as he sat there by Graham's
fireside, pretending to read one of poor Madeline's novels for the
sake of companionship, he determined that he would tell no one of his
intention;--no one till he could make the opportunity for telling
her.

And when he did meet her, and find, now and again, some moment for
saying a word alone to her, she was very gracious to him. He had been
so kind and gentle with Felix, there was so much in him that was
sweet and good and honest, so much that such an event as this brought
forth and made manifest, that Madeline, and indeed the whole family,
could not but be gracious to him. Augustus would declare that he was
the greatest brick he had ever known, repeating all Graham's words as
to the patience with which the embryo baronet had knelt behind him on
the cold muddy ground, supporting him for an hour, till the carriage
had come up. Under such circumstances how could Madeline refrain from
being gracious to him?

"But it is all from favour to Graham!" Peregrine would say to himself
with bitterness; and yet though he said so he did not quite believe
it. Poor fellow! It was all from favour to Graham. And could he have
thoroughly believed the truth of those words which he repeated to
himself so often, he might have spared himself much pain. He might
have spared himself much pain, and possibly some injury; for if aught
could now tend to mature in Madeline's heart an affection which was
but as yet nascent, it would be the offer of some other lover. But
such reasoning on the matter was much too deep for Peregrine Orme.
"It may be," he said to himself, "that she only pities him because he
is hurt. If so, is not this time better for me than any other? If it
be that she loves him, let me know it, and be out of my pain." It did
not then occur to him that circumstances such as those in question
could not readily be made explicit;--that Madeline might refuse
his love, and yet leave him no wiser than he now was as to her
reasons for so refusing;--perhaps, indeed, leave him less wise, with
increased cause for doubt and hopeless hope, and the green melancholy
of a rejected lover.

Madeline during these two days said no more about the London doctor;
but it was plain to all who watched her that her anxiety as to the
patient was much more keen than that of the other ladies of the
house. "She always thinks everybody is going to die," Lady Staveley
said to Miss Furnival, intending, not with any consummate prudence,
to account to that acute young lady for her daughter's solicitude.
"We had a cook here, three months since, who was very ill, and
Madeline would never be easy till the doctor assured her that the
poor woman's danger was altogether past."

"She is so very warm-hearted," said Miss Furnival in reply. "It is
quite delightful to see her. And she will have such pleasure when she
sees him come down from his room."

Lady Staveley on this immediate occasion said nothing to her
daughter, but Mrs. Arbuthnot considered that a sisterly word might
perhaps be spoken in due season.

"The doctor says he is doing quite well now," Mrs. Arbuthnot said to
her, as they were sitting alone.

"But does he indeed? Did you hear him?" said Madeline, who was
suspicious.

"He did so, indeed. I heard him myself. But he says also that he
ought to remain here, at any rate for the next fortnight,--if mamma
can permit it without inconvenience."

"Of course she can permit it. No one would turn any person out of
their house in such a condition as that!"

"Papa and mamma both will be very happy that he should stay here;--of
course they would not do what you call turning him out. But, Mad,
my darling,"--and then she came up close and put her arm round
her sister's waist. "I think mamma would be more comfortable in
his remaining here if your charity towards him were--what shall I
say?--less demonstrative."

"What do you mean, Isabella?"

"Dearest, dearest; you must not be angry with me. Nobody has hinted
to me a word on the subject, nor do I mean to hint anything that can
possibly be hurtful to you."

"But what do you mean?"

"Don't you know, darling? He is a young man--and--and--people see
with such unkind eyes, and hear with such scandal-loving ears. There
is that Miss Furnival--"

"If Miss Furnival can think such things, I for one do not care what
she thinks."

"No, nor do I;--not as regards any important result. But may it not
be well to be careful? You know what I mean, dearest?"

"Yes--I know. At least I suppose so. And it makes me know also how
very cold and shallow and heartless people are! I won't ask any more
questions, Isabella; but I can't know that a fellow-creature is
suffering in the house,--and a person like him too, so clever, whom
we all regard as a friend,--the most intimate friend in the world
that Augustus has,--and the best too, as I heard papa himself
say--without caring whether he is going to live or die."

"There is no danger now, you know."

"Very well; I am glad to hear it. Though I know very well that there
must be danger after such a terrible accident as that."

"The doctor says there is none."

"At any rate I will not--" And then instead of finishing her sentence
she turned away her head and put up her handkerchief to wipe away a
tear.

"You are not angry with me, dear?" said Mrs. Arbuthnot.

"Oh, no," said Madeline; and then they parted.

For some days after that Madeline asked no question whatever about
Felix Graham, but it may be doubted whether this did not make the
matter worse. Even Sophia Furnival would ask how he was at any rate
twice a day, and Lady Staveley continued to pay him regular visits
at stated intervals. As he got better she would sit with him, and
brought back reports as to his sayings. But Madeline never discussed
any of these; and refrained alike from the conversation, whether
his broken bones or his unbroken wit were to be the subject of it.
And then Mrs. Arbuthnot, knowing that she would still be anxious,
gave her private bulletins as to the state of the sick man's
progress;--all which gave an air of secrecy to the matter, and caused
even Madeline to ask herself why this should be so.

On the whole I think that Mrs. Arbuthnot was wrong. Mrs. Arbuthnot
and the whole Staveley family would have regarded a mutual attachment
between Mr. Graham and Madeline as a great family misfortune. The
judge was a considerate father to his children, holding that a
father's control should never be brought to bear unnecessarily. In
looking forward to the future prospects of his sons and daughters
it was his theory that they should be free to choose their life's
companions for themselves. But nevertheless it could not be agreeable
to him that his daughter should fall in love with a man who had
nothing, and whose future success at his own profession seemed to be
so very doubtful. On the whole I think that Mrs. Arbuthnot was wrong,
and that the feeling that did exist in Madeline's bosom might more
possibly have died away, had no word been said about it--even by a
sister.

And then another event happened which forced her to look into her
own heart. Peregrine Orme did make his proposal. He waited patiently
during those two or three days in which the doctor's visits were
frequent, feeling that he could not talk about himself while any
sense of danger pervaded the house. But then at last a morning came
on which the surgeon declared that he need not call again till
the morrow; and Felix himself, when the medical back was turned,
suggested that it might as well be to-morrow week. He began also to
scold his friends, and look bright about the eyes, and drink his
glass of sherry in a pleasant dinner-table fashion, not as if he were
swallowing his physic. And Peregrine, when he saw all this, resolved
that the moment had come for the doing of his deed of danger. The
time would soon come at which he must leave Noningsby, and he would
not leave Noningsby till he had learned his fate.

Lady Staveley, who with a mother's eye had seen her daughter's
solicitude for Felix Graham's recovery,--had seen it, and
animadverted on it to herself,--had seen also, or at any rate had
suspected, that Peregrine Orme looked on her daughter with favouring
eyes. Now Peregrine Orme would have satisfied Lady Staveley as a
son-in-law. She liked his ways and manners of thought--in spite of
those rumours as to the rat-catching which had reached her ears. She
regarded him as quite clever enough to be a good husband, and no
doubt appreciated the fact that he was to inherit his title and The
Cleeve from an old grandfather instead of a middle-aged father. She
therefore had no objection to leave Peregrine alone with her one
ewe-lamb, and therefore the opportunity which he sought was at last
found.

"I shall be leaving Noningsby to-morrow, Miss Staveley," he said one
day, having secured an interview in the back drawing-room--in that
happy half-hour which occurs in winter before the world betakes
itself to dress. Now I here profess my belief, that out of every
ten set offers made by ten young lovers, nine of such offers are
commenced with an intimation that the lover is going away. There is
a dash of melancholy in such tidings well suited to the occasion. If
there be any spark of love on the other side it will be elicited by
the idea of a separation. And then, also, it is so frequently the
actual fact. This making of an offer is in itself a hard piece of
business,--a job to be postponed from day to day. It is so postponed,
and thus that dash of melancholy, and that idea of separation are
brought in at the important moment with so much appropriate truth.

"I shall be leaving Noningsby to-morrow, Miss Staveley," Peregrine
said.

"Oh dear! we shall be so sorry. But why are you going? What will Mr.
Graham and Augustus do without you? You ought to stay at least till
Mr. Graham can leave his room."

"Poor Graham!--not that I think he is much to be pitied either; but
he won't be about for some weeks to come yet."

"You do not think he is worse; do you?"

"Oh, dear, no; not at all." And Peregrine was unconsciously irritated
against his friend by the regard which her tone evinced. "He is quite
well; only they will not let him be moved. But, Miss Staveley, it was
not of Mr. Graham that I was going to speak."

"No--only I thought he would miss you so much." And then she blushed,
though the blush in the dark of the evening was lost upon him. She
remembered that she was not to speak about Felix Graham's health, and
it almost seemed as though Mr. Orme had rebuked her for doing so in
saying that he had not come there to speak of him.

"Lady Staveley's house has been turned up side down since this
affair, and it is time now that some part of the trouble should
cease."

"Oh! mamma does not mind it at all."

"I know how good she is; but nevertheless, Miss Staveley, I must go
to-morrow." And then he paused a moment before he spoke again. "It
will depend entirely upon you," he said, "whether I may have the
happiness of returning soon to Noningsby."

"On me, Mr. Orme!"

"Yes, on you. I do not know how to speak properly that which I have
to say; but I believe I may as well say it out at once. I have come
here now to tell you that I love you and to ask you to be my wife."
And then he stopped as though there were nothing more for him to say
upon the matter.

It would be hardly extravagant to declare that Madeline's breath was
taken away by the very sudden manner in which young Orme had made his
proposition. It had never entered her head that she had an admirer in
him. Previously to Graham's accident she had thought nothing about
him. Since that event she had thought about him a good deal; but
altogether as of a friend of Graham's. He had been good and kind to
Graham, and therefore she had liked him and had talked to him. He
had never said a word to her that had taught her to regard him as
a possible lover; and now that he was an actual lover, a declared
lover standing before her, waiting for an answer, she was so
astonished that she did not know how to speak. All her ideas too,
as to love,--such ideas as she had ever formed, were confounded by
his abruptness. She would have thought, had she brought herself
absolutely to think upon it, that all speech of love should be very
delicate; that love should grow slowly, and then be whispered softly,
doubtingly, and with infinite care. Even had she loved him, or had
she been in the way towards loving him, such violence as this would
have frightened her and scared her love away. Poor Peregrine! His
intentions had been so good and honest! He was so true and hearty,
and free from all conceit in the matter! It was a pity that he should
have marred his cause by such ill judgment.

But there he stood waiting an answer,--and expecting it to be as
open, definite, and plain as though he had asked her to take a walk
with him. "Madeline," he said, stretching out his hand when he
perceived that she did not speak to him at once. "There is my hand.
If it be possible give me yours."

"Oh, Mr. Orme!"

"I know that I have not said what I had to say very--very gracefully.
But you will not regard that I think. You are too good, and too
true."

She had now seated herself, and he was standing before her. She had
retreated to a sofa in order to avoid the hand which he had offered
her; but he followed her, and even yet did not know that he had no
chance of success. "Mr. Orme," she said at last, speaking hardly
above her breath, "what has made you do this?"

"What has made me do it? What has made me tell you that I love you?"

"You cannot be in earnest!"

"Not in earnest! By heavens, Miss Staveley, no man who has said the
same words was ever more in earnest. Do you doubt me when I tell you
that I love you?"

"Oh, I am so sorry!" And then she hid her face upon the arm of the
sofa and burst into tears.

Peregrine stood there, like a prisoner on his trial, waiting for a
verdict. He did not know how to plead his cause with any further
language; and indeed no further language could have been of any
avail. The judge and jury were clear against him, and he should have
known the sentence without waiting to have it pronounced in set
terms. But in plain words he had made his offer, and in plain words
he required that an answer should be given to him. "Well," he said,
"will you not speak to me? Will you not tell me whether it shall be
so?"

"No,--no,--no," she said.

"You mean that you cannot love me." And as he said this the agony
of his tone struck her ear and made her feel that he was suffering.
Hitherto she had thought only of herself, and had hardly recognised
it as a fact that he could be thoroughly in earnest.

"Mr. Orme, I am very sorry. Do not speak as though you were angry
with me. But--"

"But you cannot love me?" And then he stood again silent, for there
was no reply. "Is it that, Miss Staveley, that you mean to answer? If
you say that with positive assurance, I will trouble you no longer."
Poor Peregrine! He was but an unskilled lover!

"No!" she sobbed forth through her tears; but he had so framed his
question that he hardly knew what No meant.

"Do you mean that you cannot love me, or may I hope that a day will
come--? May I speak to you again--?"

"Oh, no, no! I can answer you now. It grieves me to the heart. I know
you are so good. But, Mr. Orme--"

"Well--"

"It can never, never be."

"And I must take that as answer?"

"I can make no other." He still stood before her,--with gloomy and
almost angry brow, could she have seen him; and then he thought he
would ask her whether there was any other love which had brought
about her scorn for him. It did not occur to him, at the first
moment, that in doing so he would insult and injure her.

"At any rate I am not flattered by a reply which is at once so
decided," he began by saying.

"Oh! Mr. Orme, do not make me more unhappy--"

"But perhaps I am too late. Perhaps--" Then he remembered himself and
paused. "Never mind," he said, speaking to himself rather than to
her. "Good-bye, Miss Staveley. You will at any rate say good-bye to
me. I shall go at once now."

"Go at once! Go away, Mr. Orme?"

"Yes; why should I stay here? Do you think that I could sit down to
table with you all after that? I will ask your brother to explain my
going; I shall find him in his room. Good-bye."

She took his hand mechanically, and then he left her. When she came
down to dinner she looked furtively round to his place and saw that
it was vacant.




CHAPTER XXXI.

FOOTSTEPS IN THE CORRIDOR.


"Upon my word I am very sorry," said the judge. "But what made him go
off so suddenly? I hope there's nobody ill at The Cleeve!" And then
the judge took his first spoonful of soup.

"No, no; there is nothing of that sort," said Augustus. "His
grandfather wants him, and Orme thought he might as well start at
once. He was always a sudden harum-scarum fellow like that."

"He's a very pleasant, nice young man," said Lady Staveley; "and
never gives himself any airs. I like him exceedingly."

Poor Madeline did not dare to look either at her mother or her
brother, but she would have given much to know whether either of them
were aware of the cause which had sent Peregrine Orme so suddenly
away from the house. At first she thought that Augustus surely did
know, and she was wretched as she thought that he might probably
speak to her on the subject. But he went on talking about Orme and
his abrupt departure till she became convinced that he knew nothing
and suspected nothing of what had occurred.

But her mother said never a word after that eulogium which she had
uttered, and Madeline read that eulogium altogether aright. It said
to her ears that if ever young Orme should again come forward with
his suit, her mother would be prepared to receive him as a suitor;
and it said, moreover, that if that suitor had been already sent away
by any harsh answer, she would not sympathise with that harshness.

The dinner went on much as usual, but Madeline could not bring
herself to say a word. She sat between her brother-in-law, Mr.
Arbuthnot, on one side, and an old friend of her father's, of thirty
years' standing, on the other. The old friend talked exclusively to
Lady Staveley, and Mr. Arbuthnot, though he now and then uttered a
word or two, was chiefly occupied with his dinner. During the last
three or four days she had sat at dinner next to Peregrine Orme, and
it seemed to her now that she always had been able to talk to him.
She had liked him so much too! Was it not a pity that he should have
been so mistaken! And then as she sat after dinner, eating five or
six grapes, she felt that she was unable to recall her spirits and
look and speak as she was wont to do: a thing had happened which had
knocked the ground from under her--had thrown her from her equipoise,
and now she lacked the strength to recover herself and hide her
dismay.

After dinner, while the gentlemen were still in the dining-room, she
got a book, and nobody disturbed her as she sat alone pretending to
read it. There never had been any intimate friendship between her and
Miss Furnival, and that young lady was now employed in taking the
chief part in a general conversation about wools. Lady Staveley got
through a good deal of wool in the course of the year, as also did
the wife of the old thirty-years' friend; but Miss Furnival, short as
her experience had been, was able to give a few hints to them both,
and did not throw away the occasion. There was another lady there,
rather deaf, to whom Mrs. Arbuthnot devoted herself, and therefore
Madeline was allowed to be alone.

Then the men came in, and she was obliged to come forward and
officiate at the tea-table. The judge insisted on having the teapot
and urn brought into the drawing-room, and liked to have his cup
brought to him by one of his own daughters. So she went to work and
made the tea; but still she felt that she scarcely knew how to go
through her task. What had happened to her that she should be thus
beside herself, and hardly capable of refraining from open tears?
She knew that her mother was looking at her, and that now and again
little things were done to give her ease if any ease were possible.

"Is anything the matter with my Madeline?" said her father, looking
up into her face, and holding the hand from which he had taken his
cup.

"No, papa; only I have got a headache."

"A headache, dear; that's not usual with you."

"I have seen that she has not been well all the evening," said Lady
Staveley; "but I thought that perhaps she might shake it off. You had
better go, my dear, if you are suffering. Isabella, I'm sure, will
pour out the tea for us."

And so she got away, and skulked slowly up stairs to her own room.
She felt that it was skulking. Why should she have been so weak as to
have fled in that way? She had no headache--nor was it heartache that
had now upset her. But a man had spoken to her openly of love, and no
man had ever so spoken to her before.

She did not go direct to her own chamber, but passed along the
corridor towards her mother's dressing-room. It was always her custom
to remain there some half-hour before she went to bed, doing little
things for her mother, and chatting with any other girl who might be
intimate enough to be admitted there. Now she might remain there for
an hour alone without danger of being disturbed; and she thought to
herself that she would remain there till her mother came, and then
unburthen herself of the whole story.

As she went along the corridor she would have to pass the room which
had been given up to Felix Graham. She saw that the door was ajar,
and as she came close up to it, she found the nurse in the act of
coming out from the room. Mrs. Baker had been a very old servant in
the judge's family, and had known Madeline from the day of her birth.
Her chief occupation for some years had been nursing when there was
anybody to nurse, and taking a general care and surveillance of the
family's health when there was no special invalid to whom she could
devote herself. Since Graham's accident she had been fully employed,
and had greatly enjoyed the opportunities it had given her.

Mrs. Baker was in the doorway as Madeline attempted to pass by on
tiptoe. "Oh, he's a deal better now, Miss Madeline, so that you
needn't be afeard of disturbing;--ain't you, Mr. Graham?" So she was
thus brought into absolute contact with her friend, for the first
time since he had hurt himself.

[Illustration: Footsteps in the corridor.]

"Indeed I am," said Felix; "I only wish they'd let me get up and go
down stairs. Is that Miss Staveley, Mrs. Baker?"

"Yes, sure. Come, my dear, he's got his dressing-gown on, and you may
just come to the door and ask him how he does."

"I am very glad to hear that you are so much better, Mr. Graham,"
said Madeline, standing in the doorway with averted eyes, and
speaking with a voice so low that it only just reached his ears.

"Thank you, Miss Staveley; I shall never know how to express what I
feel for you all."

"And there's none of 'em have been more anxious about you than she,
I can tell you; and none of 'em ain't kinder-hearteder," said Mrs.
Baker.

"I hope you will be up soon and be able to come down to the
drawing-room," said Madeline. And then she did glance round, and for
a moment saw the light of his eye as he sat upright in the bed. He
was still pale and thin, or at least she fancied so, and her heart
trembled within her as she thought of the danger he had passed.

"I do so long to be able to talk to you again; all the others come
and visit me, but I have only heard the sounds of your footsteps as
you pass by."

"And yet she always walks like a mouse," said Mrs. Baker.

"But I have always heard them," he said. "I hope Marian thanked you
for the books. She told me how you had gotten them for me."

"She should not have said anything about them; it was Augustus who
thought of them," said Madeline.

"Marian comes to me four or five times a day," he continued; "I do
not know what I should do without her."

"I hope she is not noisy," said Madeline.

"Laws, miss, he don't care for noise now, only he ain't good at
moving yet, and won't be for some while."

"Pray take care of yourself, Mr. Graham," she said; "I need not
tell you how anxious we all are for your recovery. Good night, Mr.
Graham." And then she passed on to her mother's dressing-room, and
sitting herself down in an arm-chair opposite to the fire began to
think--to think, or else to try to think.

And what was to be the subject of her thoughts? Regarding Peregrine
Orme there was very little room for thinking. He had made her an
offer, and she had rejected it as a matter of course, seeing that she
did not love him. She had no doubt on that head, and was well aware
that she could never accept such an offer. On what subject then was
it necessary that she should think?

How odd it was that Mr. Graham's room door should have been open
on this especial evening, and that nurse should have been standing
there, ready to give occasion for that conversation! That was the
idea that first took possession of her brain. And then she recounted
all those few words which had been spoken as though they had had some
special value--as though each word had been laden with interest. She
felt half ashamed of what she had done in standing there and speaking
at his bedroom door, and yet she would not have lost the chance for
worlds. There had been nothing in what had passed between her and the
invalid. The very words, spoken elsewhere, or in the presence of her
mother and sister, would have been insipid and valueless; and yet she
sat there feeding on them as though they were of flavour so rich that
she could not let the sweetness of them pass from her. She had been
stunned at the idea of poor Peregrine's love, and yet she never asked
herself what was this new feeling. She did not inquire--not yet at
least--whether there might be danger in such feelings.

She remained there, with eyes fixed on the burning coals, till her
mother came up. "What, Madeline," said Lady Staveley, "are you here
still? I was in hopes you would have been in bed before this."

"My headache is gone now, mamma; and I waited because--"

"Well, dear; because what?" and her mother came and stood over her
and smoothed her hair. "I know very well that something has been the
matter. There has been something; eh, Madeline?"

"Yes, mamma."

"And you have remained up that we may talk about it. Is that it,
dearest?"

"I did not quite mean that, but perhaps it will be best. I can't be
doing wrong, mamma, in telling you."

"Well; you shall judge of that yourself;" and Lady Staveley sat down
on the sofa so that she was close to the chair which Madeline still
occupied. "As a general rule I suppose you could not be doing wrong;
but you must decide. If you have any doubt, wait till to-morrow."

"No, mamma; I will tell you now. Mr. Orme--"

"Well, dearest. Did Mr. Orme say anything specially to you before he
went away?"

"He--he--"

"Come to me, Madeline, and sit here. We shall talk better then."
And the mother made room beside her on the sofa for her daughter,
and Madeline, running over, leaned with her head upon her mother's
shoulder. "Well, darling; what did he say? Did he tell you that he
loved you?"

"Yes, mamma."

"And you answered him--"

"I could only tell him--"

"Yes, I know. Poor fellow! But, Madeline, is he not an excellent
young man;--one, at any rate, that is lovable? Of course in such a
matter the heart must answer for itself. But I, looking at the offer
as a mother--I could have been well pleased--"

"But, mamma, I could not--"

"Well, love, there shall be an end of it; at least for the present.
When I heard that he had gone suddenly away I thought that something
had happened."

"I am so sorry that he should be unhappy, for I know that he is
good."

"Yes, he is good; and your father likes him, and Augustus. In such a
matter as this, Madeline, I would never say a word to persuade you. I
should think it wrong to do so. But it may be, dearest, that he has
flurried you by the suddenness of his offer; and that you have not
yet thought much about it."

"But, mamma, I know that I do not love him."

"Of course. That is natural. It would have been a great misfortune if
you had loved him before you had reason to know that he loved you;--a
great misfortune. But now,--now that you cannot but think of him, now
that you know what his wishes are, perhaps you may learn--"

"But I have refused him, and he has gone away."

"Young gentlemen under such circumstances sometimes come back again."

"He won't come back, mamma, because--because I told him so plainly--I
am sure he understands that it is all to be at an end."

"But if he should, and if you should then think differently towards
him--"

"Oh, no!"

"But if you should, it may be well that you should know how all your
friends esteem him. In a worldly view the marriage would be in all
respects prudent; and as to disposition and temper, which I admit are
much more important, I confess I think that he has all the qualities
best adapted to make a wife happy. But, as I said before, the heart
must speak for itself."

"Yes; of course. And I know that I shall never love him;--not in that
way."

"You may be sure, dearest, that there will be no constraint put
upon you. It might be possible that I or your papa should forbid a
daughter's marriage, if she had proposed to herself an imprudent
match; but neither he nor I would ever use our influence with a child
to bring about a marriage because we think it prudent in a worldly
point of view." And then Lady Staveley kissed her daughter.

"Dear mamma, I know how good you are to me." And she answered her
mother's embrace by the pressure of her arm. But nevertheless she did
not feel herself to be quite comfortable. There was something in
the words which her mother had spoken which grated against her most
cherished feelings;--something, though she by no means knew what.
Why had her mother cautioned her in that way, that there might be a
case in which she would refuse her sanction to a proposed marriage?
Isabella's marriage had been concluded with the full agreement of
the whole family; and she, Madeline, had certainly never as yet
given cause either to father or mother to suppose that she would
be headstrong and imprudent. Might not the caution have been
omitted?--or was it intended to apply in any way to circumstances as
they now existed?

"You had better go now, dearest," said Lady Staveley, "and for
the present we will not think any more about this gallant young
knight." And then Madeline, having said good night, went off rather
crestfallen to her own room. In doing so she again had to pass
Graham's door, and as she went by it, walking not quite on tiptoe,
she could not help asking herself whether or no he would really
recognise the sound of her footsteps.

It is hardly necessary to say that Lady Staveley had conceived
to herself a recognised purpose in uttering that little caution
to her daughter; and she would have been quite as well pleased
had circumstances taken Felix Graham out of her house instead of
Peregrine Orme. But Felix Graham must necessarily remain for the next
fortnight, and there could be no possible benefit in Orme's return,
at any rate till Graham should have gone.




CHAPTER XXXII.

WHAT BRIDGET BOLSTER HAD TO SAY.


It has been said in the earlier pages of this story that there was
no prettier scenery to be found within thirty miles of London than
that by which the little town of Hamworth was surrounded. This was
so truly the case that Hamworth was full of lodgings which in the
autumn season were always full of lodgers. The middle of winter was
certainly not the time for seeing the Hamworth hills to advantage;
nevertheless it was soon after Christmas that two rooms were taken
there by a single gentleman who had come down for a week, apparently
with no other view than that of enjoying himself. He did say
something about London confinement and change of air; but he was
manifestly in good health, had an excellent appetite, said a great
deal about fresh eggs,--which at that time of the year was hardly
reasonable, and brought with him his own pale brandy. This gentleman
was Mr. Crabwitz.

The house at which he was to lodge had been selected with
considerable judgment. It was kept by a tidy old widow known as Mrs.
Trump; but those who knew anything of Hamworth affairs were well
aware that Mrs. Trump had been left without a shilling, and could not
have taken that snug little house in Paradise Row and furnished it
completely, out of her own means. No. Mrs. Trump's lodging-house was
one of the irons which Samuel Dockwrath ever kept heating in the
fire, for the behoof of those fourteen children. He had taken a lease
of the house in Paradise Row, having made a bargain and advanced a
few pounds while it was yet being built; and he then had furnished
it and put in Mrs. Trump. Mrs. Trump received from him wages and a
percentage; but to him were paid over the quota of shillings per
week in consideration for which the lodgers were accommodated. All
of which Mr. Crabwitz had ascertained before he located himself in
Paradise Row.

And when he had so located himself he soon began to talk to Mrs.
Trump about Mr. Dockwrath. He himself, as he told her in confidence,
was in the profession of the law; he had heard of Mr. Dockwrath, and
should be very glad if that gentleman would come over and take a
glass of brandy and water with him some evening.

"And a very clever sharp gentleman he is," said Mrs. Trump.

"With a tolerably good business, I suppose?" asked Crabwitz.

"Pretty fair for that, sir. But he do be turning his hand to
everything. He's a mortal long family of his own, and he has need of
it all, if it's ever so much. But he'll never be poor for the want of
looking after it."

But Mr. Dockwrath did not come near his lodger on the first evening,
and Mr. Crabwitz made acquaintance with Mrs. Dockwrath before he saw
her husband. The care of the fourteen children was not supposed to
be so onerous but that she could find a moment now and then to see
whether Mrs. Trump kept the furniture properly dusted, and did not
infringe any of the Dockwrathian rules. These were very strict; and
whenever they were broken it was on the head of Mrs. Dockwrath that
the anger of the ruler mainly fell.

"I hope you find everything comfortable, sir," said poor Miriam,
having knocked at the sitting-room door when Crabwitz had just
finished his dinner.

"Yes, thank you; very nice. Is that Mrs. Dockwrath?"

"Yes, sir. I'm Mrs. Dockwrath. As it's we who own the room I looked
in to see if anything's wanting."

"You are very kind. No; nothing is wanting. But I should be delighted
to make your acquaintance if you would stay for a moment. Might I ask
you to take a chair?" and Mr. Crabwitz handed her one.

"Thank you; no, sir I won't intrude."

"Not at all, Mrs. Dockwrath. But the fact is, I'm a lawyer myself,
and I should be so glad to become known to your husband. I have heard
a great deal of his name lately as to a rather famous case in which
he is employed."

"Not the Orley Farm case?" said Mrs. Dockwrath immediately.

"Yes, yes; exactly."

"And is he going on with that, sir?" asked Mrs. Dockwrath with great
interest.

"Is he not? I know nothing about it myself, but I always supposed
that such was the case. If I had such a wife as you, Mrs. Dockwrath,
I should not leave her in doubt as to what I was doing in my own
profession."

"I know nothing about it, Mr. Cooke;"--for it was as Mr. Cooke that
he now sojourned at Hamworth. Not that it should be supposed he had
received instructions from Mr. Furnival to come down to that place
under a false name. From Mr. Furnival he had received no further
instructions on that matter than those conveyed at the end of a
previous chapter. "I know nothing about it, Mr. Cooke; and don't want
to know generally. But I am anxious about this Orley Farm case. I do
hope that he's going to drop it." And then Mr. Crabwitz elicited her
view of the case with great ease.

On that evening, about nine, Mr. Dockwrath did go over to Paradise
Row, and did allow himself to be persuaded to mix a glass of brandy
and water and light a cigar. "My missus tells me, sir, that you
belong to the profession as well as myself."

"Oh yes; I'm a lawyer, Mr. Dockwrath."

"Practising in town as an attorney, sir?"

"Not as an attorney on my own hook exactly. I chiefly employ my time
in getting up cases for barristers. There's a good deal done in that
way."

"Oh, indeed," said Mr. Dockwrath, beginning to feel himself the
bigger man of the two; and from that moment he patronised his
companion instead of allowing himself to be patronised.

This went against the grain with Mr. Crabwitz, but, having an object
to gain, he bore it. "We hear a great deal up in London just at
present about this Orley Farm case, and I always hear your name as
connected with it. I had no idea when I was taking these lodgings
that I was coming into a house belonging to that Mr. Dockwrath."

"The same party, sir," said Mr. Dockwrath, blowing the smoke out of
his mouth as he looked up to the ceiling.

And then by degrees Mr. Crabwitz drew him into conversation.
Dockwrath was by nature quite as clever a man as Crabwitz, and in
such a matter as this was not one to be outwitted easily; but in
truth he had no objection to talk about the Orley Farm case. "I have
taken it up on public motives, Mr. Cooke," he said, "and I mean to go
through with it."

"Oh, of course; in such a case as that you will no doubt go through
with it?"

"That's my intention, I assure you. And I tell you what; young
Mason,--that's the son of the widow of the old man who made the
will--"

"Or rather who did not make it, as you say."

"Yes, yes; he made the will; but he did not make the codicil--and
that young Mason has no more right to the property than you have."

"Hasn't he now?"

"No; and I can prove it too."

"Well; the general opinion in the profession is that Lady Mason will
stand her ground and hold her own. I don't know what the points are
myself, but I have heard it discussed, and that is certainly what
people think."

"Then people will find that they are very much mistaken."

"I was talking to one of Round's young men about it, and I fancy they
are not very sanguine."

"I do not care a fig for Round or his young men. It would be quite
as well for Joseph Mason if Round and Crook gave up the matter
altogether. It lies in a nutshell, and the truth must come out
whatever Round and Crook may choose to say. And I'll tell you
more--old Furnival, big a man as he thinks himself, cannot save her."

"Has he anything to do with it?" asked Mr. Cooke.

"Yes; the sly old fox. My belief is that only for him she'd give up
the battle, and be down on her marrow-bones asking for mercy."

"She'd have little chance of mercy, from what I hear of Joseph
Mason."

"She'd have to give up the property of course. And even then I don't
know whether he'd let her off. By heavens! he couldn't let her off
unless I chose." And then by degrees he told Mr. Cooke some of the
circumstances of the case.

But it was not till the fourth evening that Mr. Dockwrath spent with
his lodger that the intimacy had so far progressed as to enable Mr.
Crabwitz to proceed with his little scheme. On that day Mr. Dockwrath
had received a notice that at noon on the following morning Mr.
Joseph Mason and Bridget Bolster would both be at the house of
Messrs. Round and Crook in Bedford Row, and that he could attend at
that hour if it so pleased him. It certainly would so please him,
he said to himself when he got that letter; and in the evening he
mentioned to his new friend the business which was taking him to
London.

"If I might advise you in the matter, Mr. Dockwrath," said Crabwitz,
"I should stay away altogether."

"And why so?"

"Because that's not your market. This poor devil of a woman--for she
is a poor devil of a woman--"

"She'll be poor enough before long."

"It can't be any gratification to you running her down."

"Ah, but the justice of the thing."

"Bother. You're talking now to a man of the world. Who can say what
is the justice or the injustice of anything after twenty years of
possession? I have no doubt the codicil did express the old man's
wish,--even from your own story. But of course you are looking for
your market. Now it seems to me that there's a thousand pounds in
your way as clear as daylight."

"I don't see it myself, Mr. Cooke."

"No; but I do. The sort of thing is done every day. You have your
father-in-law's office journal?"

"Safe enough."

"Burn it;--or leave it about in these rooms like;--so that somebody
else may burn it."

"I'd like to see the thousand pounds first."

"Of course you'd do nothing till you knew about that;--nothing except
keeping away from Round and Crook to-morrow. The money would be
forthcoming if the trial were notoriously dropped by next assizes."

Dockwrath sat thinking for a minute or two, and every moment of
thought made him feel more strongly that he could not now succeed in
the manner pointed out by Mr. Cooke. "But where would be the market
you are talking of?" said he.

"I could manage that," said Crabwitz.

"And go shares in the business?"

"No, no; nothing of the sort." And then he added, remembering that he
must show that he had some personal object, "If I got a trifle in the
matter it would not come out of your allowance."

The attorney again sat silent for a while, and now he remained so for
full five minutes, during which Mr. Crabwitz puffed the smoke from
between his lips with a look of supreme satisfaction. "May I ask," at
last Mr. Dockwrath said, "whether you have any personal interest in
this matter?"

"None in the least;--that is to say, none as yet."

"You did not come down here with any view--"

"Oh dear no; nothing of the sort. But I see at a glance that it is
one of those cases in which a compromise would be the most judicious
solution of difficulties. I am well used to this kind of thing, Mr.
Dockwrath."

"It would not do, sir," said Mr. Dockwrath, after some further slight
period of consideration. "It wouldn't do. Round and Crook have all
the dates, and so has Mason too. And the original of that partnership
deed is forthcoming; and they know what witnesses to depend on. No,
sir; I've begun this on public grounds, and I mean to carry it on. I
am in a manner bound to do so as the representative of the attorney
of the late Sir Joseph Mason;--and by heavens, Mr. Cooke, I'll do my
duty."

"I dare say you're right," said Mr. Crabwitz, mixing a quarter of a
glass more brandy and water.

"I know I'm right, sir," said Dockwrath. "And when a man knows he's
right, he has a deal of inward satisfaction in the feeling." After
that Mr. Crabwitz was aware that he could be of no use at Hamworth,
but he stayed out his week in order to avoid suspicion.

On the following day Mr. Dockwrath did proceed to Bedford Row,
determined to carry out his original plan, and armed with that inward
satisfaction to which he had alluded. He dressed himself in his best,
and endeavoured as far as was in his power to look as though he were
equal to the Messrs. Round. Old Crook he had seen once, and him he
already despised. He had endeavoured to obtain a private interview
with Mrs. Bolster before she could be seen by Matthew Round; but in
this he had not succeeded. Mrs. Bolster was a prudent woman, and,
acting doubtless under advice, had written to him, saying that she
had been summoned to the office of Messrs. Round and Crook, and would
there declare all that she knew about the matter. At the same time
she returned to him a money order which he had sent to her.

Punctually at twelve he was in Bedford Row, and there he saw a
respectable-looking female sitting at the fire in the inner part of
the outer office. This was Bridget Bolster, but he would by no means
have recognised her. Bridget had risen in the world and was now head
chambermaid at a large hotel in the west of England. In that capacity
she had laid aside whatever diffidence may have afflicted her earlier
years, and was now able to speak out her mind before any judge or
jury in the land. Indeed she had never been much afflicted by such
diffidence, and had spoken out her evidence on that former occasion,
now twenty years since, very plainly. But as she now explained to the
head clerk, she had at that time been only a poor ignorant slip of a
girl, with no more than eight pounds a year wages.

Dockwrath bowed to the head clerk, and passed on to Mat Round's
private room. "Mr. Matthew is inside, I suppose," said he, and hardly
waiting for permission he knocked at the door, and then entered.
There he saw Mr. Matthew Round, sitting in his comfortable arm-chair,
and opposite to him sat Mr. Mason of Groby Park.

Mr. Mason got up and shook hands with the Hamworth attorney, but
Round junior made his greeting without rising, and merely motioned
his visitor to a chair.

"Mr. Mason and the young ladies are quite well, I hope?" said Mr.
Dockwrath, with a smile.

"Quite well, I thank you," said the county magistrate.

"This matter has progressed since I last had the pleasure of seeing
them. You begin to think I was right; eh, Mr. Mason?"

"Don't let us triumph till we are out of the wood," said Mr. Round.
"It is a deal easier to spend money in such an affair as this than it
is to make money by it. However we shall hear to-day more about it."

"I do not know about making money," said Mr. Mason, very solemnly.
"But that I have been robbed by that woman out of my just rights in
that estate for the last twenty years,--that I may say I do know."

"Quite true, Mr. Mason; quite true," said Mr. Dockwrath with
considerable energy.

"And whether I make money or whether I lose money I intend to proceed
in this matter. It is dreadful to think that in this free and
enlightened country so abject an offender should have been able to
hold her head up so long without punishment and without disgrace."

"That is exactly what I feel," said Dockwrath. "The very stones and
trees of Hamworth cry out against her."

"Gentlemen," said Mr. Round, "we have first to see whether there has
been any injustice or not. If you will allow me I will explain to you
what I now propose to do."

"Proceed, sir," said Mr. Mason, who was by no means satisfied with
his young attorney.

"Bridget Bolster is now in the next room, and as far as I can
understand the case at present, she would be the witness on whom your
case, Mr. Mason, would most depend. The man Kenneby I have not yet
seen; but from what I understand he is less likely to prove a willing
witness than Mrs. Bolster."

"I cannot go along with you there, Mr. Round," said Dockwrath.

"Excuse me, sir, but I am only stating my opinion. If I should find
that this woman is unable to say that she did not sign two separate
documents on that day--that is, to say so with a positive and point
blank assurance, I shall recommend you, as my client, to drop the
prosecution."

"I will never drop it," said Mr. Mason.

"You will do as you please," continued Round; "I can only say what
under such circumstances will be the advice given to you by this
firm. I have talked the matter over very carefully with my father and
with our other partner, and we shall not think well of going on with
it unless I shall now find that your view is strongly substantiated
by this woman."

Then outspoke Mr. Dockwrath, "Under these circumstances, Mr. Mason,
if I were you, I should withdraw from the house at once. I certainly
would not have my case blown upon."

"Mr. Mason, sir, will do as he pleases about that. As long as the
business with which he honours us is straight-forward, we will do it
for him, as for an old client, although it is not exactly in our own
line. But we can only do it in accordance with our own judgment. I
will proceed to explain what I now propose to do. The woman Bolster
is in the next room, and I, with the assistance of my head clerk,
will take down the headings of what evidence she can give."

"In our presence, sir," said Mr. Dockwrath; "or if Mr. Mason should
decline, at any rate in mine."

"By no means, Mr. Dockwrath," said Round.

"I think Mr. Dockwrath should hear her story," said Mr. Mason.

"He certainly will not do so in this house or in conjunction with me.
In what capacity should he be present, Mr. Mason?"

"As one of Mr. Mason's legal advisers," said Dockwrath.

"If you are to be one of them, Messrs. Round and Crook cannot be the
others. I think I explained that to you before. It now remains for
Mr. Mason to say whether he wishes to employ our firm in this matter
or not. And I can tell him fairly," Mr. Round added this after a
slight pause, "that we shall be rather pleased than otherwise if he
will put the case into other hands."

"Of course I wish you to conduct it," said Mr. Mason, who, with all
his bitterness against the present holders of Orley Farm, was afraid
of throwing himself into the hands of Dockwrath. He was not an
ignorant man, and he knew that the firm of Round and Crook bore a
high reputation before the world.

"Then," said Round, "I must do my business in accordance with my own
views of what is right. I have reason to believe that no one has
yet tampered with this woman," and as he spoke he looked hard at
Dockwrath, "though probably attempts may have been made."

"I don't know who should tamper with her," said Dockwrath, "unless it
be Lady Mason--whom I must say you seem very anxious to protect."

"Another word like that, sir, and I shall be compelled to ask you to
leave the house. I believe that this woman has been tampered with by
no one. I will now learn from her what is her remembrance of the
circumstances as they occurred twenty years since, and I will then
read to you her deposition. I shall be sorry, gentlemen, to keep you
here, perhaps for an hour or so, but you will find the morning papers
on the table." And then Mr. Round, gathering up certain documents,
passed into the outer office, and Mr. Mason and Mr. Dockwrath were
left alone.

"He is determined to get that woman off," said Mr. Dockwrath, in a
whisper.

"I believe him to be an honest man," said Mr. Mason, with some
sternness.

"Honesty, sir! It is hard to say what is honesty and what is
dishonesty. Would you believe it, Mr. Mason, only last night I had a
thousand pounds offered me to hold my tongue about this affair?"

Mr. Mason at the moment did not believe this, but he merely looked
hard into his companion's face, and said nothing.

"By the heavens above us what I tell you is true! a thousand pounds,
Mr. Mason! Only think how they are going it to get this thing
stifled. And where should the offer come from but from those who know
I have the power?"

"Do you mean to say that the offer came from this firm?"

"Hush-sh, Mr. Mason. The very walls hear and talk in such a place as
this. I'm not to know who made the offer, and I don't know. But a man
can give a very good guess sometimes. The party who was speaking to
me is up to the whole transaction, and knows exactly what is going on
here--here, in this house. He let it all out, using pretty nigh the
same words as Round used just now. He was full about the doubt that
Round and Crook felt--that they'd never pull it through. I'll tell
you what it is, Mr. Mason, they don't mean to pull it through."

"What answer did you make to the man?"

"What answer! why I just put my thumb this way over my shoulder.
No, Mr. Mason, if I can't carry on without bribery and corruption,
I won't carry on at all. He'd called at the wrong house with that
dodge, and so he soon found."

"And you think he was an emissary from Messrs. Round and Crook?"

"Hush-sh-sh. For heaven's sake, Mr. Mason, do be a little lower. You
can put two and two together as well as I can, Mr. Mason. I find they
make four. I don't know whether your calculation will be the same. My
belief is, that these people are determined to save that woman. Don't
you see it in that young fellow's eye--that his heart is all on the
other side. Now he's got hold of that woman Bolster, and he'll teach
her to give such evidence as will upset us. But I'll be even with him
yet, Mr. Mason. If you'll only trust me, we'll both be even with him
yet."

Mr. Mason at the present moment said nothing further, and when
Dockwrath pressed him to continue the conversation in whispers, he
distinctly said that he would rather say no more upon the subject
just then. He would wait for Mr. Round's return. "Am I at liberty,"
he asked, "to mention that offer of the thousand pounds?"

"What--to Mat Round?" said Dockwrath. "Certainly not, Mr. Mason. It
wouldn't be our game at all."

"Very well, sir." And then Mr. Mason took up a newspaper, and no
further words were spoken till the door opened and Mr. Round
re-entered the room.

This he did with slow, deliberate step, and stopping on the
hearth-rug, he stood leaning with his back against the mantelpiece.
It was clear from his face to see that he had much to tell, and clear
also that he was not pleased at the turn which affairs were taking.

"Well, gentlemen, I have examined the woman," he said, "and here is
her deposition."

"And what does she say?" asked Mr. Mason.

"Come, out with it, sir," said Dockwrath. "Did she, or did she not
sign two documents on that day?"

"Mr. Mason," said Round, turning to that gentleman, and altogether
ignoring Dockwrath and his question; "I have to tell you that her
statement, as far as it goes, fully corroborates your view of the
case. As far as it goes, mind you."

"Oh, it does; does it?" said Dockwrath.

"And she is the only important witness?" said Mr. Mason with great
exultation.

"I have never said that; what I did say was this--that your case
must break down unless her evidence supported it. It does support
it--strongly; but you will want more than that."

"And now if you please, Mr. Round, what is it that she has deposed?"
asked Dockwrath.

"She remembers it all then?" said Mason.

"She is a remarkably clear-headed woman, and apparently does remember
a great deal. But her remembrance chiefly and most strongly goes to
this--that she witnessed only one deed."

"She can prove that, can she?" said Mason, and the tone of his voice
was loudly triumphant.

"She declares that she never signed but one deed in the whole of her
life--either on that day or on any other; and over and beyond this
she says now--now that I have explained to her what that other deed
might have been--that old Mr. Usbech told her that it was about a
partnership."

"He did, did he?" said Dockwrath, rising from his chair and clapping
his hands. "Very well. I don't think we shall want more than that,
Mr. Mason."

There was a tone of triumph in the man's voice, and a look of
gratified malice in his countenance which disgusted Mr. Round and
irritated him almost beyond his power of endurance. It was quite true
that he would much have preferred to find that the woman's evidence
was in favour of Lady Mason. He would have been glad to learn that
she actually had witnessed the two deeds on the same day. His tone
would have been triumphant, and his face gratified, had he returned
to the room with such tidings. His feelings were all on that side,
though his duty lay on the other. He had almost expected that it
would be so. As it was, he was prepared to go on with his duty, but
he was not prepared to endure the insolence of Mr. Dockwrath. There
was a look of joy also about Mr. Mason which added to his annoyance.
It might be just and necessary to prosecute that unfortunate woman at
Orley Farm, but he could not gloat over such work.

"Mr. Dockwrath," he said, "I will not put up with such conduct here.
If you wish to rejoice about this, you must go elsewhere."

"And what are we to do now?" said Mr. Mason. "I presume there need be
no further delay."

"I must consult with my partner. If you can make it convenient to
call this day week--"

"But she will escape."

"No, she will not escape. I shall not be ready to say anything before
that. If you are not in town, then I can write to you." And so the
meeting was broken up, and Mr. Mason and Mr. Dockwrath left the
lawyer's office together.

Mr. Mason and Mr. Dockwrath left the office in Bedford Row together,
and thus it was almost a necessity that they should walk together for
some distance through the streets. Mr. Mason was going to his hotel
in Soho Square, and Mr. Dockwrath turned with him through the passage
leading into Red Lion Square, linking his own arm in that of his
companion. The Yorkshire county magistrate did not quite like this,
but what was he to do?

"Did you ever see anything like that, sir?" said Mr. Dockwrath; "for
by heavens I never did."

"Like what?" said Mr. Mason.

"Like that fellow there;--that Round. It is my opinion that he
deserves to have his name struck from the rolls. Is it not clear that
he is doing all in his power to bring that wretched woman off? And
I'll tell you what, Mr. Mason, if you let him play his own game in
that way, he will bring her off."

"But he expressly admitted that this woman Bolster's evidence is
conclusive."

"Yes; he was so driven into a corner that he could not help admitting
that. The woman had been too many for him, and he found that he
couldn't cushion her. But do you mind my words, Mr. Mason. He intends
that you shall be beaten. It's as plain as the nose on your face. You
can read it in the very look of him, and in every tone of his voice.
At any rate I can. I'll tell you what it is"--and then he squeezed
very close to Mr. Mason--"he and old Furnival understand each other
in this matter like two brothers. Of course Round will have his bill
against you. Win or lose, he'll get his costs out of your pocket. But
he can make a deuced pretty thing out of the other side as well. Let
me tell you, Mr. Mason, that when notes for a thousand pounds are
flying here and there, it isn't every lawyer that will see them pass
by him without opening his hand."

"I do not think that Mr. Round would take a bribe," said Mr. Mason
very stiffly.

"Wouldn't he? Just as a hound would a pat of butter. It's your own
look-out, you know, Mr. Mason. I haven't got an estate of twelve
hundred a year depending on it. But remember this;--if she escapes
now, Orley Farm is gone for ever."

All this was extremely disagreeable to Mr. Mason. In the first place
he did not at all like the tone of equality which the Hamworth
attorney had adopted; he did not like to acknowledge that his affairs
were in any degree dependent on a man of whom he thought so badly as
he did of Mr. Dockwrath; he did not like to be told that Round and
Crook were rogues,--Round and Crook whom he had known all his life;
but least of all did he like the feeling of suspicion with which,
in spite of himself, this man had imbued him, or the fear that his
victim might at last escape him. Excellent, therefore, as had been
the evidence with which Bridget Bolster had declared herself ready
to give in his favour, Mr. Mason was not a contented man when he sat
down to his solitary beefsteak in Soho Square.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE ANGEL OF LIGHT.


In speaking of the character and antecedents of Felix Graham I have
said that he was moulding a wife for himself. The idea of a wife thus
moulded to fit a man's own grooves, and educated to suit matrimonial
purposes according to the exact views of the future husband was by no
means original with him. Other men have moulded their wives, but I do
not know that as a rule the practice has been found to answer. It is
open, in the first place, to this objection,--that the moulder does
not generally conceive such idea very early in life, and the idea
when conceived must necessarily be carried out on a young subject.
Such a plan is the result of much deliberate thought, and has
generally arisen from long observation, on the part of the thinker,
of the unhappiness arising from marriages in which there has been no
moulding. Such a frame of mind comes upon a bachelor, perhaps about
his thirty-fifth year, and then he goes to work with a girl of
fourteen. The operation takes some ten years, at the end of which the
moulded bride regards her lord as an old man. On the whole I think
that the ordinary plan is the better, and even the safer. Dance
with a girl three times, and if you like the light of her eye and
the tone of voice with which she, breathless, answers your little
questions about horseflesh and music--about affairs masculine and
feminine,--then take the leap in the dark. There is danger, no doubt;
but the moulded wife is, I think, more dangerous.

With Felix Graham the matter was somewhat different, seeing that he
was not yet thirty, and that the lady destined to be the mistress
of his family had already passed through three or four years of her
noviciate. He had begun to be prudent early in life; or had become
prudent rather by force of sentiment than by force of thought. Mary
Snow was the name of his bride-elect; and it is probable that, had
not circumstances thrown Mary Snow in his way, he would not have gone
out of his way to seek a subject for his experiment. Mary Snow was
the daughter of an engraver,--not of an artist who receives four or
five thousand pounds for engraving the chef-d'oeuvre of a modern
painter,--but of a man who executed flourishes on ornamental cards
for tradespeople, and assisted in the illustration of circus
playbills. With this man Graham had become acquainted through certain
transactions of his with the press, and had found him to be a
widower, drunken, dissolute, and generally drowned in poverty. One
child the man had, and that child was Mary Snow.

How it came to pass that the young barrister first took upon himself
the charge of maintaining and educating this poor child need not now
be told. His motives had been thoroughly good, and in the matter he
had endeavoured to act the part of a kind Samaritan. He had found her
pretty, half starved, dirty, ignorant, and modest; and so finding
her had made himself responsible for feeding, cleaning, and teaching
her,--and ultimately for marrying her. One would have said that in
undertaking a task of such undoubted charity as that comprised in the
three first charges, he would have encountered no difficulty from
the drunken, dissolute, impoverished engraver. But the man from the
beginning was cunning; and before Graham had succeeded in obtaining
the custody of the child, the father had obtained a written
undertaking from him that he would marry her at a certain age if
her conduct up to that age had been becoming. As to this latter
stipulation no doubt had arisen; and indeed Graham had so acted by
her that had she fallen away the fault would have been all her own.
There wanted now but one year to the coming of that day on which he
was bound to make himself a happy man, and hitherto he himself had
never doubted as to the accomplishment of his undertaking.

He had told his friends,--those with whom he was really intimate,
Augustus Staveley and one or two others,--what was to be his
matrimonial lot in life; and they had ridiculed him for his quixotic
chivalry. Staveley especially had been strong in his conviction that
no such marriage would ever take place, and had already gone so far
as to plan another match for his friend.

"You know you do not love her," he had said, since Felix had been
staying on this occasion at Noningsby.

"I know no such thing," Felix had answered, almost in anger. "On the
contrary I know that I do love her."

"Yes, as I love my niece Marian, or old Aunt Bessy, who always
supplied me with sugar-candy when I was a boy."

"It is I that have supplied Mary with her sugar-candy, and the love
thus engendered is the stronger."

"Nevertheless you are not in love with her, and never will be, and if
you marry her you will commit a great sin."

"How moral you have grown!"

"No, I'm not. I'm not a bit moral. But I know very well when a man
is in love with a girl, and I know very well that you're not in love
with Mary Snow. And I tell you what, my friend, if you do marry her
you are done for life. There will absolutely be an end of you."

"You mean to say that your royal highness will drop me."

"I mean to say nothing about myself. My dropping you or not dropping
you won't alter your lot in life. I know very well what a poor man
wants to give him a start; and a fellow like you who has such quaint
ideas on so many things requires all the assistance he can get. You
should look out for money and connection."

"Sophia Furnival, for instance."

"No; she would not suit you. I perceive that now."

"So I supposed. Well, my dear fellow, we shall not come to
loggerheads about that. She is a very fine girl, and you are welcome
to the hatful of money--if you can get it."

"That's nonsense. I'm not thinking of Sophia Furnival any more than
you are. But if I did it would be a proper marriage. Now--" And then
he went on with some further very sage remarks about Miss Snow.

All this was said as Felix Graham was lying with his broken bones in
the comfortable room at Noningsby; and to tell the truth, when it was
so said his heart was not quite at ease about Mary Snow. Up to this
time, having long since made up his mind that Mary should be his
wife, he had never allowed his thoughts to be diverted from that
purpose. Nor did he so allow them now,--as long as he could prevent
them from wandering.

But, lying there at Noningsby, thinking of those sweet Christmas
evenings, how was it possible that they should not wander? His friend
had told him that he did not love Mary Snow; and then, when alone,
he asked himself whether in truth he did love her. He had pledged
himself to marry her, and he must carry out that pledge. But
nevertheless did he love her? And if not her, did he love any other?

Mary Snow knew very well what was to be her destiny, and indeed had
known it for the last two years. She was now nineteen years old,--and
Madeline Staveley was also nineteen; she was nineteen, and at twenty
she was to become a wife, as by agreement between Felix Graham and
Mr. Snow, the drunken engraver. They knew their destiny,--the future
husband and the future wife,--and each relied with perfect faith on
the good faith and affection of the other.

Graham, while he was thus being lectured by Staveley, had under
his pillow a letter from Mary. He wrote to her regularly--on every
Sunday, and on every Tuesday she answered him. Nothing could be more
becoming than the way she obeyed all his behests on such matters;
and it really did seem that in his case the moulded wife would turn
out to have been well moulded. When Staveley left him he again read
Mary's letter. Her letters were always of the same length, filling
completely the four sides of a sheet of note paper. They were
excellently well written; and as no one word in them was ever
altered or erased, it was manifest enough to Felix that the original
composition was made on a rough draft. As he again read through the
four sides of the little sheet of paper, he could not refrain from
conjecturing what sort of a letter Madeline Staveley might write.
Mary Snow's letter ran as follows:--


   3 Bloomfield Terrace, Peckham,
   Tuesday, 10 January, 18--.

   MY DEAREST FELIX,

--she had so called him for the last twelvemonth by common consent
between Graham and the very discreet lady under whose charge she at
present lived. Previously to that she had written to him as, My dear
Mr. Graham.

   MY DEAREST FELIX,

   I am very glad to hear that your arm and your two ribs are
   getting so much better. I received your letter yesterday,
   and was glad to hear that you are so comfortable in
   the house of the very kind people with whom you are
   staying. If I knew them I would send them my respectful
   remembrances, but as I do not know them I suppose it would
   not be proper. But I remember them in my prayers.--

This last assurance was inserted under the express instruction
of Mrs. Thomas, who however did not read Mary's letters, but
occasionally, on some subjects, gave her hints as to what she ought
to say. Nor was there hypocrisy in this, for under the instruction of
her excellent mentor she had prayed for the kind people.--

   I hope you will be well enough to come and pay me a visit
   before long, but pray do not come before you are well
   enough to do so without giving yourself any pain. I am
   glad to hear that you do not mean to go hunting any more,
   for it seems to me to be a dangerous amusement.

And then the first paragraph came to an end.

   My papa called here yesterday. He said he was very badly
   off indeed, and so he looked. I did not know what to
   say at first, but he asked me so much to give him some
   money, that I did give him at last all that I had. It was
   nineteen shillings and sixpence. Mrs. Thomas was angry,
   and told me I had no right to give away your money, and
   that I should not have given more than half a crown. I
   hope you will not be angry with me. I do not want any more
   at present. But indeed he was very bad, especially about
   his shoes.

   I do not know that I have any more to say except that
   I put back thirty lines of Telemaque into French every
   morning before breakfast. It never comes near right, but
   nevertheless M. Grigaud says it is well done. He says that
   if it came quite right I should compose French as well as
   M. Fenelon, which of course I cannot expect.

   I will now say good-bye, and I am yours most
   affectionately,

   MARY SNOW.


There was nothing in this letter to give any offence to Felix Graham,
and so he acknowledged to himself. He made himself so acknowledge,
because on the first reading of it he had felt that he was half angry
with the writer. It was clear that there was nothing in the letter
which would justify censure;--nothing which did not, almost, demand
praise. He would have been angry with her had she limited her filial
donation to the half-crown which Mrs. Thomas had thought appropriate.
He was obliged to her for that attention to her French which he had
specially enjoined. Nothing could be more proper than her allusion to
the Staveleys;--and altogether the letter was just what it ought to
be. Nevertheless it made him unhappy and irritated him. Was it well
that he should marry a girl whose father was "indeed very bad, but
especially about his shoes?" Staveley had told him that connection
would be necessary for him, and what sort of a connection would this
be? And was there one word in the whole letter that showed a spark
of true love? Did not the footfall of Madeline Staveley's step as
she passed along the passage go nearer to his heart than all the
outspoken assurance of Mary Snow's letter?

Nevertheless he had undertaken to do this thing, and he would do
it,--let the footfall of Madeline Staveley's step be ever so sweet in
his ear. And then, lying back in his bed, he began to think whether
it would have been as well that he should have broken his neck
instead of his ribs in getting out of Monkton Grange covert.

Mrs. Thomas was a lady who kept a school consisting of three little
girls and Mary Snow. She had in fact not been altogether successful
in the line of life she had chosen for herself, and had hardly been
able to keep her modest door-plate on her door, till Graham, in
search of some home for his bride, then in the first noviciate of her
moulding, had come across her. Her means were now far from plentiful;
but as an average number of three children still clung to her, and
as Mary Snow's seventy pounds per annum--to include clothes--were
punctually paid, the small house at Peckham was maintained. Under
these circumstances Mary Snow was somebody in the eyes of Mrs.
Thomas, and Felix Graham was a very great person indeed.

Graham had received his letter on a Wednesday, and on the following
Monday Mary, as usual, received one from him. These letters always
came to her in the evening, as she was sitting over her tea with Mrs.
Thomas, the three children having been duly put to bed. Graham's
letters were very short, as a man with a broken right arm and two
broken ribs is not fluent with his pen. But still a word or two did
come to her. "Dearest Mary, I am doing better and better, and I hope
I shall see you in about a fortnight. Quite right in giving the
money. Stick to the French. Your own F. G." But as he signed himself
her own, his mind misgave him that he was lying.

"It is very good of him to write to you while he is in such a state,"
said Mrs. Thomas.

"Indeed it is," said Mary--"very good indeed." And then she went
on with the history of "Rasselas" in his happy valley, by which
study Mrs. Thomas intended to initiate her into that course of
novel-reading which has become necessary for a British lady. But Mrs.
Thomas had a mind to improve the present occasion. It was her duty to
inculcate in her pupil love and gratitude towards the beneficent man
who was doing so much for her. Gratitude for favours past and love
for favours to come; and now, while that scrap of a letter was lying
on the table, the occasion for doing so was opportune.

"Mary, I do hope you love Mr. Graham with all your heart and all your
strength." She would have thought it wicked to say more; but so far
she thought she might go, considering the sacred tie which was to
exist between her pupil and the gentleman in question.

"Oh, yes, indeed I do;" and then Mary's eyes fell wishfully on the
cover of the book which lay in her lap while her finger kept the
place. Rasselas is not very exciting, but it was more so than Mrs.
Thomas.

"You would be very wicked if you did not. And I hope you think
sometimes of the very responsible duties which a wife owes to her
husband. And this will be more especially so with you than with any
other woman--almost that I ever heard of."

There was something in this that was almost depressing to poor Mary's
spirit, but nevertheless she endeavoured to bear up against it and
do her duty. "I shall do all I can to please him, Mrs. Thomas;--and
indeed I do try about the French. And he says I was right to give
papa that money."

"But there will be many more things than that when you've stood at
the altar with him and become his wife;--bone of his bone, Mary." And
she spoke these last words in a very solemn tone, shaking her head,
and the solemn tone almost ossified poor Mary's heart as she heard
it.

"Yes; I know there will. But I shall endeavour to find out what he
likes."

"I don't think he is so particular about his eating and drinking as
some other gentlemen; though no doubt he will like his things nice."

"I know he is fond of strong tea, and I sha'n't forget that."

"And about dress. He is not very rich you know, Mary; but it will
make him unhappy if you are not always tidy. And his own shirts--I
fancy he has no one to look after them now, for I so often see the
buttons off. You should never let one of them go into his drawers
without feeling them all to see that they're on tight."

"I'll remember that," said Mary, and then she made another little
furtive attempt to open the book.

"And about your own stockings, Mary. Nothing is so useful to a young
woman in your position as a habit of darning neat. I'm sometimes
almost afraid that you don't like darning."

"Oh yes I do." That was a fib; but what could she do, poor girl, when
so pressed?

"Because I thought you would look at Jane Robinson's and Julia
Wright's which are lying there in the basket. I did Rebecca's myself
before tea, till my old eyes were sore."

"Oh, I didn't know," said Mary, with some slight offence in her tone.
"Why didn't you ask me to do them downright if you wanted?"

"It's only for the practice it will give you."

"Practice! I'm always practising something." But nevertheless she
laid down the book, and dragged the basket of work up on to the
table. "Why, Mrs. Thomas, it's impossible to mend these; they're all
darn."

"Give them to me," said Mrs. Thomas. And then there was silence
between them for a quarter of an hour during which Mary's thoughts
wandered away to the events of her future life. Would his stockings
be so troublesome as these?

But Mrs. Thomas was at heart an honest woman, and as a rule was
honest also in practice. Her conscience told her that Mr. Graham
might probably not approve of this sort of practice for conjugal
duties, and in spite of her failing eyes she resolved to do her duty.
"Never mind them, Mary," said she. "I remember now that you were
doing your own before dinner."

"Of course I was," said Mary sulkily. "And as for practice, I don't
suppose he'll want me to do more of that than anything else."

"Well, dear, put them by." And Miss Snow did put them by, resuming
Rasselas as she did so. Who darned the stockings of Rasselas and felt
that the buttons were tight on his shirts? What a happy valley must
it have been if a bride expectant were free from all such cares as
these!

"I suppose, Mary, it will be some time in the spring of next year."
Mrs. Thomas was not reading, and therefore a little conversation from
time to time was to her a solace.

"What will be, Mrs. Thomas?"

"Why, the marriage."

"I suppose it will. He told father it should be early in 18--, and I
shall be past twenty then."

"I wonder where you'll go to live."

"I don't know. He has never said anything about that."

"I suppose not; but I'm sure it will be a long way away from
Peckham." In answer to this Mary said nothing, but could not help
wishing that it might be so. Peckham to her had not been a place
bright with happiness, although she had become in so marked a way a
child of good fortune. And then, moreover, she had a deep care on her
mind with which the streets and houses and pathways of Peckham were
closely connected. It would be very expedient that she should go far,
far away from Peckham when she had become, in actual fact, the very
wife of Felix Graham.

"Miss Mary," whispered the red-armed maid of all work, creeping up
to Mary's bedroom door, when they had all retired for the night, and
whispering through the chink. "Miss Mary. I've somethink to say."
And Mary opened the door. "I've got a letter from him;" and the maid
of all work absolutely produced a little note enclosed in a green
envelope.

"Sarah, I told you not," said Mary, looking very stern and hesitating
with her finger whether or no she would take the letter.

"But he did so beg and pray. Besides, miss, as he says hisself he
must have his answer. Any gen'leman, he says, 'as a right to a
answer. And if you'd a seed him yourself I'm sure you'd have took it.
He did look so nice with a blue and gold hankercher round his neck.
He was a-going to the the-a-tre he said."

"And who was going with him, Sarah?"

"Oh, no one. Only his mamma and sister, and them sort. He's all
right--he is." And then Mary Snow did take the letter.

"And I'll come for the answer when you're settling the room after
breakfast to-morrow?" said the girl.

"No; I don't know. I sha'n't send any answer at all. But, Sarah, for
heaven's sake, do not say a word about it!"

"Who, I? Laws love you, miss. I wouldn't;--not for worlds of gold."
And then Mary was left alone to read a second letter from a second
suitor.

"Angel of light!" it began, "but cold as your own fair name." Poor
Mary thought it was very nice and very sweet, and though she was so
much afraid of it that she almost wished it away, yet she read it a
score of times. Stolen pleasures always are sweet. She had not cared
to read those two lines from her own betrothed lord above once, or at
the most twice; and yet they had been written by a good man,--a man
superlatively good to her, and written too with considerable pain.

[Illustration: The Angel of Light.]

She sat down all trembling to think of what she was doing; and then,
as she thought, she read the letter again. "Angel of light! but cold
as your own fair name." Alas, alas! it was very sweet to her!




CHAPTER XXXIV.

MR. FURNIVAL LOOKS FOR ASSISTANCE.


"And you think that nothing can be done down there?" said Mr.
Furnival to his clerk, immediately after the return of Mr. Crabwitz
from Hamworth to London.

"Nothing at all, sir," said Mr. Crabwitz, with laconic significance.

"Well; I dare say not. If the matter could have been arranged at a
reasonable cost, without annoyance to my friend Lady Mason, I should
have been glad; but, on the whole, it will perhaps be better that the
law should take its course. She will suffer a good deal, but she will
be the safer for it afterwards."

"Mr. Furnival, I went so far as to offer a thousand pounds!"

"A thousand pounds! Then they'll think we're afraid of them."

"Not a bit more than they did before. Though I offered the money, he
doesn't know the least that the offer came from our side. But I'll
tell you what it is, Mr. Furnival--. I suppose I may speak my mind."

"Oh, yes! But remember this, Crabwitz; Lady Mason is no more in
danger of losing the property than you are. It is a most vexatious
thing, but there can be no doubt as to what the result will be."

"Well, Mr. Furnival,--I don't know."

"In such matters, I am tolerably well able to form an opinion."

"Oh, certainly!"

"And that's my opinion. Now I shall be very glad to hear yours."

"My opinion is this, Mr. Furnival, that Sir Joseph never made that
codicil."

"And what makes you think so?"

"The whole course of the evidence. It's quite clear there was another
deed executed that day, and witnessed by Bolster and Kenneby. Had
there been two documents for them to witness, they would have
remembered it so soon after the occurrence."

"Well, Crabwitz, I differ from you,--differ from you in toto. But
keep your opinion to yourself, that's all. I've no doubt you did
the best for us you could down at Hamworth, and I'm much obliged to
you. You'll find we've got our hands quite full again,--almost too
full." Then he turned round to his table, and to the papers upon it;
whereupon, Crabwitz took the hint, and left the room.

But when he had gone, Mr. Furnival again raised his eyes from the
papers on the table, and leaning back in his chair, gave himself up
to further consideration of the Orley Farm case. Crabwitz he knew was
a sharp, clever man, and now the opinion formed by Crabwitz, after
having seen this Hamworth attorney, tallied with his own opinion.
Yes; it was his own opinion. He had never said as much, even to
himself, with those inward words which a man uses when he assures
himself of the result of his own thoughts; but he was aware that it
was his own opinion. In his heart of hearts, he did believe that that
codicil had been fraudulently manufactured by his friend and client,
Lady Mason.

Under these circumstances, what should he do? He had the handle of
his pen between his teeth, as was his habit when he was thinking, and
tried to bring himself to some permanent resolution.

How beautiful had she looked while she stood in Sir Peregrine's
library, leaning on the old man's arm--how beautiful and how
innocent! That was the form which his thoughts chiefly took. And then
she had given him her hand, and he still felt the soft silken touch
of her cool fingers. He would not be a man if he could desert a woman
in such a strait. And such a woman! If even guilty, had she not
expiated her guilt by deep sorrow? And then he thought of Mr. Mason
of Groby Park; and he thought of Sir Peregrine's strong conviction,
and of Judge Staveley's belief; and he thought also of the strong
hold which public opinion and twenty years of possession would still
give to the cause he favoured. He would still bring her through! Yes;
in spite of her guilt, if she were guilty; on the strength of her
innocency, if she were innocent; but on account of her beauty, and
soft hand, and deep liquid eye. So at least he would have owned,
could he have been honest enough to tell himself the whole truth.

But he must prepare himself for the battle in earnest. It was not as
though he had been briefed in this case, and had merely to perform
the duty for which he had been hired. He was to undertake the
whole legal management of the affair. He must settle what attorney
should have the matter in hand, and instruct that attorney how to
reinstruct him, and how to reinstruct those other barristers who must
necessarily be employed on the defence, in a case of such magnitude.
He did not yet know under what form the attack would be made; but he
was nearly certain that it would be done in the shape of a criminal
charge. He hoped that it might take the direct form of an accusation
of forgery. The stronger and more venomous the charge made, the
stronger also would be public opinion in favour of the accused,
and the greater the chance of an acquittal. But if she were to be
found guilty on any charge, it would matter little on what. Any
such verdict of guilty would be utter ruin and obliteration of her
existence.

He must consult with some one, and at last he made up his mind to go
to his very old friend, Mr. Chaffanbrass. Mr. Chaffanbrass was safe,
and he might speak out his mind to him without fear of damaging the
cause. Not that he could bring himself to speak out his real mind,
even to Mr. Chaffanbrass. He would so speak that Mr. Chaffanbrass
should clearly understand him; but still, not even to his ears, would
he say that he really believed Lady Mason to have been guilty. How
would it be possible that he should feign before a jury his assured,
nay, his indignant conviction of his client's innocence, if he had
ever whispered to any one his conviction of her guilt?

On that same afternoon he sent to make an appointment with Mr.
Chaffanbrass, and immediately after breakfast, on the following
morning, had himself taken to that gentleman's chambers. The chambers
of this great guardian of the innocence--or rather not-guiltiness
of the public--were not in any so-named inn, but consisted of two
gloomy, dark, panelled rooms in Ely Place. The course of our story,
however, will not cause us to make many visits to Ely Place, and
any closer description of them may be spared. I have said that Mr.
Chaffanbrass and Mr. Furnival were very old friends. So they were.
They had known each other for more than thirty years, and each knew
the whole history of the other's rise and progress in the profession;
but any results of their friendship at present were but scanty. They
might meet each other in the streets, perhaps, once in the year; and
occasionally--but very seldom--might be brought together on subjects
connected with their profession; as was the case when they travelled
together down to Birmingham. As to meeting in each other's houses, or
coming together for the sake of the friendship which existed,--the
idea of doing so never entered the head of either of them.

All the world knows Mr. Chaffanbrass--either by sight or by
reputation. Those who have been happy enough to see the face and
gait of the man as, in years now gone, he used to lord it at the Old
Bailey, may not have thought much of the privilege which was theirs.
But to those who have only read of him, and know of his deeds simply
by their triumphs, he was a man very famous and worthy to be seen.
"Look; that's Chaffanbrass. It was he who cross-examined ---- at the
Old Bailey, and sent him howling out of London, banished for ever
into the wilderness." "Where, where? Is that Chaffanbrass? What a
dirty little man!"

To this dirty little man in Ely Place, Mr. Furnival now went in his
difficulty. Mr. Furnival might feel himself sufficient to secure the
acquittal of an innocent person, or even of a guilty person, under
ordinary circumstances; but if any man in England could secure the
acquittal of a guilty person under extraordinary circumstances, it
would be Mr. Chaffanbrass. This had been his special line of work for
the last thirty years.

Mr. Chaffanbrass was a dirty little man; and when seen without his
gown and wig, might at a first glance be thought insignificant. But
he knew well how to hold his own in the world, and could maintain
his opinion, unshaken, against all the judges in the land. "Well,
Furnival, and what can I do for you?" he said, as soon as the member
for the Essex Marshes was seated opposite to him. "It isn't often
that the light of your countenance shines so far east as this.
Somebody must be in trouble, I suppose?"

"Somebody is in trouble," said Mr. Furnival; and then he began
to tell his story. Mr. Chaffanbrass listened almost in silence
throughout. Now and then he asked a question by a word or two,
expressing no opinion whatever as he did so; but he was satisfied to
leave the talking altogether in the hands of his visitor till the
whole tale was told. "Ah," he said then, "a clever woman!"

"An uncommonly sweet creature too," said Mr. Furnival.

"I dare say," said Mr. Chaffanbrass; and then there was a pause.

"And what can I do for you?" said Mr. Chaffanbrass.

"In the first place I should be very glad to have your advice; and
then--. Of course I must lead in defending her,--unless it were well
that I should put the case altogether in your hands."

"Oh no! don't think of that. I couldn't give the time to it. My heart
is not in it, as yours is. Where will it be?"

"At Alston, I suppose."

"At the Spring assizes. That will be--. Let me see; about the 10th of
March."

"I should think we might get it postponed till the summer. Round is
not at all hot about it."

"Should we gain anything by that? If a prisoner be innocent why
torment him by delay. He is tolerably sure of escape. If he be
guilty, extension of time only brings out the facts the clearer.
As far as my experience goes, the sooner a man is tried the
better,--always."

"And you would consent to hold a brief?"

"Under you? Well; yes. I don't mind it at Alston. Anything to oblige
an old friend. I never was proud, you know."

"And what do you think about it, Chaffanbrass?"

"Ah! that's the question."

"She must be pulled through. Twenty years of possession! Think of
that."

"That's what Mason, the man down in Yorkshire, is thinking of.
There's no doubt of course about that partnership deed?"

"I fear not. Round would not go on with it if that were not all
true."

"It depends on those two witnesses, Furnival. I remember the case of
old, though it was twenty years ago, and I had nothing to do with it.
I remember thinking that Lady Mason was a very clever woman, and that
Round and Crook were rather slow."

"He's a brute; is that fellow, Mason of Groby Park."

"A brute; is he? We'll get him into the box and make him say as much
for himself. She's uncommonly pretty, isn't she?"

"She is a pretty woman."

"And interesting? It will all tell, you know. A widow with one son,
isn't she?"

"Yes, and she has done her duty admirably since her husband's death.
You will find too that she has the sympathies of all the best
people in her neighbourhood. She is staying now at the house of Sir
Peregrine Orme, who would do anything for her."

"Anything, would he?"

"And the Staveleys know her. The judge is convinced of her
innocence."

"Is he? He'll probably have the Home Circuit in the summer. His
conviction expressed from the bench would be more useful to her. You
can make Staveley believe everything in a drawing-room or over a
glass of wine; but I'll be hanged if I can ever get him to believe
anything when he's on the bench."

"But, Chaffanbrass, the countenance of such people will be of great
use to her down there. Everybody will know that she's been staying
with Sir Peregrine."

"I've no doubt she's a clever woman."

"But this new trouble has half killed her."

"I don't wonder at that either. These sort of troubles do vex people.
A pretty woman like that should have everything smooth; shouldn't
she? Well, we'll do the best we can. You'll see that I'm properly
instructed. By-the-by, who is her attorney? In such a case as that
you couldn't have a better man than old Solomon Aram. But Solomon
Aram is too far east from you, I suppose?"

"Isn't he a Jew?"

"Upon my word I don't know. He's an attorney, and that's enough for
me."

And then the matter was again discussed between them, and it was
agreed that a third counsel would be wanting. "Felix Graham is very
much interested in the case," said Mr. Furnival, "and is as firmly
convinced of her innocence as--as I am." And he managed to look his
ally in the face and to keep his countenance firmly.

"Ah," said Mr. Chaffanbrass. "But what if he should happen to change
his opinion about his own client?"

"We could prevent that, I think."

"I'm not so sure. And then he'd throw her over as sure as your name's
Furnival."

"I hardly think he'd do that."

"I believe he'd do anything." And Mr. Chaffanbrass was quite moved
to enthusiasm. "I've heard that man talk more nonsense about the
profession in one hour, than I ever heard before since I first put a
cotton gown on my back. He does not understand the nature of the duty
which a professional man owes to his client."

"But he'd work well if he had a case at heart himself. I don't like
him, but he is clever."

"You can do as you like, of course. I shall be out of my ground down
at Alston, and of course I don't care who takes the fag of the work.
But I tell you this fairly;--if he does go into the case and then
turns against us or drops it,--I shall turn against him and drop into
him."

"Heaven help him in such a case as that!" And then these two great
luminaries of the law shook hands and parted.

One thing was quite clear to Mr. Furnival as he had himself carried
in a cab from Ely Place to his own chambers in Lincoln's Inn. Mr.
Chaffanbrass was fully convinced of Lady Mason's guilt. He had not
actually said so, but he had not even troubled himself to go through
the little ceremony of expressing a belief in her innocence. Mr.
Furnival was well aware that Mr. Chaffanbrass would not on this
account be less likely to come out strongly with such assurances
before a jury, or to be less severe in his cross-examination of a
witness whose evidence went to prove that guilt; but nevertheless
the conviction was disheartening. Mr. Chaffanbrass would know, almost
by instinct, whether an accused person was or was not guilty; and
he had already perceived, by instinct, that Lady Mason was guilty.
Mr. Furnival sighed as he stepped out of his cab, and again wished
that he could wash his hands of the whole affair. He wished it very
much;--but he knew that his wish could not be gratified.

"Solomon Aram!" he said to himself, as he again sat down in his
arm-chair. "It will sound badly to those people down at Alston. At
the Old Bailey they don't mind that kind of thing." And then he made
up his mind that Solomon Aram would not do. It would be a disgrace to
him to take a case out of Solomon Aram's hands. Mr. Chaffanbrass
did not understand all this. Mr. Chaffanbrass had been dealing with
Solomon Arams all his life. Mr. Chaffanbrass could not see the effect
which such an alliance would have on the character of a barrister
holding Mr. Furnival's position. Solomon Aram was a good man in his
way no doubt;--perhaps the best man going. In taking every dodge to
prevent a conviction no man could be better than Solomon Aram. All
this Mr. Furnival felt;--but he felt also that he could not afford
it. "It would be tantamount to a confession of guilt to take such a
man as that down into the country," he said to himself, trying to
excuse himself.

And then he also made up his mind that he would sound Felix Graham.
If Felix Graham could be induced to take up the case thoroughly
believing in the innocence of his client, no man would be more useful
as a junior. Felix Graham went the Home Circuit on which Alston was
one of the assize towns.




CHAPTER XXXV.

LOVE WAS STILL THE LORD OF ALL.


Why should I not? Such had been the question which Sir Peregrine Orme
had asked himself over and over again, in these latter days, since
Lady Mason had been staying at his house; and the purport of the
question was this:--Why should he not make Lady Mason his wife?

I and my readers can probably see very many reasons why he should not
do so; but then we are not in love with Lady Mason. Her charms and
her sorrows,--her soft, sad smile and her more lovely tears have not
operated upon us. We are not chivalrous old gentlemen, past seventy
years of age, but still alive, keenly alive, to a strong feeling of
romance. That visit will perhaps be remembered which Mr. Furnival
made at The Cleeve, and the subsequent interview between Lady Mason
and the baronet. On that day he merely asked himself the question,
and took no further step. On the subsequent day and the day after,
it was the same. He still asked himself the question, sitting alone
in his library; but he did not ask it as yet of any one else. When
he met Lady Mason in these days his manner to her was full of the
deference due to a lady and of the affection due to a dear friend;
but that was all. Mrs. Orme, seeing this, and cordially concurring in
this love for her guest, followed the lead which her father-in-law
gave, and threw herself into Lady Mason's arms. They two were fast
and bosom friends.

And what did Lady Mason think of all this? In truth there was much in
it that was sweet to her, but there was something also that increased
that idea of danger which now seemed to envelop her whole existence.
Why had Sir Peregrine so treated her in the library, behaving towards
her with such tokens of close affection? He had put his arm round her
waist and kissed her lips and pressed her to his old bosom. Why had
this been so? He had assured her that he would be to her as a father,
but her woman's instinct had told her that the pressure of his hand
had been warmer than that which a father accords to his adopted
daughter. No idea of anger had come upon her for a moment; but she
had thought about it much, and had thought about it almost in dismay.
What if the old man did mean more than a father's love? It seemed to
her as though it must be a dream that he should do so; but what if he
did? How should she answer him? In such circumstances what should she
do or say? Could she afford to buy his friendship,--even his warmest
love at the cost of the enmity of so many others? Would not Mrs. Orme
hate her, Mrs. Orme, whom she truly, dearly, eagerly loved? Mrs.
Orme's affection was, of all personal gratifications, the sweetest
to her. And the young heir,--would not he hate her? Nay, would he
not interfere and with some strong hand prevent so mean a deed on the
part of his grandfather? And if so, would she not thus have lost them
altogether? And then she thought of that other friend whose aid would
be so indispensable to her in this dreadful time of tribulation. How
would Mr. Furnival receive such tidings, if it should come to pass
that such tidings were to be told?

Lady Mason was rich with female charms, and she used them partly with
the innocence of the dove, but partly also with the wisdom of the
serpent. But in such use as she did make of these only weapons which
Providence had given to her, I do not think that she can be regarded
as very culpable. During those long years of her young widowhood in
which nothing had been wanting to her, her conduct had been free from
any hint of reproach. She had been content to find all her joy in
her duties and in her love as a mother. Now a great necessity for
assistance had come upon her. It was necessary that she should bind
men to her cause, men powerful in the world and able to fight her
battle with strong arms. She did so bind them with the only chains at
her command,--but she had no thought, nay, no suspicion of evil in so
doing. It was very painful to her when she found that she had caused
unhappiness to Mrs. Furnival; and it caused her pain now, also, when
she thought of Sir Peregrine's new love. She did wish to bind these
men to her by a strong attachment; but she would have stayed this
feeling at a certain point had it been possible for her so to manage
it.

In the mean time Sir Peregrine still asked himself that question. He
had declared to himself when first the idea had come to him, that
none of those whom he loved should be injured. He would even ask his
daughter-in-law's consent, condescending to plead his cause before
her, making her understand his motives, and asking her acquiescence
as a favour. He would be so careful of his grandson that this second
marriage--if such event did come to pass--should not put a pound out
of his pocket, or at any rate should not hamper the succession of the
estate with a pound of debt. And then he made excuses to himself as
to the step which he proposed to take, thinking how he would meet his
friends, and how he would carry himself before his old servants.

Old men have made more silly marriages than this which he then
desired. Gentlemen such as Sir Peregrine in age and station have
married their housemaids,--have married young girls of eighteen
years of age,--have done so and faced their friends and servants
afterwards. The bride that he proposed to himself was a lady, an old
friend, a woman over forty, and one whom by such a marriage he could
greatly assist in her deep sorrow. Why should he not do it?

After much of such thoughts as these, extended over nearly a week,
he resolved to speak his mind to Mrs. Orme. If it were to be done it
should be done at once. The incredulous unromantic readers of this
age would hardly believe me if I said that his main object was to
render assistance to Lady Mason in her difficulty; but so he assured
himself, and so he believed. This assistance to be of true service
must be given at once;--and having so resolved he sent for Mrs. Orme
into the library.

"Edith, my darling," he said, taking her hand and pressing it between
both his own as was often the wont with him in his more affectionate
moods. "I want to speak to you--on business that concerns me nearly;
may perhaps concern us all nearly. Can you give me half an hour?"

"Of course I can--what is it, sir? I am a bad hand at business; but
you know that."

"Sit down, dear; there; sit there, and I will sit here. As to this
business, no one can counsel me as well as you."

"Dearest father, I should be a poor councillor in anything."

"Not in this, Edith. It is about Lady Mason that I would speak to
you. We both love her dearly; do we not?"

"I do."

"And are glad to have her here?"

"Oh, so glad. When this trial is only over, it will be so sweet, to
have her for a neighbour. We really know her now. And it will be so
pleasant to see much of her."

There was nothing discouraging in this, but still the words in some
slight degree grated against Sir Peregrine's feelings. At the present
moment he did not wish to think of Lady Mason as living at Orley
Farm, and would have preferred that his daughter-in-law should have
spoken of her as being there, at The Cleeve.

"Yes; we know her now," he said. "And believe me in this, Edith; no
knowledge obtained of a friend in happiness is at all equal to that
which is obtained in sorrow. Had Lady Mason been prosperous, had she
never become subject to the malice and avarice of wicked people, I
should never have loved her as I do love her."

"Nor should I, father."

"She is a cruelly ill-used woman, and a woman worthy of the kindest
usage. I am an old man now, but it has never before been my lot to
be so anxious for a fellow-creature as I am for her. It is dreadful
to think that innocence in this country should be subject to such
attacks."

"Indeed it is; but you do not think that there is any danger?"

This was all very well, and showed that Mrs. Orme's mind was well
disposed towards the woman whom he loved. But he had known that
before, and he began to feel that he was not approaching the object
which he had in view. "Edith," at last he said abruptly, "I love her
with my whole heart. I would fain make her--my wife." Sir Peregrine
Orme had never in his course through life failed in anything for lack
of courage; and when the idea came home to him that he was trembling
at the task which he had imposed on himself, he dashed at it at once.
It is so that forlorn hopes are led, and become not forlorn; it is so
that breaches are taken.

"Your wife!" said Mrs. Orme. She would not have breathed a syllable
to pain him if she could have helped it, but the suddenness of the
announcement overcame her for a moment.

"Yes, Edith, my wife. Let us discuss the matter before you condemn
it. But in the first place I would have you to understand this--I
will not marry her if you say that it will make you unhappy. I have
not spoken to her as yet, and she knows nothing of this project." Sir
Peregrine, it may be presumed, had not himself thought much of that
kiss which he had given her. "You," he continued to say, "have given
up your whole life to me. You are my angel. If this thing will make
you unhappy it shall not be done."

Sir Peregrine had not so considered it, but with such a woman as Mrs.
Orme this was, of course, the surest way to overcome opposition. On
her own behalf, thinking only of herself, she would stand in the
way of nothing that could add to Sir Peregrine's happiness. But
nevertheless the idea was strong in her mind that such a marriage
would be imprudent. Sir Peregrine at present stood high before the
world. Would he stand so high if he did this thing? His gray hair
and old manly bearing were honoured and revered by all who knew him.
Would this still be so if he made himself the husband of Lady Mason?
She loved so dearly, she valued so highly the honour that was paid
to him! She was so proud of her own boy in that he was the grandson
of so perfect a gentleman! Would not this be a sad ending to such
a career? Such were the thoughts which ran through her mind at the
moment.

"Make me unhappy!" she said getting up and going over to him. "It is
your happiness of which I would think. Will it make you more happy?"

"It will enable me to befriend her more effectually."

"But, dearest father, you must be the first consideration to us,--to
me and Peregrine. Will it make you more happy?"

"I think it will," he answered slowly.

"Then I, for one, will say nothing against it," she answered. She was
very weak, it will be said. Yes, she was weak. Many of the sweetest,
kindest, best of women are weak in this way. It is not every woman
that can bring herself to say hard, useful, wise words in opposition
to the follies of those they love best. A woman to be useful and wise
no doubt should have such power. For myself I am not so sure that I
like useful and wise women. "Then I for one will say nothing against
it," said Mrs. Orme, deficient in utility, wanting in wisdom, but
full of the sweetest affection.

"You are sure that you will not love her the less yourself?" said Sir
Peregrine.

"Yes; I am sure of that. If it were to be so, I should endeavour to
love her the more."

"Dearest Edith. I have only one other person to tell."

"Do you mean Peregrine?" she said in her softest voice.

"Yes. Of course he must be told. But as it would not be well to ask
his consent,--as I have asked yours--" and then as he said this she
kissed his brow.

"But you will let him know it?"

"Yes; that is if she accepts my proposition. Then he shall know it
immediately. And, Edith, my dear, you may be sure of this; nothing
that I do shall be allowed in any way to injure his prospects or to
hamper him as regards money when I am gone. If this marriage takes
place I cannot do very much for her in the way of money; she will
understand that. Something I can of course."

And then Mrs. Orme stood over the fire, looking at the hot coals, and
thinking what Lady Mason's answer would be. She esteemed Lady Mason
very highly, regarding her as a woman sensible and conscientious at
all points, and she felt by no means certain that the offer would
be accepted. What if Lady Mason should say that such an arrangement
would not be possible for her. Mrs. Orme felt that under such
circumstances she at any rate would not withdraw her love from Lady
Mason.

"And now I may as well speak to her at once," said Sir Peregrine. "Is
she in the drawing-room?"

"I left her there."

"Will you ask her to come to me--with my love?"

"I had better not say anything I suppose?"

Sir Peregrine, in his heart of hearts wished that his daughter-in-law
could say it all, but he would not give her such a commission. "No;
perhaps not." And then Mrs. Orme was going to leave him.

"One word more, Edith. You and I, darling, have known each other so
long and loved each other so well, that I should be unhappy if I were
to fall in your estimation."

"There is no fear of that, father."

"Will you believe me when I assure you that my great object in doing
this is to befriend a good and worthy woman whom I regard as ill
used--beyond all ill usage of which I have hitherto known anything?"

She then assured him that she did so believe, and she assured him
truly; after that she left him and went away to send in Lady Mason
for her interview. In the mean time Sir Peregrine got up and stood
with his back to the fire. He would have been glad that the coming
scene could be over, and yet I should be wronging him to say that
he was afraid of it. There would be a pleasure to him in telling
her that he loved her so dearly and trusted her with such absolute
confidence. There would be a sort of pleasure to him in speaking even
of her sorrow, and in repeating his assurance that he would fight the
battle for her with all the means at his command. And perhaps also
there would be some pleasure in the downcast look of her eye, as she
accepted the tender of his love. Something of that pleasure he had
known already. And then he remembered the other alternative. It was
quite upon the cards that she should decline his offer. He did not by
any means shut his eyes to that. Did she do so, his friendship should
by no means be withdrawn from her. He would be very careful from the
onset that she should understand so much as that. And then he heard
the light footsteps in the hall; the gentle hand was raised to the
door, and Lady Mason was standing in the room.

"Dear Lady Mason," he said, meeting her half way across the room, "it
is very kind of you to come to me when I send for you in this way."

"It would be my duty to come to you, if it were half across the
kingdom;--and my pleasure also."

"Would it?" said he, looking into her face with all the wishfulness
of a young lover. From that moment she knew what was coming. Strange
as was the destiny which was to be offered to her at this period of
her life, yet she foresaw clearly that the offer was to be made. What
she did not foresee, what she could not foretell, was the answer
which she might make to it!

"It would certainly be my sweetest pleasure to send for you if you
were away from us,--to send for you or to follow you," said he.

"I do not know how to make return for all your kind regard to me;--to
you and to dear Mrs. Orme."

"Call her Edith, will you not? You did so call her once."

"I call her so often when we are alone together, now; and yet I feel
that I have no right."

"You have every right. You shall have every right if you will accept
it. Lady Mason, I am an old man,--some would say a very old man. But
I am not too old to love you. Can, you accept the love of an old man
like me?"

Lady Mason was, as we are aware, not taken in the least by surprise;
but it was quite necessary that she should seem to be so taken. This
is a little artifice which is excusable in almost any lady at such
a period. "Sir Peregrine," she said, "you do not mean more than the
love of a most valued friend?"

"Yes, much more. I mean the love of a husband for his wife; of a wife
for her husband."

"Sir Peregrine! Ah me! You have not thought of this, my friend. You
have not remembered the position in which I am placed. Dearest,
dearest friend; dearest of all friends,"--and then she knelt before
him, leaning on his knees, as he sat in his accustomed large
arm-chair. "It may not be so. Think of the sorrow that would come to
you and yours, if my enemies should prevail."

"By ---- they shall not prevail!" swore Sir Peregrine, roundly; and
as he swore the oath he put his two hands upon her shoulders.

"No; we will hope not. I should die here at your feet if I thought
that they could prevail. But I should die twenty deaths were I to
drag you with me into disgrace. There will be disgrace even in
standing at that bar."

"Who will dare to say so, when I shall stand there with you?" said
Sir Peregrine.

There was a feeling expressed in his face as he spoke these words,
which made it glorious, and bright, and beautiful. She, with her eyes
laden with tears, could not see it; but nevertheless, she knew that
it was bright and beautiful. And his voice was full of hot eager
assurance,--that assurance which had the power to convey itself from
one breast to another. Would it not be so? If he stood there with her
as her husband and lord, would it not be the case that no one would
dare to impute disgrace to her?

And yet she did not wish it. Even yet, thinking of all this as she
did think of it, according to the truth of the argument which he
himself put before her, she would still have preferred that it should
not be so. If she only knew with what words to tell him so;--to tell
him so and yet give no offence! For herself, she would have married
him willingly. Why should she not? Nay, she could and would have
loved him, and been to him a wife, such as he could have found in no
other woman. But she said within her heart that she owed him kindness
and gratitude--that she owed them all kindness, and that it would
be bad to repay them in such a way as this. She also thought of Sir
Peregrine's gray hairs, and of his proud standing in the county, and
the respect in which men held him. Would it be well in her to drag
him down in his last days from the noble pedestal on which he stood,
and repay him thus for all that he was doing for her?

"Well," said he, stroking her soft hair with his hands--the hair
which appeared in front of the quiet prim cap she wore, "shall it be
so? Will you give me the right to stand there with you and defend you
against the tongues of wicked men? We each have our own weakness, and
we also have each our own strength. There I may boast that I should
be strong."

She thought again for a moment or two without rising from her knees,
and also without speaking. Would such strength suffice? And if it did
suffice, would it then be well with him? As for herself, she did love
him. If she had not loved him before, she loved him now. Who had ever
been to her so noble, so loving, so gracious as he? In her ears no
young lover's vows had ever sounded. In her heart such love as all
the world knows had never been known. Her former husband had been
kind to her in his way, and she had done her duty by him carefully,
painfully, and with full acceptance of her position. But there had
been nothing there that was bright, and grand, and noble. She would
have served Sir Peregrine on her knees in the smallest offices, and
delighted in such services. It was not for lack of love that she must
refuse him. But still she did not answer him, and still he stroked
her hair.

"It would be better that you had never seen me," at last she said;
and she spoke with truth the thought of her mind. That she must do
his bidding, whatever that bidding might be, she had in a certain way
acknowledged to herself. If he would have it so, so it must be. How
could she refuse him anything, or be disobedient in aught to one to
whom she owed so much? But still it would be wiser otherwise, wiser
for all--unless it were for herself alone. "It would be better that
you had never seen me," she said.

"Nay, not so, dearest. That it would not be better for me,--for me
and Edith I am quite sure. And I would fain hope that for you--"

"Oh, Sir Peregrine! you know what I mean. You know how I value your
kindness. What should I be if it were withdrawn from me?"

"It shall not be withdrawn. Do not let that feeling actuate you.
Answer me out of your heart, and however your heart may answer,
remember this, that my friendship and support shall be the same. If
you will take me for your husband, as your husband will I stand by
you. If you cannot,--then I will stand by you as your father."

What could she say? A word or two she did speak as to Mrs. Orme and
her feelings, delaying her absolute reply--and as to Peregrine Orme
and his prospects; but on both, as on all other points, the baronet
was armed with his answer. He had spoken to his darling Edith, and
she had gladly given her consent. To her it would be everything to
have so sweet a friend. And then as to his heir, every care should
be taken that no injury should be done to him; and speaking of this,
Sir Peregrine began to say a few words, plaintively, about money.
But then Lady Mason stopped him. "No," she said, "she could not,
and would not, listen to that. She would have no settlement. No
consideration as to money should be made to weigh with her. It was
in no degree for that--" And then she wept there till she would have
fallen had he not supported her.

What more is there to be told. Of course she accepted him. As far as
I can see into such affairs no alternative was allowed to her. She
also was not a wise woman at all points. She was one whose feelings
were sometimes too many for her, and whose feelings on this occasion
had been much too many for her. Had she been able to throw aside from
her his offer, she would have done so; but she had felt that she was
not able. "If you wish it, Sir Peregrine," she said at last.

"And can you love an old man?" he had asked. Old men sometimes will
ask questions such as these. She did not answer him, but stood by his
side; and, then again he kissed her, and was happy.

He resolved from that moment that Lady Mason should no longer be
regarded as the widow of a city knight, but as the wife elect of a
country baronet. Whatever ridicule he might incur in this matter, he
would incur at once. Men and women had dared to speak of her cruelly,
and they should now learn that any such future speech would be spoken
of one who was exclusively his property. Let any who chose to be
speakers under such circumstances look to it. He had devoted himself
to her that he might be her knight and bear her scathless through the
fury of this battle. With God's help he would put on his armour at
once for that fight. Let them who would now injure her look to it. As
soon as might be she should bear his name; but all the world should
know at once what was her right to claim his protection. He had never
been a coward, and he would not now be guilty of the cowardice of
hiding his intentions. If there were those who chose to smile at the
old man's fancy, let them smile. There would be many, he knew, who
would not understand an old man's honour and an old man's chivalry.

"My own one," he then said, pressing her again to his side, "will
you tell Edith, or shall I? She expects it." But Lady Mason begged
that he would tell the tale. It was necessary, she said, that she
should be alone for a while. And then, escaping, she went to her own
chamber.

"Ask Mrs. Orme if she will kindly step to me," said Sir Peregrine,
having rang his bell for the servant.

Lady Mason escaped across the hall to the stairs, and succeeded in
reaching her room without being seen by any one. Then she sat herself
down, and began to look her future world in the face. Two questions
she had to ask. Would it be well for her that this marriage should
take place? and would it be well for him? In an off-hand way she
had already answered both questions; but she had done so by feeling
rather than by thought.

No doubt she would gain much in the coming struggle by such a
position as Sir Peregrine would give her. It did seem to her that Mr.
Dockwrath and Joseph Mason would hardly dare to bring such a charge
as that threatened against the wife of Sir Peregrine Orme. And then,
too, what evidence as to character would be so substantial as the
evidence of such a marriage? But how would Mr. Furnival bear it,
and if he were offended would it be possible that the fight should
be fought without him? No; that would be impossible. The lawyer's
knowledge, experience, and skill were as necessary to her as the
baronet's position and character. But why should Mr. Furnival be
offended by such a marriage? "She did not know," she said to herself.
"She could not see that there should be cause of offence." But yet
some inner whisper of her conscience told her that there would be
offence. Must Mr. Furnival be told; and must he be told at once? And
then what would Lucius say and think, and how should she answer the
strong words which her son would use to her? He would use strong
words she knew, and would greatly dislike this second marriage of his
mother. What grown-up son is ever pleased to hear that his mother is
about to marry? The Cleeve must be her home now--that is, if she did
this deed. The Cleeve must be her home, and she must be separated
in all things from Orley Farm. As she thought of this her mind went
back, and back to those long gone days in which she had been racked
with anxiety that Orley Farm should be the inheritance of the little
baby that was lying at her feet. She remembered how she had pleaded
to the father, pointing out the rights of her son--declaring, and
with justice, that for herself she had asked for nothing; but that
for him--instead of asking might she not demand? Was not that other
son provided for, and those grown-up women with their rich husbands?
"Is he not your child as well as they?" she had pleaded. "Is he not
your own, and as well worthy of your love?" She had succeeded in
getting the inheritance for the baby at her feet;--but had his having
it made her happy, or him? Then her child had been all in all to her;
but now she felt that that child was half estranged from her about
this very property, and would become wholly estranged by the method
she was taking to secure it! "I have toiled for him," she said to
herself, "rising up early, and going to bed late; but the thief
cometh in the night and despoileth it." Who can guess the bitterness
of her thoughts as she said this?

But her last thoughts, as she sat there thinking, were of him--Sir
Peregrine. Would it be well for him that he should do this? And in
thus considering she did not turn her mind chiefly to the usual
view in which such a marriage would be regarded. Men might call Sir
Peregrine an old fool and laugh at him; but for that she would, with
God's help, make him amends. In those matters, he could judge for
himself; and should he judge it right thus to link his life to hers,
she would be true and leal to him in all things.

But then, about this trial. If there came disgrace and ruin, and
an utter overthrow? If--? Would it not be well at any rate that no
marriage should take place till that had been decided? She could not
find it in her heart to bring down his old gray hairs with utter
sorrow to the grave.




CHAPTER XXXVI.

WHAT THE YOUNG MEN THOUGHT ABOUT IT.


Lucius Mason at this time was living at home at Orley Farm, not by
any means in a happy frame of mind. It will be perhaps remembered
that he had at one time had an interview with Mr. Furnival in that
lawyer's chambers, which was by no means consoling to him, seeing
that Mr. Furnival had pooh-poohed him and his pretensions in a very
off-hand way; and he had since paid a very memorable visit to Mr.
Dockwrath in which he had hardly been more successful. Nevertheless,
he had gone to another lawyer. He had felt it impossible to remain
tranquil, pursuing the ordinary avocations of his life, while such
dreadful charges were being made openly against his mother, and
being so made without any authorised contradiction. He knew that she
was innocent. No doubt on that matter ever perplexed his mind for a
moment. But why was she such a coward that she would not allow him
to protect her innocence in the only way which the law permitted? He
could hardly believe that he had no power of doing so even without
her sanction; and therefore he went to another lawyer.

The other lawyer did him no good. It was not practicable that he, the
son, should bring an action for defamatory character on the part of
the mother, without that mother's sanction. Moreover, as this new
lawyer saw in a moment, any such interference on the part of Lucius,
and any interposition of fresh and new legal proceedings would
<DW36> and impede the advisers to whom Lady Mason had herself
confided her own case. The new lawyer could do nothing, and thus
Lucius, again repulsed, betook himself to Orley Farm in no happy
frame of mind.

For some day or two after this he did not see his mother. He would
not go down to The Cleeve, though they sent up and asked him; and she
was almost afraid to go across to the house and visit him. "He will
be in church on Sunday," she had said to Mrs. Orme. But he was not
in church on Sunday, and then on Sunday afternoon she did go to him.
This, it will be understood, was before Sir Peregrine had made his
offer, and therefore as to that, there was as yet no embarrassment on
the widow's mind.

"I cannot help feeling, mother," he said, after she had sat there
with him for a short time, "that for the present there is a division
between you and me."

"Oh, Lucius!"

"It is no use our denying it to ourselves. It is so. You are in
trouble, and you will not listen to my advice. You leave my house and
take to the roof of a new and an untried friend."

"No, Lucius; not that."

"Yes. I say a new friend. Twelve months ago, though you might call
there, you never did more than that--and even that but seldom. They
are new friends; and yet, now that you are in trouble, you choose to
live with them."

"Dear Lucius, is there any reason why I should not visit at The
Cleeve?"

"Yes; if you ask me--yes;" and now he spoke very sternly. "There is a
cloud upon you, and you should know nothing of visitings and of new
friendships till that cloud has been dispersed. While these things
are being said of you, you should set at no other table than this,
and drink of no man's cup but mine. I know your innocence," and as
he went on to speak, he stood up before her and looked down fully
into her face, "but others do not. I know how unworthy are these
falsehoods with which wicked men strive to crush you, but others
believe that they are true accusations. They cannot be disregarded,
and now it seems,--now that you have allowed them to gather to a
head, they will result in a trial, during which you will have to
stand at the bar charged with a dreadful crime."

"Oh, Lucius!" and she hid her eyes in her hands. "I could not have
helped it. How could I have helped it?"

"Well; it must be so now. And till that trial is over, here should
be your place. Here, at my right hand; I am he who am bound to stand
by you. It is I whose duty it is to see that your name be made white
again, though I spend all I have, ay, and my life in doing it. I am
the one man on whose arm you have a right to lean. And yet, in such
days as these, you leave my house and go to that of a stranger."

"He is not a stranger, Lucius."

"He cannot be to you as a son should be. However, it is for you to
judge. I have no control in this matter, but I think it right that
you should know what are my thoughts."

And then she had crept back again to The Cleeve. Let Lucius say what
he might, let this additional sorrow be ever so bitter, she could not
obey her son's behests. If she did so in one thing she must do so in
all. She had chosen her advisers with her best discretion, and by
that choice she must abide--even though it separated her from her
son. She could not abandon Sir Peregrine Orme and Mr. Furnival. So
she crept back and told all this to Mrs. Orme. Her heart would have
utterly sunk within her could she not have spoken openly to some one
of this sorrow.

"But he loves you," Mrs. Orme had said, comforting her. "It is not
that he does not love you."

"But he is so stern to me." And then Mrs. Orme had kissed her, and
promised that none should be stern to her, there, in that house. On
the morning after this Sir Peregrine had made his offer, and then
she felt that the division between her and her boy would be wider
than ever. And all this had come of that inheritance which she had
demanded so eagerly for her child.

And now Lucius was sitting alone in his room at Orley Farm, having,
for the present, given up all idea of attempting anything himself by
means of the law. He had made his way into Mr. Dockwrath's office,
and had there insulted the attorney in the presence of witnesses. His
hope now was that the attorney might bring an action against him. If
that were done he would thus have the means of bringing out all the
facts of the case before a jury and a judge. It was fixed in his mind
that if he could once drag that reptile before a public tribunal,
and with loud voice declare the wrong that was being done, all might
be well. The public would understand and would speak out, and the
reptile would be scorned and trodden under foot. Poor Lucius! It
is not always so easy to catch public sympathy, and it will occur
sometimes that the wrong reptile is crushed by the great public heel.

[Illustration: Lucius Mason in his Study.]

He had his books before him as he sat there--his Latham and his
Pritchard, and he had the jawbone of one savage and the skull of
another. His Liverpool bills for unadulterated guano were lying on
the table, and a philosophical German treatise on agriculture which
he had resolved to study. It became a man, he said to himself, to do
a man's work in spite of any sorrow. But, nevertheless, as he sat
there, his studies were but of little service to him. How many men
have declared to themselves the same thing, but have failed when the
trial came! Who, can command the temper and the mind? At ten I will
strike the lyre and begin my poem. But at ten the poetic spirit is
under a dark cloud--because the water for the tea had not boiled when
it was brought in at nine. And so the lyre remains unstricken.

And Lucius found that he could not strike his lyre. For days he had
sat there and no good note had been produced. And then he had walked
over his land, having a farming man at his heels, thinking that he
could turn his mind to the actual and practical working of his land.
But little good had come of that either. It was January, and the land
was sloppy and half frozen. There was no useful work to be done on
it. And then what farmer Greenwood had once said of him was true
enough, "The young maister's spry and active surely, but he can't let
unself down to stable doong and the loik o' that." He had some grand
idea of farming--a conviction that the agricultural world in general
was very backward, and that he would set it right. Even now in his
sorrow, as he walked through his splashy, frozen fields, he was
tormented by a desire to do something, he knew not what, that might
be great.

He had no such success on the present occasion and returned
disconsolate to the house. This happened about noon on the day after
that on which Sir Peregrine had declared himself. He returned as
I have said to the house, and there at the kitchen door he met a
little girl whom he knew well as belonging to The Cleeve. She was a
favourite of Mrs. Orme's, was educated and clothed by her, and ran
on her messages. Now she had brought a letter up to Lucius from his
mother. Curtsying low she so told him, and he at once went into the
sitting-room where he found it lying on his table. His hand was
nervous as he opened it; but if he could have seen how tremulous had
been the hand that wrote it! The letter was as follows:--


   DEAREST LUCIUS,

   I know you will be very much surprised at what I am going
   to tell you, but I hope you will not judge me harshly.
   If I know myself at all I would take no step of any kind
   for my own advantage which could possibly injure you. At
   the present moment we unfortunately do not agree about a
   subject which is troubling us both, and I cannot therefore
   consult you as I should otherwise have done. I trust that
   by God's mercy these troubles may come to an end, and that
   there may be no further differences between you and me.

   Sir Peregrine Orme has made me an offer of marriage and I
   have accepted it--


Lucius Mason when he had read so far threw down the letter upon the
table, and rising suddenly from his chair walked rapidly up and
down the room. "Marry him!" he said out loud, "marry him!" The idea
that their fathers and mothers should marry and enjoy themselves is
always a thing horrible to be thought of in the minds of the rising
generation. Lucius Mason now began to feel against his mother the
same sort of anger which Joseph Mason had felt when his father had
married again. "Marry him!" And then he walked rapidly about the
room, as though some great injury had been threatened to him.

And so it had, in his estimation. Was it not her position in life to
be his mother? Had she not had her young days? But it did not occur
to him to think what those young days had been. And this then was the
meaning of her receding from his advice and from his roof! She had
been preparing for herself in the world new hopes, a new home, and a
new ambition. And she had so prevailed upon the old man that he was
about to do this foolish thing! Then again he walked up and down the
room, injuring his mother much in his thoughts. He gave her credit
for none of those circumstances which had truly actuated her in
accepting the hand which Sir Peregrine had offered her. In that
matter touching the Orley Farm estate he could acquit his mother
instantly,--with acclamation. But in this other matter he had
pronounced her guilty before she had been allowed to plead. Then he
took up the letter and finished it.


   Sir Peregrine Orme has made me an offer of marriage and
   I have accepted it. It is very difficult to explain in a
   letter all the causes that have induced me to do so. The
   first perhaps is this, that I feel myself so bound to him
   by love and gratitude, that I think it my duty to fall in
   with all his wishes. He has pointed out to me that as my
   husband he can do more for me than would be possible for
   him without that name. I have explained to him that I
   would rather perish than that he should sacrifice himself;
   but he is pleased to say that it is no sacrifice. At any
   rate he so wishes it, and as Mrs. Orme has cordially
   assented, I feel myself bound to fall in with his views.
   It was only yesterday that Sir Peregrine made his offer. I
   mention this that you may know that I have lost no time in
   telling you.

   Dearest Lucius, believe that I shall be as ever
   Your most affectionate mother,

   MARY MASON.

   The little girl will wait for an answer if she finds that
   you are at the farm.


"No," he said to himself, still walking about the room. "She can
never be to me the same mother that she was. I would have sacrificed
everything for her. She should have been the mistress of my house, at
any rate till she herself should have wished it otherwise. But now--"
And then his mind turned away suddenly to Sophia Furnival.

I cannot myself but think that had that affair of the trial been set
at rest Lady Mason would have been prudent to look for another home.
The fact that Orley Farm was his house and not hers occurred almost
too frequently to Lucius Mason; and I am not certain that it would
have been altogether comfortable as a permanent residence for his
mother after he should have brought home to it some such bride as her
he now proposed to himself.

It was necessary that he should write an answer to his mother, which
he did at once.


   Orley Farm, -- January.

   DEAR MOTHER,

   It is I fear too late for me to offer any counsel on the
   subject of your letter. I cannot say that I think you are
   right.

   Your affectionate son,

   LUCIUS MASON.


And then, having finished this, he again walked the room. "It is all
up between me and her," he said, "as real friends in life and heart.
She shall still have the respect of a son, and I shall have the
regard of a mother. But how can I trim my course to suit the welfare
of the wife of Sir Peregrine Orme?" And then he lashed himself into
anger at the idea that his mother should have looked for other solace
than that which he could have given.

Nothing more from The Cleeve reached him that day; but early on
the following morning he had a visitor whom he certainly had not
expected. Before he sat down to his breakfast he heard the sound of
a horse's feet before the door, and immediately afterwards Peregrine
Orme entered the sitting-room. He was duly shown in by the servant,
and in his ordinary way came forward quickly and shook hands. Then he
waited till the door was closed, and at once began upon the subject
which had brought him there.

"Mason," he said, "you have heard of this that is being done at The
Cleeve?"

Lucius immediately fell back a step or two, and considered for a
moment how he should answer. He had pressed very heavily on his
mother in his own thoughts, but he was not prepared to hear her
harshly spoken of by another.

"Yes," said he, "I have heard."

"And I understand from your mother that you do not approve of it."

"Approve of it! No; I do not approve of it."

"Nor by heavens do I!"

"I do not approve of it," said Mason, speaking with deliberation;
"but I do not know that I can take any steps towards preventing it."

"Cannot you see her, and talk to her, and tell her how wrong it is?"

"Wrong! I do not know that she is wrong in that sense. I do not know
that you have any right to blame her. Why do not you speak to your
grandfather?"

"So I have--as far as it was possible for me. But you do not know Sir
Peregrine. No one has any influence over him, but my mother;--and now
also your mother."

"And what does Mrs. Orme say?"

"She will say nothing. I know well that she disapproves of it. She
must disapprove of it, though she will not say so. She would rather
burn off both her hands than displease my grandfather. She says that
he asked her and that she consented."

"It seems to me that it is for her and you to prevent this."

"No; it is for your mother to prevent it. Only think of it, Mason.
He is over seventy, and, as he says himself, he will not burden the
estate with a new jointure. Why should she do it?"

"You are wronging her there. It is no affair of money. She is not
going to marry him for what she can get."

"Then why should she do it?"

"Because he tells her. These troubles about the lawsuit have turned
her head, and she has put herself entirely into his hands. I think
she is wrong. I could have protected her from all this evil, and
would have done so. I could have done more, I think, than Sir
Peregrine can do. But she has thought otherwise, and I do not know
that I can help it."

"But will you speak to her? Will make her perceive that she is
injuring a family that is treating her with kindness?"

"If she will come here I will speak to her. I cannot do it there. I
cannot go down to your grandfather's house with such an object as
that."

"All the world will turn against her if she marries him," said
Peregrine. And then there was silence between them for a moment or
two.

"It seems to me," said Lucius at last, "that you wrong my mother very
much in this matter, and lay all the blame where but the smallest
part of the blame is deserved. She has no idea of money in her mind,
or any thought of pecuniary advantage. She is moved solely by what
your grandfather has said to her,--and by an insane dread of some
coming evil which she thinks may be lessened by his assistance. You
are in the house with them, and can speak to him,--and if you please
to her also. I do not see that I can do either."

"And you will not help me to break it off?"

"Certainly,--if I can see my way."

"Will you write to her?"

"Well; I will think about it."

"Whether she be to blame or not it must be your duty as well as mine
to prevent such a marriage if it be possible. Think what people will
say of it?"

After some further discussion Peregrine remounted his horse, and rode
back to The Cleeve, not quite satisfied with young Mason.

"If you do speak to her,--to my mother, do it gently." Those were the
last words whispered by Lucius as Peregrine Orme had his foot in the
stirrup.

Young Peregrine Orme, as he rode home, felt that the world was using
him very unkindly. Everything was going wrong with him, and an idea
entered his head that he might as well go and look for Sir John
Franklin at the North Pole, or join some energetic traveller in the
middle of Central Africa. He had proposed to Madeline Staveley and
had been refused. That in itself caused a load to lie on his heart
which was almost unendurable;--and now his grandfather was going to
disgrace himself. He had made his little effort to be respectable
and discreet, devoting himself to the county hunt and county
drawing-rooms, giving up the pleasures of London and the glories of
dissipation. And for what?

Then Peregrine began to argue within himself as some others have done
before him--

"Were it not better done as others use--" he said to himself, in that
or other language; and as he rode slowly into the courtyard of The
Cleeve, he thought almost with regret of his old friend Carroty Bob.




CHAPTER XXXVII.

PEREGRINE'S ELOQUENCE.


In the last chapter Peregrine Orme called at Orley Farm with the
view of discussing with Lucius Mason the conduct of their respective
progenitors; and, as will be remembered, the young men agreed in
a general way that their progenitors were about to make fools of
themselves. Poor Peregrine, however, had other troubles on his mind.
Not only had his grandfather been successful in love, but he had
been unsuccessful. As he had journeyed home from Noningsby to The
Cleeve in a high-wheeled vehicle which he called his trap, he had
determined, being then in a frame of mind somewhat softer than was
usual with him, to tell all his troubles to his mother. It sounds as
though it were lack-a-daisical--such a resolve as this on the part
of a dashing young man, who had been given to the pursuit of rats,
and was now a leader among the sons of Nimrod in the pursuit of
foxes. Young men of the present day, when got up for the eyes of the
world, look and talk as though they could never tell their mothers
anything,--as though they were harder than flint, and as little in
want of a woman's counsel and a woman's help as a colonel of horse
on the morning of a battle. But the rigid virility of his outward
accoutrements does in no way alter the man of flesh and blood who
wears them; the young hero, so stern to the eye, is, I believe, as
often tempted by stress of sentiment to lay bare the sorrow of his
heart as is his sister. On this occasion Peregrine said to himself
that he would lay bare the sorrow of his heart. He would find out
what others thought of that marriage which he had proposed to
himself; and then, if his mother encouraged him, and his grandfather
approved, he would make another attack, beginning on the side of the
judge, or perhaps on that of Lady Staveley.

But he found that others, as well as he, were labouring under a
stress of sentiment; and when about to tell his own tale, he had
learned that a tale was to be told to him. He had dined with Lady
Mason, his mother, and his grandfather, and the dinner had been very
silent. Three of the party were in love, and the fourth was burdened
with the telling of the tale. The baronet himself said nothing on the
subject as he and his grandson sat over their wine; but later in the
evening Peregrine was summoned to his mother's room, and she, with
considerable hesitation and much diffidence, informed him of the
coming nuptials.

"Marry Lady Mason!" he had said.

"Yes, Peregrine. Why should he not do so if they both wish it?"

Peregrine thought that there were many causes and impediments
sufficiently just why no such marriage should take place, but he
had not his arguments ready at his fingers' ends. He was so stunned
by the intelligence that he could say but little about it on that
occasion. By the few words that he did say, and by the darkness of
his countenance, he showed plainly enough that he disapproved. And
then his mother said all that she could in the baronet's favour,
pointing out that in a pecuniary way Peregrine would receive benefit
rather than injury.

"I'm not thinking of the money, mother."

"No, my dear; but it is right that I should tell you how considerate
your grandfather is."

"All the same, I wish he would not marry this woman."

"Woman, Peregrine! You should not speak in that way of a friend whom
I dearly love."

"She is a woman all the same." And then he sat sulkily looking at the
fire. His own stress of sentiment did not admit of free discussion
at the present moment, and was necessarily postponed. On that other
affair he was told that his grandfather would be glad to see him on
the following morning; and then he left his mother.

"Your grandfather, Peregrine, asked for my assent," said Mrs. Orme;
"and I thought it right to give it." This she said to make him
understand that it was no longer in her power to oppose the match.
And she was thoroughly glad that this was so, for she would have
lacked the courage to oppose Sir Peregrine in anything.

On the next morning Peregrine saw his grandfather before breakfast.
His mother came to his room door while he was dressing to whisper
a word of caution to him. "Pray, be courteous to him," she
said. "Remember how good he is to you--to us both! Say that you
congratulate him."

"But I don't," said Peregrine.

"Ah, but, Peregrine--"

"I'll tell you what I'll do, mother. I'll leave the house altogether
and go away, if you wish it."

"Oh, Peregrine! How can you speak in that way? But he's waiting now.
Pray, pray, be kind in your manner to him."

He descended with the same sort of feeling which had oppressed him on
his return home after his encounter with Carroty Bob in Smithfield.
Since then he had been on enduring good terms with his grandfather,
but now again all the discomforts of war were imminent.

"Good morning, sir," he said, on going into his grandfather's
dressing-room.

"Good morning, Peregrine." And then there was silence for a moment or
two.

"Did you see your mother last night?"

"Yes; I did see her."

"And she told you what it is that I propose to do?"

"Yes, sir; she told me."

"I hope you understand, my boy, that it will not in any way affect
your own interests injuriously."

"I don't care about that, sir--one way or the other."

"But I do, Peregrine. Having seen to that I think that I have a right
to please myself in this matter."

"Oh, yes, sir; I know you have the right."

"Especially as I can benefit others. Are you aware that your mother
has cordially given her consent to the marriage?"

"She told me that you had asked her, and that she had agreed to it.
She would agree to anything."

"Peregrine, that is not the way in which you should speak of your
mother."

And then the young man stood silent, as though there was nothing more
to be said. Indeed, he had nothing more to say. He did not dare to
bring forward in words all the arguments against the marriage which
were now crowding themselves into his memory, but he could not induce
himself to wish the old man joy, or to say any of those civil things
which are customary on such occasions. The baronet sat for a while,
silent also, and a cloud of anger was coming across his brow; but he
checked that before he spoke. "Well, my boy," he said, and his voice
was almost more than usually kind, "I can understand your thoughts,
and we will say nothing of them at present. All I will ask of you is
to treat Lady Mason in a manner befitting the position in which I
intend to place her."

"If you think it will be more comfortable, sir, I will leave The
Cleeve for a time."

"I hope that may not be necessary--Why should it? Or at any rate, not
as yet," he added, as a thought as to his wedding day occurred to
him. And then the interview was over, and in another half-hour they
met again at breakfast.

In the breakfast-room Lady Mason was also present. Peregrine was the
last to enter, and as he did so his grandfather was already standing
in his usual place, with the book of Prayers in his hand, waiting
that the servants should arrange themselves at their chairs before he
knelt down. There was no time then for much greeting, but Peregrine
did shake hands with her as he stept across to his accustomed corner.
He shook hands with her, and felt that her hand was very cold; but he
did not look at her, nor did he hear any answer given to his muttered
words. When they all got up she remained close to Mrs. Orme, as
though she might thus be protected from the anger which she feared
from Sir Peregrine's other friends. And at breakfast also she sat
close to her, far away from the baronet, and almost hidden by the urn
from his grandson. Sitting there she said nothing; neither in truth
did she eat anything. It was a time of great suffering to her, for
she knew that her coming could not be welcomed by the young heir. "It
must not be," she said to herself over and over again. "Though he
turn me out of the house, I must tell him that it cannot be so."

After breakfast Peregrine had ridden over to Orley Farm, and there
held his consultation with the other heir. On his returning to The
Cleeve, he did not go into the house, but having given up his horse
to a groom, wandered away among the woods. Lucius Mason had suggested
that he, Peregrine Orme, should himself speak to Lady Mason on this
matter. He felt that his grandfather would be very angry, should he
do so. But he did not regard that much. He had filled himself full
with the theory of his duties, and he would act up to it. He would
see her, without telling any one what was his purpose, and put it
to her whether she would bring down this destruction on so noble a
gentleman. Having thus resolved, he returned to the house, when it
was already dark, and making his way into the drawing-room, sat
himself down before the fire, still thinking of his plan. The room
was dark, as such rooms are dark for the last hour or two before
dinner in January, and he sat himself in an arm-chair before the
fire, intending to sit there till it would be necessary that he
should go to dress. It was an unaccustomed thing with him so to place
himself at such a time, or to remain in the drawing-room at all till
he came down for a few minutes before dinner; but he did so now,
having been thrown out of his usual habits by the cares upon his
mind. He had been so seated about a quarter of an hour, and was
already nearly asleep, when he heard the rustle of a woman's garment,
and looking round, with such light as the fire gave him, perceived
that Lady Mason was in the room. She had entered very quietly, and
was making her way in the dark to a chair which she frequently
occupied, between the fire and one of the windows, and in doing so
she passed so near Peregrine as to touch him with her dress.

"Lady Mason," he said, speaking, in the first place, in order that
she might know that she was not alone, "it is almost dark; shall I
ring for candles for you?"

She started at hearing his voice, begged his pardon for disturbing
him, declined his offer of light, and declared that she was going up
again to her own room immediately. But it occurred to him that if it
would be well that he should speak to her, it would be well that he
should do so at once; and what opportunity could be more fitting than
the present? "If you are not in a hurry about anything," he said,
"would you mind staying here for a few minutes?"

"Oh no, certainly not." But he could perceive that her voice trembled
in uttering even these few words.

"I think I'd better light a candle," he said; and then he did light
one of those which stood on the corner of the mantelpiece,--a
solitary candle, which only seemed to make the gloom of the large
room visible. She, however, was standing close to it, and would have
much preferred that the room should have been left to its darkness.

"Won't you sit down for a few minutes?" and then she sat down. "I'll
just shut the door, if you don't mind." And then, having done so, he
returned to his own chair and again faced the fire. He saw that she
was pale and nervous, and he did not like to look at her as he spoke.
He began to reflect also that they might probably be interrupted by
his mother, and he wished that they could adjourn to some other room.
That, however, seemed to be impossible; so he summoned up all his
courage, and began his task.

"I hope you won't think me uncivil, Lady Mason, for speaking to you
about this affair."

"Oh no, Mr. Orme; I am sure that you will not be uncivil to me."

"Of course I cannot help feeling a great concern in it, for it's very
nearly the same, you know, as if he were my father. Indeed, if you
come to that, it's almost worse; and I can assure you it is nothing
about money that I mind. Many fellows in my place would be afraid
about that, but I don't care twopence what he does in that respect.
He is so honest and so noble-hearted, that I am sure he won't do me a
wrong."

"I hope not, Mr. Orme; and certainly not in respect to me."

"I only mention it for fear you should misunderstand me. But there
are other reasons, Lady Mason, why this marriage will make me--make
me very unhappy."

"Are there? I shall be so unhappy if I make others unhappy."

"You will then,--I can assure you of that. It is not only me, but
your own son. I was up with him to-day, and he thinks of it the same
as I do."

"What did he say, Mr. Orme?"

"What did he say? Well, I don't exactly remember his words; but he
made me understand that your marriage with Sir Peregrine would make
him very unhappy. He did indeed. Why do you not see him yourself, and
talk to him?"

"I thought it best to write to him in the first place."

"Well, now you have written; and don't you think it would be well
that you should go up and see him? You will find that he is quite as
strong against it as I am,--quite."

Peregrine, had he known it, was using the arguments which were of all
the least likely to induce Lady Mason to pay a visit to Orley Farm.
She dreaded the idea of a quarrel with her son, and would have made
almost any sacrifice to prevent such a misfortune; but at the present
moment she feared the anger of his words almost more than the anger
implied by his absence. If this trial could be got over, she would
return to him and almost throw herself at his feet; but till that
time, might it not be well that they should be apart? At any rate,
these tidings of his discontent could not be efficacious in inducing
her to seek him.

"Dear Lucius!" she said, not addressing herself to her companion, but
speaking her thoughts. "I would not willingly give him cause to be
discontented with me."

"He is, then, very discontented. I can assure you of that."

"Yes; he and I think differently about all this."

"Ah, but don't you think you had better speak to him before you quite
make up your mind? He is your son, you know; and an uncommon clever
fellow too. He'll know how to say all this much better than I do."

"Say what, Mr. Orme?"

"Why, of course you can't expect that anybody will like such a
marriage as this;--that is, anybody except you and Sir Peregrine."

"Your mother does not object to it."

"My mother! But you don't know my mother yet. She would not object to
have her head cut off if anybody wanted it that she cared about. I
do not know how it has all been managed, but I suppose Sir Peregrine
asked her. Then of course she would not object. But look at the
common sense of it, Lady Mason. What does the world always say when
an old man like my grandfather marries a young woman?"

"But I am not--." So far she got, and then she stopped herself.

"We have all liked you very much. I'm sure I have for one; and I'll
go in for you, heart and soul, in this shameful law business. When
Lucius asked me, I didn't think anything of going to that scoundrel
in Hamworth; and all along I've been delighted that Sir Peregrine
took it up. By heavens! I'd be glad to go down to Yorkshire myself,
and walk into that fellow that wants to do you this injury. I would
indeed; and I'll stand by you as strong as anybody. But, Lady Mason,
when it comes to one's grandfather marrying, it--it--it--. Think what
people in the county will say of him. If it was your father, and if
he had been at the top of the tree all his life, how would you like
to see him get a fall, and be laughed at as though he were in the mud
just when he was too old ever to get up again?"

I am not sure whether Lucius Mason, with all his cleverness, could
have put the matter much better, or have used a style of oratory more
efficacious to the end in view. Peregrine had drawn his picture with
a coarse pencil, but he had drawn it strongly, and with graphic
effect. And then he paused; not with self-confidence, or as giving
his companion time to see how great had been his art, but in want of
words, and somewhat confused by the strength of his own thoughts. So
he got up and poked the fire, turning his back to it, and then sat
down again. "It is such a deuce of a thing, Lady Mason," he said,
"that you must not be angry with me for speaking out."

"Oh, Mr. Orme, I am not angry, and I do not know what to say to you."

"Why don't you speak to Lucius?"

"What could he say more than you have said? Dear Mr. Orme, I would
not injure him,--your grandfather, I mean,--for all that the world
holds."

"You will injure him;--in the eyes of all his friends."

"Then I will not do it. I will go to him, and beg him that it may not
be so. I will tell him that I cannot. Anything will be better than
bringing him to sorrow or disgrace."

"By Jove! but will you really?" Peregrine was startled and almost
frightened at the effect of his own eloquence. What would the baronet
say when he learned that he had been talked out of his wife by his
grandson?

"Mr. Orme," continued Lady Mason, "I am sure you do not understand
how this matter has been brought about. If you did, however much it
might grieve you, you would not blame me, even in your thoughts.
From the first to the last my only desire has been to obey your
grandfather in everything."

"But you would not marry him out of obedience?"

"I would--and did so intend. I would, certainly; if in doing so I did
him no injury. You say that your mother would give her life for him.
So would I;--that or anything else that I could give, without hurting
him or others. It was not I that sought for this marriage; nor did I
think of it. If you were in my place, Mr. Orme, you would know how
difficult it is to refuse."

Peregrine again got up, and standing with his back to the fire,
thought over it all again. His soft heart almost relented towards the
woman who had borne his rough words with so much patient kindness.
Had Sir Peregrine been there then, and could he have condescended so
far, he might have won his grandson's consent without much trouble.
Peregrine, like some other generals, had expended his energy in
gaining his victory, and was more ready now to come to easy terms
than he would have been had he suffered in the combat.

[Illustration: Peregrine's Eloquence.]

"Well," he said after a while, "I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you
for the manner in which you have taken what I said to you. Nobody
knows about it yet, I suppose; and perhaps, if you will talk to the
governor--"

"I will talk to him, Mr. Orme."

"Thank you; and then perhaps all things may turn out right. I'll go
and dress now." And so saying he took his departure, leaving her to
consider how best she might act at this crisis of her life, so that
things might go right, if such were possible. The more she thought of
it, the less possible it seemed that her affairs should be made to go
right.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

OH, INDEED!


The dinner on that day at The Cleeve was not very dull. Peregrine had
some hopes that the idea of the marriage might be abandoned, and was
at any rate much better disposed towards Lady Mason than he had been.
He spoke to her, asking her whether she had been out, and suggesting
roast mutton or some such creature comfort. This was lost neither on
Sir Peregrine nor on Mrs. Orme, and they both exerted themselves to
say a few words in a more cheery tone than had been customary in the
house for the last day or two. Lady Mason herself did not say much;
but she had sufficient tact to see the effort which was being made;
and though she spoke but little she smiled and accepted graciously
the courtesies that were tendered to her.

Then the two ladies went away, and Peregrine was again left with his
grandfather. "That was a nasty accident that Graham had going out of
Monkton Grange," said he, speaking on the moment of his closing the
dining-room door after his mother. "I suppose you heard all about
it, sir?" Having fought his battle so well before dinner, he was
determined to give some little rest to his half-vanquished enemy.

"The first tidings we heard were that he was dead," said Sir
Peregrine, filling his glass.

"No; he wasn't dead. But of course you know that now. He broke an arm
and two ribs, and got rather a bad squeeze. He was just behind me,
you know, and I had to wait for him. I lost the run, and had to see
Harriet Tristram go away with the best lead any one has had to a
fast thing this year. That's an uncommon nasty place at the back of
Monkton Grange."

"I hope, Peregrine, you don't think too much about Harriet Tristram."

"Think of her! who? I? Think of her in what sort of a way? I think
she goes uncommonly well to hounds."

"That may be, but I should not wish to see you pin your happiness on
any lady that was celebrated chiefly for going well to hounds."

"Do you mean marry her?" and Peregrine immediately made a strong
comparison in his mind between Miss Tristram and Madeline Staveley.

"Yes; that's what I did mean."

"I wouldn't have her if she owned every fox-cover in the county. No,
by Jove! I know a trick worth two of that. It's jolly enough to see
them going, but as to being in love with them--in that sort of way--"

"You are quite right, my boy; quite right. It is not that that a man
wants in a wife."

"No," said Peregrine, with a melancholy cadence in his voice,
thinking of what it was that he did want. And so they sat sipping
their wine. The turn which the conversation had taken had for the
moment nearly put Lady Mason out of the young man's head.

"You would be very young to marry yet," said the baronet.

"Yes, I should be young; but I don't know that there is any harm in
that."

"Quite the contrary, if a young man feels himself to be sufficiently
settled. Your mother I know would be very glad that you should marry
early;--and so should I, if you married well."

What on earth could all this mean? It could not be that his
grandfather knew that he was in love with Miss Staveley; and had this
been known his grandfather would not have talked of Harriet Tristram.
"Oh yes; of course a fellow should marry well. I don't think much of
marrying for money."

"Nor do I, Peregrine;--I think very little of it."

"Nor about being of very high birth."

"Well; it would make me unhappy--very unhappy if you were to marry
below your own rank."

"What do you call my own rank?"

"I mean any girl whose father is not a gentleman, and whose mother is
not a lady; and of whose education among ladies you could not feel
certain."

"I could be quite certain about her," said Peregrine, very
innocently.

"Her! what her?"

"Oh, I forgot that we were talking about nobody."

"You don't mean Harriet Tristram?"

"No, certainly not."

"Of whom were you thinking, Peregrine? May I ask--if it be not too
close a secret?" And then again there was a pause, during which
Peregrine emptied his glass and filled it again. He had no objection
to talk to his grandfather about Miss Staveley, but he felt ashamed
of having allowed the matter to escape him in this sort of way. "I
will tell you why I ask, my boy," continued the baronet. "I am going
to do that which many people will call a very foolish thing."

"You mean about Lady Mason."

"Yes; I mean my own marriage with Lady Mason. We will not talk about
that just at present, and I only mention it to explain that before I
do so, I shall settle the property permanently. If you were married
I should at once divide it with you. I should like to keep the old
house myself, till I die--"

"Oh, Sir!"

"But sooner than give you cause of offence I would give that up."

"I would not consent to live in it unless I did so as your guest."

"Until your marriage I think of settling on you a thousand a
year;--but it would add to my happiness if I thought it likely that
you would marry soon. Now may I ask of whom were you thinking?"

Peregrine paused for a second or two before he made any reply, and
then he brought it out boldly. "I was thinking of Madeline Staveley."

"Then, my boy, you were thinking of the prettiest girl and the
best-bred lady in the county. Here's her health;" and he filled for
himself a bumper of claret. "You couldn't have named a woman whom I
should be more proud to see you bring home. And your mother's opinion
of her is the same as mine. I happen to know that;" and with a look
of triumph he drank his glass of wine, as though much that was very
joyful to him had been already settled.

"Yes," said Peregrine mournfully, "she is a very nice girl; at least
I think so."

"The man who can win her, Peregrine, may consider himself to be a
lucky fellow. You were quite right in what you were saying about
money. No man feels more sure of that than I do. But if I am not
mistaken Miss Staveley will have something of her own. I rather think
that Arbuthnot got ten thousand pounds."

"I'm sure I don't know, sir," said Peregrine; and his voice was by no
means as much elated as that of his grandfather.

"I think he did; or if he didn't get it all, the remainder is settled
on him. And the judge is not a man to behave better to one child than
to another."

"I suppose not."

And then the conversation flagged a little, for the enthusiasm was
all one side. It was moreover on that side which naturally would have
been the least enthusiastic. Poor Peregrine had only told half his
secret as yet, and that not the most important half. To Sir Peregrine
the tidings, as far as he had heard them, were very pleasant. He did
not say to himself that he would purchase his grandson's assent to
his own marriage by giving his consent to his grandson's marriage.
But it did seem to him that the two affairs, acting upon each other,
might both be made to run smooth. His heir could have made no better
choice in selecting the lady of his love. Sir Peregrine had feared
much that some Miss Tristram or the like might have been tendered to
him as the future Lady Orme, and he was agreeably surprised to find
that a new mistress for The Cleeve had been so well chosen. He would
be all kindness to his grandson and win from him, if it might be
possible, reciprocal courtesy and complaisance. "Your mother will be
very pleased when she hears this," he said.

"I meant to tell my mother," said Peregrine, still very dolefully,
"but I do not know that there is anything in it to please her. I only
said that I--I admired Miss Staveley."

"My dear boy, if you'll take my advice you'll propose to her at once.
You have been staying in the same house with her, and--"

"But I have."

"Have what?"

"I have proposed to her."

"Well?"

"And she has refused me. You know all about it now, and there's no
such great cause for joy."

"Oh, you have proposed to her. Have you spoken to her father or
mother?"

"What was the use when she told me plainly that she did not care for
me? Of course I should have asked her father. As to Lady Staveley,
she and I got on uncommonly well. I'm almost inclined to think that
she would not have objected."

"It would be a very nice match for them, and I dare say she would not
have objected." And then for some ten minutes they sat looking at the
fire. Peregrine had nothing more to say about it, and the baronet was
thinking how best he might encourage his grandson.

"You must try again, you know," at last he said.

"Well; I fear not. I do not think it would be any good. I'm not quite
sure she does not care for some one else."

"Who is he?"

"Oh, a fellow that's there. The man who broke his arm. I don't say
she does, you know, and of course you won't mention it."

Sir Peregrine gave the necessary promises, and then endeavoured to
give encouragement to the lover. He would himself see the judge, if
it were thought expedient, and explain what liberal settlement would
be made on the lady in the event of her altering her mind. "Young
ladies, you know, are very prone to alter their minds on such
matters," said the old man. In answer to which Peregrine declared
his conviction that Madeline Staveley would not alter her mind. But
then do not all despondent lovers hold that opinion of their own
mistresses?

Sir Peregrine had been a great gainer by what had occurred, and so
he felt it. At any rate all the novelty of the question of his own
marriage was over, as between him and Peregrine; and then he had
acquired a means of being gracious which must almost disarm his
grandson of all power of criticism. When he, an old man, was ready to
do so much to forward the views of a young man, could it be possible
that the young man should oppose his wishes? And Peregrine was aware
that his power of opposition was thus lessened.

In the evening nothing remarkable occurred between them. Each had his
or her own plans; but these plans could not be furthered by anything
to be said in a general assembly. Lady Mason had already told to Mrs.
Orme all that had passed in the drawing-room before dinner, and Sir
Peregrine had determined that he would consult Mrs. Orme as to that
matter regarding Miss Staveley. He did not think much of her refusal.
Young ladies always do refuse--at first.

On the day but one following this there came another visit from Mr.
Furnival, and he was for a long time closeted with Sir Peregrine.
Matthew Round had, he said, been with him, and had felt himself
obliged in the performance of his duty to submit a case to counsel
on behalf of his client Joseph Mason. He had not as yet received the
written opinion of Sir Richard Leatherham, to whom he had applied;
but nevertheless, as he wished to give every possible notice, he had
called to say that his firm were of opinion that an action must be
brought either for forgery or for perjury.

"For perjury!" Mr. Furnival had said.

"Well; yes. We would wish to be as little harsh as possible. But if
we convict her of having sworn falsely when she gave evidence as to
having copied the codicil herself, and having seen it witnessed by
the pretended witnesses;--why in that case of course the property
would go back."

"I can't give any opinion as to what might be the result in such a
case," said Mr. Furnival.

Mr. Round had gone on to say that he thought it improbable that the
action could be tried before the summer assizes.

"The sooner the better as far as we are concerned," said Mr.
Furnival.

"If you really mean that, I will see that there shall be no
unnecessary delay." Mr. Furnival had declared that he did really mean
it, and so the interview had ended.

Mr. Furnival had really meant it, fully concurring in the opinion
which Mr. Chaffanbrass had expressed on this matter; but nevertheless
the increasing urgency of the case had almost made him tremble.
He still carried himself with a brave outside before Mat Round,
protesting as to the utter absurdity as well as cruelty of the
whole proceeding; but his conscience told him that it was not
absurd. "Perjury!" he said to himself, and then he rang the bell for
Crabwitz. The upshot of that interview was that Mr. Crabwitz received
a commission to arrange a meeting between that great barrister, the
member for the Essex Marshes, and Mr. Solomon Aram.

"Won't it look rather, rather--rather--; you know what I mean, sir?"
Crabwitz had asked.

"We must fight these people with their own weapons," said Mr.
Furnival;--not exactly with justice, seeing that Messrs. Round and
Crook were not at all of the same calibre in the profession as Mr.
Solomon Aram.

Mr. Furnival had already at this time seen Mr. Slow, of the firm of
Slow and Bideawhile, who were Sir Peregrine's solicitors. This he had
done chiefly that he might be able to tell Sir Peregrine that he had
seen him. Mr. Slow had declared that the case was one which his firm
would not be prepared to conduct, and he named a firm to which he
should recommend his client to apply. But Mr. Furnival, carefully
considering the whole matter, had resolved to take the advice and
benefit by the experience of Mr. Chaffanbrass.

And then he went down once more to The Cleeve. Poor Mr. Furnival! In
these days he was dreadfully buffeted about both as regards his outer
man and his inner conscience by this unfortunate case, giving up to
it time that would otherwise have turned itself into heaps of gold;
giving up domestic conscience--for Mrs. Furnival was still hot in
her anger against poor Lady Mason; and giving up also much peace of
mind, for he felt that he was soiling his hands by dirty work. But
he thought of the lady's pale sweet face, of her tear-laden eye, of
her soft beseeching tones, and gentle touch; he thought of these
things--as he should not have thought of them;--and he persevered.

On this occasion he was closeted with Sir Peregrine for a couple of
hours, and each heard much from the other that surprised him very
much. Sir Peregrine, when he was told that Mr. Solomon Aram from
Bucklersbury, and Mr. Chaffanbrass from the Old Bailey, were to be
retained for the defence of his future wife, drew himself up and said
that he could hardly approve of it. The gentlemen named were no doubt
very clever in criminal concerns; he could understand as much as
that, though he had not had great opportunity of looking into affairs
of that sort. But surely, in Lady Mason's case, assistance of such a
description would hardly be needed. Would it not be better to consult
Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile?

And then it turned out that Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile had been
consulted; and Mr. Furnival, not altogether successfully, endeavoured
to throw dust into the baronet's eyes, declaring that in a combat
with the devil one must use the devil's weapons. He assured Sir
Peregrine that he had given the matter his most matured and indeed
most painful professional consideration; there were unfortunate
circumstances which required peculiar care; it was a matter which
would depend entirely on the evidence of one or two persons who might
be suborned; and in such a case it would be well to trust to those
who knew how to break down and crush a lying witness. In such work as
that Slow and Bideawhile would be innocent and ignorant as babes. As
to breaking down and crushing a witness anxious to speak the truth,
Mr. Furnival at that time said nothing.

"I will not think that falsehood and fraud can prevail," said Sir
Peregrine proudly.

"But they do prevail sometimes," said Mr. Furnival. And then with
much outer dignity of demeanour, but with some shame-faced tremblings
of the inner man hidden under the guise of that outer dignity, Sir
Peregrine informed the lawyer of his great purpose.

"Indeed!" said Mr. Furnival, throwing himself back into his chair
with a start.

"Yes, Mr. Furnival. I should not have taken the liberty to trouble
you with a matter so private in its nature, but for your close
professional intimacy and great friendship with Lady Mason."

"Oh, indeed!" said Mr. Furnival; and the baronet could understand
from the lawyer's tone that even he did not approve.




CHAPTER XXXIX.

WHY SHOULD HE GO?


"I am well aware, Mr. Staveley, that you are one of those gentlemen
who amuse themselves by frequently saying such things to girls. I had
learned your character in that respect before I had been in the house
two days."

"Then, Miss Furnival, you learned what was very false. May I ask who
has blackened me in this way in your estimation?" It will be easily
seen from this that Mr. Augustus Staveley and Miss Furnival were at
the present moment alone together in one of the rooms at Noningsby.

"My informant," she replied, "has been no one special sinner whom you
can take by the throat and punish. Indeed, if you must shoot anybody,
it should be chiefly yourself, and after that your father, and
mother, and sisters. But you need not talk of being black. Such sins
are venial now-a-days, and convey nothing deeper than a light shade
of brown."

"I regard a man who can act in such a way as very base."

"Such a way as what, Mr. Staveley?"

"A man who can win a girl's heart for his own amusement."

"I said nothing about the winning of hearts. That is treachery of
the worst dye; but I acquit you of any such attempt. When there is a
question of the winning of hearts men look so different."

"I don't know how they look," said Augustus, not altogether satisfied
as to the manner in which he was being treated--"but such has been my
audacity,--my too great audacity on the present occasion."

"You are the most audacious of men, for your audacity would carry you
to the feet of another lady to-morrow without the slightest check."

"And that is the only answer I am to receive from you?"

"It is quite answer enough. What would you have me do? Get up and
decline the honour of being Mrs. Augustus Staveley with a curtsy?"

"No--I would have you do nothing of the kind. I would have you get up
and accept the honour,--with a kiss."

"So that you might have the kiss, and I might have the--; I was going
to say disappointment, only that would be untrue. Let me assure you
that I am not so demonstrative in my tokens of regard."

"I wonder whether you mean that you are not so honest?"

"No, Mr. Staveley; I mean nothing of the kind; and you are very
impertinent to express such a supposition. What have I done or said
to make you suppose that I have lost my heart to you?"

"As you have mine, it is at any rate human nature in me to hope that
I might have yours."

"Psha! your heart! You have been making a shuttlecock of it till it
is doubtful whether you have not banged it to pieces. I know two
ladies who carry in their caps two feathers out of it. It is so
easy to see when a man is in love. They all go cross-gartered like
Malvolio;--cross-gartered in their looks and words and doings."

"And there is no touch of all this in me?"

"You cross-gartered! You have never got so far yet as a
lack-a-daisical twist to the corner of your mouth. Did you watch Mr.
Orme before he went away?"

"Why; was he cross-gartered?"

"But you men have no eyes; you never see anything. And your idea of
love-making is to sit under a tree wishing, wondering whether the
ripe fruit will fall down into your mouth. Ripe fruit does sometimes
fall, and then it is all well with you. But if it won't, you pass on
and say that it is sour. As for climbing--"

"The fruit generally falls too fast to admit of such exercise," said
Staveley, who did not choose that all the sharp things should be said
on the other side.

"And that is the result of your very extended experience? The
orchards which have been opened to you have not, I fear, been of the
first quality. Mr. Staveley, my hand will do very well by itself.
Such is not the sort of climbing that is required. That is what I
call stooping to pick up the fruit that has fallen." And as she
spoke, she moved a little away from him on the sofa.

"And how is a man to climb?"

"Do you really mean that you want a lesson? But if I were to tell
you, my words would be thrown away. Men will not labour who have
gotten all that they require without work. Why strive to deserve any
woman, when women are plenty who do not care to be deserved? That
plan of picking up the fallen apples is so much the easier."

The lesson might perhaps have been given, and Miss Furnival might
have imparted to Mr. Staveley her idea of "excelsior" in the matter
of love-making, had not Mr. Staveley's mother come into the room at
that moment. Mrs. Staveley was beginning to fear that the results of
her Christmas hospitality would not be satisfactory. Peregrine Orme,
whom she would have been so happy to welcome to the warmest corner of
her household temple as a son, had been sent away in wretchedness and
disappointment. Madeline was moping about the house, hardly making an
effort to look like herself; attributing, in her mother's ears, all
her complaint to that unexpected interview with Peregrine Orme, but
not so attributing it--as her mother fancied--with correctness. And
there was Felix Graham still in the room up stairs, the doctor having
said that he might be moved in a day or two;--that is, such movement
might possibly be effected without detriment;--but having said also
that another ten days of uninterrupted rest would be very desirable.
And now, in addition to this, her son Augustus was to be found on
every wet morning closeted somewhere with Sophia Furnival;--on every
wet morning, and sometimes on dry mornings also!

[Illustration: Lady Stavely interrupting her Son
and Sophia Furnival.]

And then, on this very day, Lady Staveley had discovered that Felix
Graham's door in the corridor was habitually left open. She knew
her child too well, and was too clear and pure in her own mind, to
suppose that there was anything wrong in this;--that clandestine
talkings were arranged, or anything planned in secret. What she
feared was that which really occurred. The door was left open, and as
Madeline passed Felix would say a word, and then Madeline would pause
and answer him. Such words as they were might have been spoken before
all the household, and if so spoken would have been free from danger.
But they were not free from danger when spoken in that way, in the
passage of a half-closed doorway;--all which Lady Staveley understood
perfectly.

"Baker," she had said, with more of anger in her voice than was usual
with her, "why do you leave that door open?"

"I think it sweetens the room, my lady;" and, indeed, Felix Graham
sometimes thought so too.

"Nonsense; every sound in the house must be heard. Keep it shut, if
you please."

"Yes, my lady," said Mrs. Baker--who also understood perfectly.

"He is better, my darling," said Mrs. Baker to Madeline, the same
day; "and, indeed, for that he is well enough as regards eating and
drinking. But it would be cruelty to move him yet. I heard what the
doctor said."

"Who talks of moving him?"

"Well, he talks of it himself; and the doctor said it might be
possible. But I know what that means."

"What does it mean?"

"Why, just this: that if we want to get rid of him, it won't quite be
the death of him."

"But who wants to get rid of him?"

"I'm sure I don't. I don't mind my trouble the least in life. He's as
nice a young gentleman as ever I sat beside the bed of; and he's full
of spirit--he is."

And then Madeline appealed to her mother. Surely her mother would not
let Mr. Graham be sent out of the house in his present state, merely
because the doctor said it might be possible to move him without
causing his instant death! And tears stood in poor Madeline's eyes
as she thus pleaded the cause of the sick and wounded. This again
tormented Lady Staveley, who found it necessary to give further
caution to Mrs. Baker. "Baker," she said, "how can you be so foolish
as to be talking to Miss Madeline about Mr. Graham's arm?"

"Who, my lady? I, my lady?"

"Yes, you; when you know that the least thing frightens her. Don't
you remember how ill it made her when Roger"--Roger was an old family
groom--"when Roger had that accident?" Lady Staveley might have saved
herself the trouble of the reminiscence as to Roger, for Baker knew
more about it than that. When Roger's scalp had been laid bare by a
fall, Miss Madeline had chanced to see it, and had fainted; but Miss
Madeline was not fainting now. Baker knew all about it, almost better
than Lady Staveley herself. It was of very little use talking to
Baker about Roger the groom. Baker thought that Mr. Felix Graham
was a very nice young man, in spite of his "not being exactly
handsomelike about the physgognomy," as she remarked to one of the
younger maids, who much preferred Peregrine Orme.

Coming away from this last interval with Mrs. Baker, Lady Staveley
interrupted her son and Sophia Furnival in the back drawing-room, and
began to feel that her solicitude for her children would be almost
too much for her. Why had she asked that nasty girl to her house, and
why would not the nasty girl go away? As for her going away, there
was no present hope; for it had been arranged that she should stay
for another fortnight. Why could not the Fates have been kind, and
have allowed Felix Graham and Miss Furnival to fall in love with each
other? "I can never make a daughter of her if he does marry her,"
Lady Staveley said to herself, as she looked at them.

Augustus looked as though he were detected, and stammered out some
question about his mother and the carriage; but Miss Furnival did not
for a moment lose her easy presence of mind. "Lady Staveley," said
she, "why does not your son go and hunt, or shoot, or fish, instead
of staying in the house all day? It seems to me that his time is so
heavy on his hands that he will almost have to hang himself."

"I'm sure I can't tell," said Lady Staveley, who was not so perfect
an actor as her guest.

"I do think gentlemen in the house in the morning always look so
unfortunate. You have been endeavouring to make yourself agreeable,
but you know you've been yawning."

"Do you suppose then that men never sit still in the morning?" said
Augustus.

"Oh, in their chambers, yes; or on the bench, and perhaps also behind
counters; but they very seldom do so in a drawing-room. You have been
fidgeting about with the poker till you have destroyed the look of
the fireplace."

"Well, I'll go and fidget up stairs with Graham," said he; and so he
left the room.

"Nasty, sly girl," said Lady Staveley to herself as she took up her
work and sat herself down in her own chair.

Augustus did go up to his friend and found him reading letters. There
was no one else in the room, and the door when Augustus reached it
was properly closed. "I think I shall be off to-morrow, old boy,"
said Felix.

"Then I think you'll do no such thing," said Augustus. "What's in the
wind now?"

"The doctor said this morning that I could be moved without danger."

"He said that it might possibly be done in two or three days--that
was all. What on earth makes you so impatient? You've nothing to do.
Nobody else wants to see you; and nobody here wants to get rid of
you."

"You're wrong in all your three statements."

"The deuce I am! Who wants to get rid of you?"

"That shall come last. I have something to do, and somebody else
does want to see me. I've got a letter from Mary here, and another
from Mrs. Thomas;" and he held up to view two letters which he had
received, and which had, in truth, startled him.

"Mary's duenna;--the artist who is supposed to be moulding the wife."

"Yes; Mary's duenna, or Mary's artist, whichever you please."

"And which of them wants to see you? It's just like a woman, to
require a man's attendance exactly when he is unable to move."

Then Felix, though he did not give up the letters to be read,
described to a certain extent their contents. "I don't know what
on earth has happened," he said. "Mary is praying to be forgiven,
and saying that it is not her fault; and Mrs. Thomas is full
of apologies, declaring that her conscience forces her to tell
everything; and yet, between them both, I do not know what has
happened."

"Miss Snow has probably lost the key of the workbox you gave her."

"I have not given her a workbox."

"Then the writing-desk. That's what a man has to endure when he will
make himself head schoolmaster to a young lady. And so you're going
to look after your charge with your limbs still in bandages?"

"Just so;" and then he took up the two letters and read them again,
while Staveley still sat on the foot of the bed. "I wish I knew what
to think about it," said Felix.

"About what?" said the other. And then there was another pause, and
another reading of a portion of the letters.

"There seems something--something almost frightful to me," said Felix
gravely, "in the idea of marrying a girl in a few months' time, who
now, at so late a period of our engagement, writes to me in that sort
of cold, formal way."

"It's the proper moulded-wife style, you may depend," said Augustus.

"I'll tell you what, Staveley, if you can talk to me seriously for
five minutes, I shall be obliged to you. If that is impossible to
you, say so, and I will drop the matter."

"Well, go on; I am serious enough in what I intend to express, even
though I may not be so in my words."

"I'm beginning to have my doubts about this dear girl."

"I've had my doubts for some time."

"Not, mark you, with regard to myself. The question is not now
whether I can love her sufficiently for my own happiness. On that
side I have no longer the right to a doubt."

"But you wouldn't marry her if you did not love her."

"We need not discuss that. But what if she does not love me? What if
she would think it a release to be freed from this engagement? How am
I to find that out?"

Augustus sat for a while silent, for he did feel that the matter was
serious. The case as he looked at it stood thus:--His friend Graham
had made a very foolish bargain, from which he would probably be glad
to escape, though he could not now bring himself to say as much. But
this bargain, bad for him, would probably be very good for the young
lady. The young lady, having no shilling of her own, and no merits
of birth or early breeding to assist her outlook in the world, might
probably regard her ready-made engagement to a clever, kind-hearted,
high-spirited man, as an advantage not readily to be abandoned.
Staveley, as a sincere friend, was very anxious that the match should
be broken off; but he could not bring himself to tell Graham that
he thought that the young lady would so wish. According to his idea
the young lady must undergo a certain amount of disappointment,
and receive a certain amount of compensation. Graham had been very
foolish, and must pay for his folly. But in preparing to do so, it
would be better that he should see and acknowledge the whole truth of
the matter.

"Are you sure that you have found out your own feelings?" Staveley
said at last; and his tone was then serious enough even for his
friend.

"It hardly matters whether I have or have not," said Felix.

"It matters above all things;--above all things, because as to them
you may come to something like certainty. Of the inside of her heart
you cannot know so much. The fact I take it is this--that you would
wish to escape from this bondage."

"No; not unless I thought she regarded it as bondage also. It may be
that she does. As for myself, I believe that at the present moment
such a marriage would be for me the safest step that I could take."

"Safe as against what danger?"

"All dangers. How, if I should learn to love another woman,--some one
utterly out of my reach,--while I am still betrothed to her?"

"I rarely flatter you, Graham, and don't mean to do it now; but no
girl ought to be out of your reach. You have talent, position, birth,
and gifts of nature, which should make you equal to any lady. As for
money, the less you have the more you should look to get. But if
you would cease to be mad, two years would give you command of an
income."

"But I shall never cease to be mad."

"Who is it that cannot be serious, now?"

"Well, I will be serious--serious enough. I can afford to be so, as
I have received my medical passport for to-morrow. No girl, you say,
ought to be out of my reach. If the girl were one Miss Staveley,
should she be regarded as out of my reach?"

"A man doesn't talk about his own sister," said Staveley, having got
up from the bed and walked to the window, "and I know you don't mean
anything."

"But, by heavens! I do mean a great deal."

"What is it you mean, then?"

"I mean this--What would you say if you learned that I was a suitor
for her hand?"

Staveley had been right in saying that a man does not talk about
his own sister. When he had declared, with so much affectionate
admiration for his friend's prowess, that he might aspire to the
hand of any lady, that one retiring, modest-browed girl had not been
thought of by him. A man in talking to another man about women is
always supposed to consider those belonging to himself as exempt from
the incidents of the conversation. The dearest friends do not talk
to each other about their sisters when they have once left school;
and a man in such a position as that now taken by Graham has to make
fight for his ground as closely as though there had been no former
intimacies. My friend Smith in such a matter as that, though I have
been hail fellow with him for the last ten years, has very little
advantage over Jones, who was introduced to the house for the first
time last week. And therefore Staveley felt himself almost injured
when Felix Graham spoke to him about Madeline.

"What would I say? Well--that is a question one does not understand,
unless--unless you really meant to state it as a fact that it was
your intention to propose to her."

"But I mean rather to state it as a fact that it is not my intention
to propose to her."

"Then we had better not speak of her."

"Listen to me a moment. In order that I may not do so, it will be
better for me--better for us all, that I should leave the house."

"Do you mean to say--?"

"Yes, I do mean to say! I mean to say all that your mind is now
suggesting to you. I quite understand your feelings when you declare
that a man does not like to talk of his own sister, and therefore we
will talk of your sister no more. Old fellow, don't look at me as
though you meant to drop me."

Augustus came back to the bedside, and again seating himself, put his
hand almost caressingly over his friend's shoulder. "I did not think
of this," he said.

"No; one never does think of it," Graham replied.

"And she?"

"She knows no more of it than that bed-post," said Graham. "The
injury, such as there is, is all on one side. But I'll tell you who
suspects it."

"Baker?"

"Your mother. I am much mistaken if you will not find that she, with
all her hospitality, would prefer that I should recover my strength
elsewhere."

"But you have done nothing to betray yourself."

"A mother's ears are very sharp. I know that it is so. I cannot
explain to you how. Do you tell her that I think of getting up to
London to-morrow, and see how she will take it. And, Staveley, do not
for a moment suppose that I am reproaching her. She is quite right.
I believe that I have in no way committed myself--that I have said
no word to your sister with which Lady Staveley has a right to feel
herself aggrieved; but if she has had the wit to read the thoughts of
my bosom, she is quite right to wish that I were out of the house."

Poor Lady Staveley had been possessed of no such wit at all. The
sphynx which she had read had been one much more in her own line. She
had simply read the thoughts in her daughter's bosom--or rather, the
feelings in her daughter's heart.

Augustus Staveley hardly knew what he ought to say. He was not
prepared to tell his friend that he was the very brother-in-law for
whose connection he would be desirous. Such a marriage for Madeline,
even should Madeline desire it, would not be advantageous. When
Augustus told Graham that he had gifts of nature which made him equal
to any lady, he did not include his own sister. And yet the idea of
acquiescing in his friend's sudden departure was very painful to him.
"There can be no reason why you should not stay up here, you know,"
at last he said;--and in so saying he pronounced an absolute verdict
against poor Felix.

On few matters of moment to a man's own heart can he speak out
plainly the whole truth that is in him. Graham had intended so to
do, but had deceived himself. He had not absolutely hoped that his
friend would say, "Come among us, and be one of us; take her, and
be my brother." But yet there came upon his heart a black load of
disappointment, in that the words which were said were the exact
opposite of these. Graham had spoken of himself as unfit to match
with Madeline Staveley, and Madeline Staveley's brother had taken him
at his word. The question which Augustus asked himself was this--Was
it, or was it not practicable that Graham should remain there without
danger of intercourse with his sister? To Felix the question came in
a very different shape. After having spoken as he had spoken--might
he be allowed to remain there, enjoying such intercourse, or might he
not? That was the question to which he had unconsciously demanded an
answer;--and unconsciously he had still hoped that the question might
be answered in his favour. He had so hoped, although he was burdened
with Mary Snow, and although he had spoken of his engagement with
that lady in so rigid a spirit of self-martyrdom. But the question
had been answered against him. The offer of a further asylum in the
seclusion of that bedroom had been made to him by his friend with a
sort of proviso that it would not be well that he should go further
than the bedroom, and his inner feelings at once grated against each
other, making him wretched and almost angry.

"Thank you, no; I understand how kind you are, but I will not do
that. I will write up to-night, and shall certainly start to-morrow."

"My dear fellow--"

"I should get into a fever, if I were to remain in this house after
what I have told you. I could not endure to see you, or your mother,
or Baker, or Marian, or any one else. Don't talk about it. Indeed,
you ought to feel that it is not possible. I have made a confounded
ass of myself, and the sooner I get away the better. I say--perhaps
you would not be angry if I was to ask you to let me sleep for an
hour or so now. After that I'll get up and write my letters."

He was very sore. He knew that he was sick at heart, and ill at ease,
and cross with his friend; and knew also that he was unreasonable
in being so. Staveley's words and manner had been full of kindness.
Graham was aware of this, and was therefore the more irritated with
himself. But this did not prevent his being angry and cross with his
friend.

"Graham," said the other, "I see clearly enough that I have annoyed
you."

"Not in the least. A man falls into the mud, and then calls to
another man to come and see him. The man in the mud of course is not
comfortable."

"But you have called to me, and I have not been able to help you."

"I did not suppose you would, so there has been no disappointment.
Indeed, there was no possibility for help. I shall follow out the
line of life which I have long since chalked out for myself, and
I do not expect that I shall be more wretched than other poor
devils around me. As far as my idea goes, it all makes very little
difference. Now leave me; there's a good fellow."

"Dear old fellow, I would give my right hand if it would make you
happy!"

"But it won't. Your right hand will make somebody else happy, I
hope."

"I'll come up to you again before dinner."

"Very well. And, Staveley, what we have now said cannot be forgotten
between us; but when we next meet, and ever after, let it be as
though it were forgotten." Then he settled himself down on the bed,
and Augustus left the room.

It will not be supposed that Graham did go to sleep, or that he had
any thought of doing so. When he was alone those words of his friend
rang over and over again in his ears, "No girl ought to be out of
your reach." Why should Madeline Staveley be out of his reach, simply
because she was his friend's sister? He had been made welcome to that
house, and therefore he was bound to do nothing unhandsome by the
family. But then he was bound by other laws, equally clear, to do
nothing unhandsome by any other family--or by any other lady. If
there was anything in Staveley's words, they applied as strongly to
Staveley's sister as to any other girl. And why should not he, a
lawyer, marry a lawyer's daughter? Sophia Furnival, with her hatful
of money, would not be considered too high for him; and in what
respect was Madeline Staveley above Sophia Furnival? That the one
was immeasurably above the other in all those respects which in his
estimation tended towards female perfection, he knew to be true
enough; but the fruit which he had been forbidden to gather hung no
higher on the social tree than that other fruit which he had been
specially invited to pluck and garner.

And then Graham was not a man to think any fruit too high for him.
He had no overweening idea of his own deserts, either socially or
professionally, nor had he taught himself to expect great things from
his own genius; but he had that audacity of spirit which bids a man
hope to compass that which he wishes to compass,--that audacity which
is both the father and mother of success,--that audacity which seldom
exists without the inner capability on which it ought to rest.

But then there was Mary Snow! Augustus Staveley thought but little of
Mary Snow. According to his theory of his friend's future life, Mary
Snow might be laid aside without much difficulty. If this were so,
why should not Madeline be within his reach? But then was it so? Had
he not betrothed himself to Mary Snow in the presence of the girl's
father, with every solemnity and assurance, in a manner fixed beyond
that of all other betrothals? Alas, yes; and for this reason it was
right that he should hurry away from Noningsby.

Then he thought of Mary's letter, and of Mrs. Thomas's letter. What
was it that had been done? Mary had written as though she had been
charged with some childish offence; but Mrs. Thomas talked solemnly
of acquitting her own conscience. What could have happened that had
touched Mrs. Thomas in the conscience?

But his thoughts soon ran away from the little house at Peckham,
and settled themselves again at Noningsby. Should he hear more of
Madeline's footsteps?--and if not, why should they have been banished
from the corridor? Should he hear her voice again at the door,--and
if not, why should it have been hushed? There is a silence which may
be more eloquent than the sounds which it follows. Had no one in that
house guessed the feelings in his bosom, she would have walked along
the corridor as usual, and spoken a word with her sweet voice in
answer to his word. He felt sure that this would be so no more; but
who had stopped it, and why should such sounds be no more heard?

At last he did go to sleep, not in pursuance of any plan formed for
doing so; for had he been asked he would have said that sleep was
impossible for him. But he did go to sleep, and when he awoke it was
dark. He had intended to have got up and dressed on that afternoon,
or to have gone through such ceremony of dressing as was possible for
him,--in preparation of his next day's exercise; and now he rose up
in his bed with a start, angry with himself in having allowed the
time to pass by him.

"Lord love you, Mr. Graham, why how you have slept!" said Mrs. Baker.
"If I haven't just sent your dinner down again to keep hot. Such a
beautiful pheasant, and the bread sauce'll be lumpy now, for all the
world like pap."

"Never mind the bread sauce, Mrs. Baker;--the pheasant's the thing."

"And her ladyship's been here, Mr. Graham, only she wouldn't have you
woke. She won't hear of your being moved to-morrow, nor yet won't the
judge. There was a rumpus down stairs when Mr. Augustus as much as
mentioned it. I know one who--"

"You know one who--you were saying?"

"Never mind.--It ain't one more than another, but it's all. You ain't
to leave this to-morrow, so you may just give it over. And indeed
your things is all at the wash, so you can't;--and now I'll go down
for the pheasant."

Felix still declared very positively that he should go, but his
doing so did not shake Mrs. Baker. The letter-bag he knew did not
leave till eight, and as yet it was not much past five. He would see
Staveley again after his dinner, and then he would write.

When Augustus left the room in the middle of the day he encountered
Madeline wandering about the house. In these days she did wander
about the house, as though there were something always to be done in
some place apart from that in which she then was. And yet the things
which she did were but few. She neither worked nor read, and as for
household duties, her share in them was confined almost entirely to
the morning and evening teapot.

"It isn't true that he's to go to-morrow morning, Augustus, is it?"
said she.

"Who, Graham? Well; he says that he will. He is very anxious to get
to London; and no doubt he finds it stupid enough lying there and
doing nothing."

"But he can do as much there as he can lying by himself in his own
chambers, where I don't suppose he would have anybody to look after
him. He thinks he's a trouble and all that, and therefore he wants to
go. But you know mamma doesn't mind about trouble of that kind; and
what should we think of it afterwards if anything bad was to happen
to your friend because we allowed him to leave the house before
he was in a fit state to be moved? Of course Mr. Pottinger says
so--" Mr. Pottinger was the doctor. "Of course Mr. Pottinger says
so, because he thinks he has been so long here, and he doesn't
understand."

"But Mr. Pottinger would like to keep a patient."

"Oh no; he's not at all that sort of man. He'd think of mamma,--the
trouble I mean of having a stranger in the house. But you know mamma
would think nothing of that, especially for such an intimate friend
of yours."

Augustus turned slightly round so as to look more fully into his
sister's face, and he saw that a tear was gathered in the corner of
her eye. She perceived his glance and partly shrank under it, but she
soon recovered herself and answered it. "I know what you mean," she
said, "and if you choose to think so, I can't help it. But it is
horrible--horrible--" and then she stopped herself, finding that a
little sob would become audible if she trusted herself to further
words.

"You know what I mean, Mad?" he said, putting his arm affectionately
round her waist. "And what is it that I mean? Come; you and I never
have any secrets;--you always say so when you want to get at mine.
Tell me what it is that I mean."

"I haven't got any secret."

"But what did I mean?"

"You looked at me, because I don't want you to let them send Mr.
Graham away. If it was old Mr. Furnival I shouldn't like them to turn
him out of this house when he was in such a state as that."

"Poor Mr. Furnival; no; I think he would bear it worse than Felix."

"Then why should he go? And why--should you look at me in that way?"

"Did I look at you, Mad? Well, I believe I did. We are to have no
secrets; are we?"

"No," said she. But she did not say it in the same eager voice with
which hitherto she had declared that they would always tell each
other everything.

"Felix Graham is my friend," said he, "my special friend; and I hope
you will always like my friends. But--"

"Well?" she said.

"You know what I mean, Mad"

"Yes," she said.

"That is all, dearest." And then she knew that he also had cautioned
her not to fall in love with Felix Graham, and she felt angry with
him for the caution. "Why--why--why--?" But she hardly knew as yet
how to frame the question which she desired to ask herself.




CHAPTER XL.

I CALL IT AWFUL.


"Oh indeed!" Those had been the words with which Mr. Furnival had
received the announcement made by Sir Peregrine as to his proposed
nuptials. And as he uttered them the lawyer drew himself up stiffly
in his chair, looking much more like a lawyer and much less like an
old family friend than he had done the moment before.

Whereupon Sir Peregrine drew himself up also. "Yes," he said. "I
should be intrusive if I were to trouble you with my motives, and
therefore I need only say further as regards the lady, that I trust
that my support, standing as I shall do in the position of her
husband, will be more serviceable to her than it could otherwise have
been in this trial which she will, I presume, be forced to undergo."

"No doubt; no doubt," said Mr. Furnival; and then the interview
had ended. The lawyer had been anxious to see his client, and had
intended to ask permission to do so; but he had felt on hearing Sir
Peregrine's tidings that it would be useless now to make any attempt
to see her alone, and that he could speak to her with no freedom
in Sir Peregrine's presence. So he left The Cleeve, having merely
intimated to the baronet the fact of his having engaged the services
of Mr. Chaffanbrass and Mr. Solomon Aram. "You will not see Lady
Mason?" Sir Peregrine had asked. "Thank you; I do not know that
I need trouble her," Mr. Furnival had answered. "You of course
will explain to her how the case at present stands. I fear she
must reconcile herself to the fact of a trial. You are aware, Sir
Peregrine, that the offence imputed is one for which bail will be
taken. I should propose yourself and her son. Of course I should be
happy to lend my own name, but as I shall be on the trial, perhaps it
may be as well that this should be avoided."

Bail will be taken! These words were dreadful in the ears of the
expectant bridegroom. Had it come to this; that there was a question
whether or no she should be locked up in a prison, like a felon? But
nevertheless his heart did not misgive him. Seeing how terribly she
was injured by others, he felt himself bound by the stronger law to
cling to her himself. Such was the special chivalry of the man.

Mr. Furnival on his return to London thought almost more of Sir
Peregrine than he did either of Lady Mason or of himself. Was it not
a pity? Was it not a thousand pities that that aged noble gentleman
should be sacrificed? He had felt angry with Sir Peregrine when the
tidings were first communicated to him; but now, as he journeyed up
to London this feeling of anger was transferred to his own client.
This must be her doing, and such doing on her part, while she was in
her present circumstances, was very wicked. And then he remembered
her guilt,--her probable guilt, and his brow became very black. Her
supposed guilt had not been horrible to him while he had regarded it
as affecting herself alone, and in point of property affecting Joseph
Mason and her son Lucius. He could look forward, sometimes almost
triumphantly, to the idea of washing her--so far as this world's
washing goes--from that guilt, and setting her up again clear before
the world, even though in doing so he should lend a hand in robbing
Joseph Mason of his estate. But this dragging down of another--and
such another--head into the vortex of ruin and misery was horrible to
him. He was not straitlaced, or mealy-mouthed, or overburthened with
scruples. In the way of his profession he could do many a thing at
which--I express a single opinion with much anxious deference--at
which an honest man might be scandalized if it came beneath his
judgment unprofessionally. But this he could not stand. Something
must be done in the matter. The marriage must be stayed till after
the trial,--or else he must himself retire from the defence and
explain both to Lady Mason and to Sir Peregrine why he did so.

And then he thought of the woman herself, and his spirit within him
became very bitter. Had any one told him that he was jealous of the
preference shown by his client to Sir Peregrine, he would have fumed
with anger, and thought that he was fuming justly. But such was in
truth the case. Though he believed her to have been guilty of this
thing, though he believed her to be now guilty of the worse offence
of dragging the baronet to his ruin, still he was jealous of her
regard. Had she been content to lean upon him, to trust to him as her
great and only necessary friend, he could have forgiven all else, and
placed at her service the full force of his professional power,--even
though by doing so he might have lowered himself in men's minds. And
what reward did he expect? None. He had formed no idea that the woman
would become his mistress. All that was as obscure before his mind's
eye, as though she had been nineteen and he five-and-twenty.

He was to dine at home on this day, that being the first occasion of
his doing so for--as Mrs. Furnival declared--the last six months. In
truth, however, the interval had been long, though not so long as
that. He had a hope that having announced his intention, he might
find the coast clear and hear Martha Biggs spoken of as a dear
one lately gone. But when he arrived at home Martha Biggs was
still there. Under circumstances as they now existed Mrs. Furnival
had determined to keep Martha Biggs by her, unless any special
edict for her banishment should come forth. Then, in case of such
special edict, Martha Biggs should go, and thence should arise the
new casus belli. Mrs. Furnival had made up her mind that war was
expedient,--nay, absolutely necessary. She had an idea, formed no
doubt from the reading of history, that some allies require a smart
brush now and again to blow away the clouds of distrust which become
engendered by time between them; and that they may become better
allies than ever afterwards. If the appropriate time for such a brush
might ever come, it had come now. All the world,--so she said to
herself,--was talking of Mr. Furnival and Lady Mason. All the world
knew of her injuries.

Martha Biggs was second cousin to Mr. Crook's brother's wife--I speak
of that Mr. Crook who had been professionally known for the last
thirty years as the partner of Mr. Round. It had been whispered in
the office in Bedford Row--such whisper I fear originating with old
Round--that Mr. Furnival admired his fair client. Hence light had
fallen upon the eyes of Martha Biggs, and the secret of her friend
was known to her. Need I trace the course of the tale with closer
accuracy?

"Oh, Kitty," she had said to her friend with tears that evening--"I
cannot bear to keep it to myself any more! I cannot when I see you
suffering so. It's awful."

"Cannot bear to keep what, Martha?"

"Oh, I know. Indeed all the town knows it now."

"Knows what? You know how I hate that kind of thing. If you have
anything to say, speak out."

This was not kind to such a faithful friend as Martha Biggs; but
Martha knew what sacrifices friendship such as hers demanded, and she
did not resent it.

"Well then;--if I am to speak out, it's--Lady Mason. And I do say
that it's shameful, quite shameful;--and awful; I call it awful."

Mrs. Furnival had not said much at the time to encourage the fidelity
of her friend, but she was thus justified in declaring to herself
that her husband's goings on had become the talk of all the
world;--and his goings on especially in that quarter in which she
had long regarded them with so much dismay. She was not therefore
prepared to welcome him on this occasion of his coming home to dinner
by such tokens of friendly feeling as the dismissal of her friend to
Red Lion Square. When the moment for absolute war should come Martha
Biggs should be made to depart.

Mr. Furnival when he arrived at his own house was in a thoughtful
mood, and disposed for quiet and domestic meditation. Had Miss Biggs
not been there he could have found it in his heart to tell everything
about Lady Mason to his wife, asking her counsel as to what he should
do with reference to that marriage. Could he have done so, all would
have been well; but this was not possible while that red-faced lump
of a woman from Red Lion Square sat in his drawing-room, making
everything uncomfortable.

The three sat down to dinner together, and very little was said
between them. Mr. Furnival did try to be civil to his wife, but wives
sometimes have a mode of declining such civilities without committing
themselves to overt acts of war. To Miss Biggs Mr. Furnival could not
bring himself to say anything civil, seeing that he hated her; but
such words as he did speak to her she received with grim griffin-like
austerity, as though she were ever meditating on the awfulness of his
conduct. And so in truth she was. Why his conduct was more awful in
her estimation since she had heard Lady Mason's name mentioned, than
when her mind had been simply filled with general ideas of vague
conjugal infidelity, I cannot say; but such was the case. "I call it
awful," were the first words she again spoke when she found herself
once more alone with Mrs. Furnival in the drawing-room. And then
she sat down over the fire, thinking neither of her novel nor her
knitting, with her mind deliciously filled with the anticipation of
coming catastrophes.

"If I sit up after half-past ten would you mind going to bed?" said
Mrs. Furnival, when they had been in the drawing-room about ten
minutes.

"Oh no, not in the least," said Miss Biggs. "I'll be sure to go."
But she thought it very unkind, and she felt as a child does who is
deceived in a matter of being taken to the play. If no one goes the
child can bear it. But to see others go, and to be left behind, is
too much for the feelings of any child,--or of Martha Biggs.

Mr. Furnival had no inclination for sitting alone over his wine on
this occasion. Had it been possible for him he would have preferred
to have gone quickly up stairs, and to have taken his cup of coffee
from his wife's hand with some appreciation of domestic comfort. But
there could be no such comfort to him while Martha Biggs was there,
so he sat down stairs, sipping his port according to his custom, and
looking into the fire for a solution of his difficulties about Lady
Mason. He began to wish that he had never seen Lady Mason, and to
reflect that the intimate friendship of pretty women often brings
with it much trouble. He was resolved on one thing. He would not go
down into court and fight that battle for Lady Orme. Were he to do so
the matter would have taken quite a different phase,--one that he had
not at all anticipated. In case that his present client should then
have become Lady Orme, Mr. Chaffanbrass and Mr. Solomon Aram might
carry on the battle between them, with such assistance as they might
be able to get from Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile. He became angry as
he drank his port, and in his anger he swore that it should be so.
And then as his anger became hot at the close of his libations, he
remembered that Martha Biggs was up stairs, and became more angry
still. And thus when he did go into the drawing-room at some time in
the evening not much before ten, he was not in a frame of mind likely
to bring about domestic comfort.

He walked across the drawing-room, sat down in an arm-chair by the
table, and took up the last number of a review, without speaking to
either of them. Whereupon Mrs. Furnival began to ply her needle which
had been lying idly enough upon her work, and Martha Biggs fixed
her eyes intently upon her book. So they sat twenty minutes without
a word being spoken, and then Mrs. Furnival inquired of her lord
whether he chose to have tea.

"Of course I shall,--when you have it," said he.

"Don't mind us," said Mrs. Furnival.

"Pray don't mind me," said Martha Biggs. "Don't let me be in the
way."

"No, I won't," said Mr. Furnival. Whereupon Miss Biggs again jumped
up in her chair as though she had been electrified. It may be
remembered that on a former occasion Mr. Furnival had sworn at
her--or at least in her presence.

"You need not be rude to a lady in your own house, because she is my
friend," said Mrs. Furnival.

"Bother," said Mr. Furnival. "And now if we are going to have any
tea, let us have it."

"I don't think I'll mind about tea to-night, Mrs. Furnival," said
Miss Biggs, having received a notice from her friend's eye that it
might be well for her to depart. "My head aches dreadful, and I shall
be better in bed. Good-night, Mrs. Furnival." And then she took her
candle and went away.

For the next five minutes there was not a word said. No tea had been
ordered, although it had been mentioned. Mrs. Furnival had forgotten
it among the hot thoughts that were running through her mind, and Mr.
Furnival was indifferent upon the subject. He knew that something was
coming, and he resolved that he would have the upper hand let that
something be what it might. He was being ill used,--so he said to
himself--and would not put up with it.

At last the battle began. He was not looking, but he heard her first
movement as she prepared herself. "Tom!" she said, and then the voice
of the war goddess was again silent. He did not choose to answer her
at the instant, and then the war goddess rose from her seat and again
spoke. "Tom!" she said, standing over him and looking at him.

"What is it you mean?" said he, allowing his eyes to rise to her face
over the top of his book.

"Tom!" she said for the third time.

"I'll have no nonsense, Kitty," said he. "If you have anything to
say, say it."

Even then she had intended to be affectionate,--had so intended at
the first commencement of her address. She had no wish to be a war
goddess. But he had assisted her attempt at love by no gentle word,
by no gentle look, by no gentle motion. "I have this to say," she
replied; "you are disgracing both yourself and me, and I will not
remain in this house to be a witness to it."

"Then you may go out of the house." These words, be it remembered,
were uttered not by the man himself, but by the spirit of port wine
within the man.

"Tom, do you say that;--after all?"

"By heavens I do say it! I'll not be told in my own drawing-room,
even by you, that I am disgracing myself."

"Then why do you go after that woman down to Hamworth? All the world
is talking of you. At your age too! You ought to be ashamed of
yourself."

"I can't stand this," said he, getting up and throwing the book from
him right across the drawing-room floor; "and, by heavens! I won't
stand it."

"Then why do you do it, sir?"

"Kitty, I believe the devil must have entered into you to drive you
mad."

"Oh, oh, oh! very well, sir. The devil in the shape of drink
and lust has entered into you. But you may understand this;
I--will--not--consent to live with you while such deeds as these are
being done." And then without waiting for another word, she stormed
out of the room.




VOLUME II.

CHAPTER XLI.

HOW CAN I SAVE HIM?


"I will not consent to live with you while such deeds as these are
being done." Such were the last words which Mrs. Furnival spoke as
she walked out of her own drawing-room, leaving her husband still
seated in his arm-chair.

What was he to do? Those who would hang by the letter of the law in
such matters may say that he should have rung the bell, sent for his
wife, explained to her that obedience was a necessary duty on her
part, and have finished by making her understand that she must and
would continue to live wherever he chose that she should live. There
be those who say that if a man be anything of a man, he can always
insure obedience in his own household. He has the power of the purse
and the power of the law; and if, having these, he goes to the wall,
it must be because he is a poor creature. Those who so say have
probably never tried the position.

Mr. Furnival did not wish to send for his wife, because by doing so
he would have laid bare his sore before his servants. He could not
follow her, because he knew that he should not find her alone in her
room. Nor did he wish for any further parley, because he knew that
she would speak loud, and probably sob--nay, very possibly proceed to
a fainting fit. And, moreover, he much doubted whether he would have
the power to keep her in the house if it should be her pleasure to
leave it. And then what should he do? The doing of something in such
a catastrophe was, he thought, indispensable.

Was ever a man so ill treated? Was ever jealousy so groundless? Here
was a woman, with whom he was on the point of quarrelling, who was
engaged to be married to another man, whom for months past he had
only seen as a client; and on her account he was to be told by his
wife that she would not consent to live with him! Yes; it was quite
indispensable that he should do something.

At last he went to bed, and slept upon it; not sharing the marital
couch, but occupying his own dressing-room. In the morning, however,
as he sat down to his solitary breakfast, he was as far as ever from
having made up his mind what that something should be. A message
was brought to him by an elderly female servant with a grave
face,--the elderly servant who had lived with them since their
poorer days,--saying that "Missus would not come down to breakfast
this morning." There was no love sent, no excuse as to illness, no
semblance of a peaceable reason, assumed even to deceive the servant.
It was clear to Mr. Furnival that the servant was intended to know
all about it. "And Miss Biggs says, sir, that if you please you're
not to wait for her."

"Very well, that'll do," said Mr. Furnival, who had not the slightest
intention of waiting for Miss Biggs; and then he sat himself down to
eat his bacon, and bethink himself what step he would take with this
recreant and troublesome spouse.

While he was thus employed the post came. The bulk of his letters as
a matter of course went to his chambers; but there were those among
his correspondents who wrote to him at Harley Street. To-day he
received three or four letters, but our concern will be with one
only. This one bore the Hamworth post-mark, and he opened it the
first, knowing that it came from Lady Mason. It was as follows:--


   _Private_

   THE CLEEVE, 23rd January, 18--.

   MY DEAR MR. FURNIVAL,

   I am so very sorry that I did not see you to-day! Indeed,
   your leaving without seeing me has made me unhappy, for I
   cannot but think that it shows that you are displeased.
   Under these circumstances I must write to you and explain
   to you how that came to pass which Sir Peregrine told you.
   I have not let him know that I am writing to you, and I
   think for his sake that I had better not. But he is so
   good, and has shown to me such nobleness and affection,
   that I can hardly bring myself to have any secret from
   him.

   You may conceive what was my surprise when I first
   understood that he wished to make me his wife. It is
   hardly six months since I thought that I was almost
   exceeding my station in visiting at his house. Then by
   degrees I began to be received as a friend, and at last I
   found myself treated with the warmest love. But still I
   had no thought of this, and I knew that it was because of
   my great trouble that Sir Peregrine and Mrs. Orme were so
   good to me.

   When he sent for me into his library and told me what
   he wished, I could not refuse him anything. I promised
   obedience to him as though I were a child; and in this way
   I found myself engaged to be his wife. When he told me
   that he would have it so, how could I refuse him, knowing
   as I do all that he has done for me, and thinking of it
   as I do every minute? As for loving him, of course I love
   him. Who that knows him does not love him? He is made to
   be loved. No one is so good and so noble as he. But of
   love of that sort I had never dreamed. Ah me, no!--a woman
   burdened as I am does not think of love.

   He told me that he would have it so, and I said that I
   would obey him; and he tried to prove to me that in this
   dreadful trial it would be better for me. But I would not
   wish it on that account. He has done enough for me without
   my causing him such injury. When I argued it with him,
   trying to say that others would not like it, he declared
   that Mrs. Orme would be well pleased, and, indeed, so she
   told me afterwards herself. And thus I yielded to him,
   and agreed that I would be his wife. But I was not happy,
   thinking that I should injure him; and I promised only
   because I could not deny him.

   But the day before yesterday young Mr. Orme, his grandson,
   came to me and told me that such a marriage would be very
   wrong. And I do believe him. He said that old family
   friends would look down upon his grandfather and ridicule
   him if he were to make this marriage. And I can see that
   it would be so. I would not have such injury come upon him
   for the gain of all the world to myself. So I have made
   up my mind to tell him that it cannot be, even though I
   should anger him. And I fear that it will anger him, for
   he loves to have his own way,--especially in doing good;
   and he thinks that our marriage would rescue me altogether
   from the danger of this trial.

   So I have made up my mind to tell him, but I have not
   found courage to do it yet; and I do wish, dear Mr.
   Furnival, that I might see you first. I fear that I may
   have lost your friendship by what has already been done.
   If so, what will become of me? When I heard that you had
   gone without asking for me, my heart sank within me. I
   have two friends whom I so dearly love, and I would fain
   do as both direct me, if that may be possible. And now I
   propose to go up to London to-morrow, and to be at your
   chambers about one o'clock. I have told Sir Peregrine and
   Mrs. Orme that I am going; but he is too noble-minded
   to ask questions now that he thinks I may feel myself
   constrained to tell him. So I will call in Lincoln's Inn
   at one o'clock, and I trust that if possible you will see
   me. I am greatly in want of your advice, for in truth I
   hardly know what to do.

   Pray believe me to be always your attached friend,

   MARY MASON.


There was hardly a word,--I believe not a word in that letter that
was not true. Her acceptance of Sir Peregrine had been given exactly
in the manner and for the reasons there explained; and since she had
accepted him she had been sorry for having done so, exactly in the
way now described. She was quite willing to give up her husband if it
was thought best,--but she was not willing to give up her friend. She
was not willing to give up either friend, and her great anxiety was
so to turn her conduct that she might keep them both.

Mr. Furnival was gratified as he read the letter--gratified in spite
of his present frame of mind. Of course he would see her;--and of
course, as he himself well knew, would take her again into favour.
But he must insist on her carrying out her purpose of abandoning the
marriage project. If, arising from this abandonment, there should
be any coolness on the part of Sir Peregrine, Mr. Furnival would
not regret it. Mr. Furnival did not feel quite sure whether in the
conduct of this case he was not somewhat hampered by the--energetic
zeal of Sir Peregrine's line of defence.

When he had finished the perusal of his letter and the consideration
which it required, he put it carefully into his breast coat pocket,
envelope and all. What might not happen if he left that envelope
about in that house? And then he took it out again, and observed upon
the cover the Hamworth post-mark, very clear. Post-marks now-a-days
are very clear, and everybody may know whence a letter comes. His
letters had been brought to him by the butler; but was it not
probable that that ancient female servant might have seen them first,
and have conveyed to her mistress intelligence as to this post-mark?
If so--; and Mr. Furnival almost felt himself to be guilty as he
thought of it.

While he was putting on his greatcoat in the hall, the butler
assisting him, the ancient female servant came to him again. There
was a look about her face which told of war, and declared her
to be, if not the chief lieutenant of his wife, at any rate her
colour-serjeant. Martha Biggs no doubt was chief lieutenant. "Missus
desires me to ask," said she, with her grim face and austere voice,
"whether you will be pleased to dine at home to-day?" And yet the
grim, austere woman could be affectionate and almost motherly in her
ministrations to him when things were going well, and had eaten his
salt and broken his bread for more than twenty years. All this was
very hard! "Because," continued the woman, "missus says she thinks
she shall be out this evening herself."

"Where is she going?"

"Missus didn't tell me, sir."

He almost determined to go up stairs and call upon her to tell him
what she was going to do, but he remembered that if he did it would
surely make a row in the house. Miss Biggs would put her head out
of some adjacent door and scream, "Oh laws!" and he would have to
descend his own stairs with the consciousness that all his household
were regarding him as a brute. So he gave up that project. "No," he
said, "I shall not dine at home;" and then he went his way.

"Missus is very aggravating," said the butler, as soon as the door
was closed.

"You don't know what cause she has, Spooner," said the housekeeper
very solemnly.

"Is it at his age? I believe it's all nonsense, I do;--feminine
fancies, and vagaries of the weaker sex."

"Yes, I dare say; that's what you men always say. But if he don't
look out he'll find missus'll be too much for him. What'd he do if
she were to go away from him?"

"Do?--why live twice as jolly. It would only be the first rumpus of
the thing."

I am afraid that there was some truth in what Spooner said. It is the
first rumpus of the thing, or rather the fear of that, which keeps
together many a couple.

At one o'clock there came a timid female rap at Mr. Furnival's
chamber door, and the juvenile clerk gave admittance to Lady Mason.
Crabwitz, since the affair of that mission down at Hamworth, had
so far carried a point of his, that a junior satellite was now
permanently installed; and for the future the indignity of opening
doors, and "just stepping out" into Chancery Lane, would not await
him. Lady Mason was dressed all in black,--but this was usual
with her when she left home. To-day, however, there was about her
something blacker and more sombre than usual. The veil which she wore
was thick, and completely hid her face; and her voice, as she asked
for Mr. Furnival, was low and plaintive. But, nevertheless, she had
by no means laid aside the charm of womanhood; or it might be more
just to say that the charm of womanhood had not laid aside her. There
was that in her figure, step, and gait of going which compelled men
to turn round and look at her. We all know that she had a son some
two or three and twenty years of age, and that she had not been quite
a girl when she married. But, notwithstanding this, she was yet
young; and though she made no effort--no apparent effort--to maintain
the power and influence which beauty gives, yet she did maintain it.

He came forward and took her by the hand with all his old
affectionate regard, and, muttering some words of ordinary
salutation, led her to a chair. It may be that she muttered something
also, but if so the sound was too low to reach his ears. She sat down
where he placed her, and as she put her hand on the table near her
arm, he saw that she was trembling.

"I got your letter this morning," he said, by way of beginning the
conversation.

"Yes," she said; and then, finding that it was not possible that he
should hear her through her veil, she raised it. She was very pale,
and there was a look of painful care, almost of agony, round her
mouth. He had never seen her look so pale,--but he said to himself at
the same time that he had never seen her look so beautiful.

"And to tell you the truth, Lady Mason, I was very glad to get it.
You and I had better speak openly to each other about this;--had we
not?"

"Oh, yes," she said. And then there was a struggle within her not to
tremble--a struggle that was only too evident. She was aware of this,
and took her hand off the table.

"I vexed you because I did not see you at The Cleeve the other day."

"Because I thought that you were angry with me."

"And I was so."

"Oh, Mr. Furnival!"

"Wait a moment, Lady Mason. I was angry;--or rather sorry and
vexed to hear of that which I did not approve. But your letter has
removed that feeling. I can now understand the manner in which
this engagement was forced upon you; and I understand also--do I
not?--that the engagement will not be carried out?"

She did not answer him immediately, and he began to fear that
she repented of her purpose. "Because," said he, "under no other
circumstances could I--"

"Stop, Mr. Furnival. Pray do not be severe with me." And she looked
at him with eyes which would almost have melted his wife,--and which
he was quite unable to withstand. Had it been her wish, she might
have made him promise to stand by her, even though she had persisted
in her engagement.

"No, no; I will not be severe."

"I do not wish to marry him," she went on to say. "I have resolved to
tell him so. That was what I said in my letter."

"Yes, yes."

"I do not wish to marry him. I would not bring his gray hairs with
sorrow to the grave--no, not to save myself from--" And then, as she
thought of that from which she desired to save herself, she trembled
again, and was silent.

"It would create in men's minds such a strong impression against you,
were you to marry him at this moment!"

"It is of him I am thinking;--of him and Lucius. Mr. Furnival, they
might do their worst with me, if it were not for that thought. My
boy!" And then she rose from her chair, and stood upright before him,
as though she were going to do or say some terrible thing. He still
kept his chair, for he was startled, and hardly knew what he would be
about. That last exclamation had come from her almost with a shriek,
and now her bosom was heaving as though her heart would burst with
the violence of her sobbing. "I will go," she said. "I had better
go." And she hurried away towards the door.

"No, no; do not go yet." And he rose to stop her, but she was quite
passive. "I do not know why you should be so much moved now." But
he did know. He did understand the very essence and core of her
feelings;--as probably may the reader also. But it was impossible
that he should allow her to leave him in her present state.

She sat down again, and leaning both her arms upon the table, hid
her face within her hands. He was now standing, and for the moment
did not speak to her. Indeed he could not bring himself to break the
silence, for he saw her tears, and could still hear the violence of
her sobs. And then she was the first to speak. "If it were not for
him," she said, raising her head, "I could bear it all. What will he
do? what will he do?"

"You mean," said Mr. Furnival, speaking very slowly, "if
the--verdict--should go against us."

"It will go against us," she said. "Will it not?--tell me the truth.
You are so clever, you must know. Tell me how it will go. Is there
anything I can do to save him?" And she took hold of his arm with
both her hands, and looked up eagerly--oh, with such terrible
eagerness!--into his face.

Would it not have been natural now that he should have asked her to
tell him the truth? And yet he did not dare to ask her. He thought
that he knew it. He felt sure,--almost sure, that he could look into
her very heart, and read there the whole of her secret. But still
there was a doubt,--enough of doubt to make him wish to ask the
question. Nevertheless he did not ask it.

"Mr. Furnival," she said; and as she spoke there was a hardness came
over the soft lines of her feminine face; a look of courage which
amounted almost to ferocity, a look which at the moment recalled
to his mind, as though it were but yesterday, the attitude and
countenance she had borne as she stood in the witness-box at that
other trial, now so many years since,--that attitude and countenance
which had impressed the whole court with so high an idea of her
courage. "Mr. Furnival, weak as I am, I could bear to die here on the
spot,--now--if I could only save him from this agony. It is not for
myself I suffer." And then the terrible idea occurred to him that she
might attempt to compass her escape by death. But he did not know
her. That would have been no escape for her son.

"And you too think that I must not marry him?" she said, putting up
her hands to her brows as though to collect her thoughts.

"No; certainly not, Lady Mason."

"No, no. It would be wrong. But, Mr. Furnival, I am so driven that I
know not how I should act. What if I should lose my mind?" And as she
looked at him there was that about her eyes which did tell him that
such an ending might be possible.

"Do not speak in such a way," he said.

"No, I will not. I know that it is wrong. I will go down there, and
tell him that it must not--must not be so. But I may stay at The
Cleeve;--may I not?"

"Oh, certainly--if he wishes it,--after your understanding with him."

"Ah; he may turn me out, may he not? And they are so kind to me,
so gentle and so good. And Lucius is so stern. But I will go back.
Sternness will perhaps be better for me now than love and kindness."

In spite of everything, in the teeth of his almost certain conviction
of her guilt, he would now, even now, have asked her to come to his
own house, and have begged her to remain there till the trial was
over,--if only he had had the power to do so. What would it be to him
what the world might say, if she should be proved guilty? Why should
not he have been mistaken as well as others? And he had an idea
that if he could get her into his own hands he might still bring
her through triumphantly,--with assistance from Solomon Aram and
Chaffanbrass. He was strongly convinced of her guilt, but by no means
strongly convinced that her guilt could be proved. But then he had no
house at the present moment that he could call his own. His Kitty,
the Kitty of whom he still sometimes thought with affection,--that
Kitty whose soft motherly heart would have melted at such a story
of a woman's sorrows, if only it had been rightly approached,--that
Kitty was now vehemently hostile, hostile both to him and to this
very woman for whom he would have asked her care.

"May God help me!" said the poor woman. "I do not know where else to
turn for aid. Well; I may go now then. And, indeed, why should I take
up your time further?"

But before she did go, Mr. Furnival gave her much counsel. He did not
ask as to her guilt, but he did give her that advice which he would
have thought most expedient had her guilt been declared and owned. He
told her that very much would depend on her maintaining her present
position and standing; that she was so to carry herself as not to
let people think that she was doubtful about the trial; and that
above all things she was to maintain a composed and steadfast manner
before her son. As to the Ormes, he bade her not to think of leaving
The Cleeve, unless she found that her remaining there would be
disagreeable to Sir Peregrine after her explanation with him. That
she was to decline the marriage engagement, he was very positive; on
that subject there was to be no doubt.

And then she went; and as she passed down the dark passage into the
new square by the old gate of the Chancellor's court, she met a stout
lady. The stout lady eyed her savagely, but was not quite sure as to
her identity. Lady Mason in her trouble passed the stout lady without
taking any notice of her.




CHAPTER XLII.

JOHN KENNEBY GOES TO HAMWORTH.


When John Kenneby dined with his sister and brother-in-law on
Christmas-day he agreed, at the joint advice of the whole party there
assembled, that he would go down and see Mr. Dockwrath at Hamworth,
in accordance with the invitation received from that gentleman;--his
enemy, Dockwrath, who had carried off Miriam Usbech, for whom John
Kenneby still sighed,--in a gentle easy manner indeed,--but still
sighed as though it were an affair but of yesterday. But though he
had so agreed, and though he had never stirred from that resolve, he
by no means did it immediately. He was a slow man, whose life had
offered him but little excitement; and the little which came to him
was husbanded well and made to go a long way. He thought about this
journey for nearly a month before he took it, often going to his
sister and discussing it with her, and once or twice seeing the great
Moulder himself. At last he fixed a day and did go down to Hamworth.

He had, moreover, been invited to the offices of Messrs. Round and
Crook, and that visit also was as yet unpaid. A clerk from the house
in Bedford Row had found him out at Hubbles and Grease's, and had
discovered that he would be forthcoming as a witness. On the special
subject of his evidence not much had then passed, the clerk having
had no discretion given him to sift the matter. But Kenneby had
promised to go to Bedford Row, merely stipulating for a day at some
little distance of time. That day was now near at hand; but he was
to see Dockwrath first, and hence it occurred that he now made his
journey to Hamworth.

But another member of that Christmas party at Great St. Helen's had
not been so slow in carrying out his little project. Mr. Kantwise had
at once made up his mind that it would be as well that he should see
Dockwrath. It would not suit him to incur the expense of a journey
to Hamworth, even with the additional view of extracting payment for
that set of metallic furniture; but he wrote to the attorney telling
him that he should be in London in the way of trade on such and such
a day, and that he had tidings of importance to give with reference
to the great Orley Farm case. Dockwrath did see him, and the result
was that Mr. Kantwise got his money, fourteen eleven;--at least he
got fourteen seven six, and had a very hard fight for the three odd
half-crowns,--and Dockwrath learned that John Kenneby, if duly used,
would give evidence on his side of the question.

And then Kenneby did go down to Hamworth. He had not seen Miriam
Usbech since the days of her marriage. He had remained hanging
about the neighbourhood long enough to feast his eyes with the
agony of looking at the bride, and then he had torn himself away.
Circumstances since that had carried him one way and Miriam another,
and they had never met. Time had changed him very little, and what
change time had made was perhaps for the better. He hesitated
less when he spoke, he was less straggling and undecided in his
appearance, and had about him more of manhood than in former days.
But poor Miriam had certainly not been altered for the better by
years and circumstances as far as outward appearance went.

Kenneby as he walked up from the station to the house,--and from old
remembrances he knew well where the house stood,--gave up his mind
entirely to the thought of seeing Miriam, and in his memories of old
love passages almost forgot the actual business which now brought him
to the place. To him it seemed as though he was going to meet the
same Miriam he had left,--the Miriam to whom in former days he had
hardly ventured to speak of love, and to whom he must not now venture
so to speak at all. He almost blushed as he remembered that he would
have to take her hand.

There are men of this sort, men slow in their thoughts but very keen
in their memories; men who will look for the glance of a certain
bright eye from a window-pane, though years have rolled on since
last they saw it,--since last they passed that window. Such men will
bethink themselves, after an interval of weeks, how they might have
brought up wit to their use and improved an occasion which chance
had given them. But when the bright eyes do glance, such men pass
by abashed; and when the occasion offers, their wit is never at
hand. Nevertheless they are not the least happy of mankind, these
never-readies; they do not pick up sudden prizes, but they hold
fast by such good things as the ordinary run of life bestows upon
them. There was a lady even now, a friend of Mrs. Moulder, ready to
bestow herself and her fortune on John Kenneby,--a larger fortune
than Miriam had possessed, and one which would not now probably be
neutralised by so large a family as poor Miriam had bestowed upon her
husband.

How would Miriam meet him? It was of this he thought, as he
approached the door. Of course he must call her Mrs. Dockwrath,
though the other name was so often on his tongue. He had made up
his mind, for the last week past, that he would call at the private
door of the house, passing by the door of the office. Otherwise
the chances were that he would not see Miriam at all. His enemy,
Dockwrath, would be sure to keep him from her presence. Dockwrath had
ever been inordinately jealous. But when he came to the office-door
he hardly had the courage to pass on to that of the private dwelling.
His heart beat too quickly, and the idea of seeing Miriam was almost
too much for him. But, nevertheless, he did carry out his plan, and
did knock at the door of the house.

And it was opened by Miriam herself. He knew her instantly in spite
of all the change. He knew her, but the whole course of his feelings
were altered at the moment, and his blood was made to run the other
way. And she knew him too. "La, John," she said, "who'd have thought
of seeing you?" And she shifted the baby whom she carried from one
arm to the other as she gave him her hand in token of welcome.

[Illustration: John Kenneby and Miriam Dockwrath.]

"It is a long time since we met," he said. He felt hardly any
temptation now to call her Miriam. Indeed it would have seemed
altogether in opposition to the common order of things to do so. She
was no longer Miriam, but the maternal Dockwrath;--the mother of that
long string of dirty children whom he saw gathered in the passage
behind her. He had known as a fact that she had all the children, but
the fact had not made the proper impression on his mind till he had
seen them.

"A long time! 'Deed then it is. Why we've hardly seen each other
since you used to be a courting of me; have we? But, my! John; why
haven't you got a wife for yourself these many years? But come in.
I'm glad to see every bit of you, so I am; though I've hardly a place
to put you to sit down in." And then she opened a door and took him
into a little sitting-room on the left-hand side of the passage.

His feeling of intense enmity to Dockwrath was beginning to wear
away, and one of modified friendship for the whole family was
supervening. It was much better that it should be so. He could not
understand before how Dockwrath had had the heart to write to him and
call him John, but now he did understand it. He felt that he could
himself be friendly with Dockwrath now, and forgive him all the
injury; he felt also that it would not go so much against the grain
with him to marry that friend as to whom his sister would so often
solicit him.

"I think you may venture to sit down upon them," said Miriam, "though
I can't say that I have ever tried myself." This speech referred to
the chairs with which her room was supplied, and which Kenneby seemed
to regard with suspicion.

"They are very nice I'm sure," said he, "but I don't think I ever saw
any like them."

"Nor nobody else either. But don't you tell him so," and she nodded
with her head to the side of the house on which the office stood. "I
had as nice a set of mahoganys as ever a woman could want, and bought
with my own money too, John; but he's took them away to furnish some
of his lodgings opposite, and put them things here in their place.
Don't, Sam; you'll have 'em all twisted about nohows in no time if
you go to use 'em in that way."

"I wants to see the pictur' on the table," said Sam.

"Drat the picture," said Mrs. Dockwrath. "It was hard, wasn't it,
John, to see my own mahoganys, as I had rubbed with my own hands till
they was ever so bright, and as was bought with my own money too,
took away and them things brought here? Sam, if you twist that round
any more, I'll box your ears. One can't hear oneself speak with the
noise."

"They don't seem to be very useful," said Kenneby.

"Useful! They're got up for cheatery;--that's what they're got up
for. And that Dockwrath should be took in with 'em--he that's so
sharp at everything,--that's what surprises me. But laws, John, it
isn't the sharp ones that gets the best off. You was never sharp, but
you're as smirk and smooth as though you came out of a band-box. I am
glad to see you, John, so I am." And she put her apron up to her eyes
and wiped away a tear.

"Is Mr. Dockwrath at home?" said John.

"Sam, run round and see if your father's in the office. He'll be home
to dinner, I know. Molly, do be quiet with your sister. I never see
such a girl as you are for bothering. You didn't come down about
business, did you, John?" And then Kenneby explained to her that he
had been summoned by Dockwrath as to the matter of this Orley Farm
trial. While he was doing so, Sam returned to say that his father had
stepped out, but would be back in half an hour, and Mrs. Dockwrath,
finding it impossible to make use of her company sitting-room, took
her old lover into the family apartment which they all ordinarily
occupied.

"You can sit down there at any rate without it all crunching under
you, up to nothing." And she emptied for him as she spoke the seat
of an old well-worn horse-hair bottomed arm-chair. "As to them tin
things I wouldn't trust myself on one of them; and so I told him,
angry as it made him. But now about poor Lady Mason--. Sam and Molly,
you go into the garden, there's good children. They is so ready with
their ears, John; and he contrives to get everything out of 'em. Now
do tell me about this."

Kenneby could not help thinking that the love match between Miriam
and her husband had not turned out in all respects well, and I fear
that he derived from the thought a certain feeling of consolation.
"He" was spoken about in a manner that did not betoken unfailing love
and perfect confidence. Perhaps Miriam was at this moment thinking
that she might have done better with her youth and her money! She
was thinking of nothing of the kind. Her mind was one that dwelt on
the present, not on the past. She was unhappy about her furniture,
unhappy about the frocks of those four younger children, unhappy that
the loaves of bread went faster and faster every day, very unhappy
now at the savageness with which her husband prosecuted his anger
against Lady Mason. But it did not occur to her to be unhappy because
she had not become Mrs. Kenneby.

Mrs. Dockwrath had more to tell in the matter than had Kenneby, and
when the elder of the children who were at home had been disposed of
she was not slow to tell it. "Isn't it dreadful, John, to think that
they should come against her now, and the will all settled as it was
twenty year ago? But you won't say anything against her; will you
now, John? She was always a good friend to you; wasn't she? Though
it wasn't much use; was it?" It was thus that she referred to the
business before them, and to the love passages of her early youth at
the same time.

"It's a very dreadful affair," said Kenneby, very solemnly; "and the
more I think of it the more dreadful it becomes."

"But you won't say anything against her, will you? You won't go over
to his side; eh, John?"

"I don't know much about sides," said he.

"He'll get himself into trouble with it; I know he will. I do so wish
you'd tell him, for he can't hurt you if you stand up to him. If I
speak,--Lord bless you, I don't dare to call my soul my own for a
week afterwards."

"Is he so very--"

"Oh, dreadful, John. He's bid me never speak a word to her. But for
all that I used till she went away down to The Cleeve yonder. And
what do you think they say now? And I do believe it too. They say
that Sir Peregrine is going to make her his lady. If he does that it
stands to reason that Dockwrath and Joseph Mason will get the worst
of it. I'm sure I hope they will; only he'll be twice as hard if he
don't make money by it in some way."

"Will he, now?"

"Indeed he will. You never knew anything like him for hardness if
things go wrong awhile. I know he's got lots of money, because he's
always buying up bits of houses; besides, what has he done with mine?
but yet sometimes you'd hardly think he'd let me have bread enough
for the children--and as for clothes--!" Poor Miriam! It seemed that
her husband shared with her but few of the spoils or triumphs of his
profession.

Tidings now came in from the office that Dockwrath was there. "You'll
come round and eat a bit of dinner with us?" said she, hesitatingly.
He felt that she hesitated, and hesitated himself in his reply. "He
must say something in the way of asking you, you know, and then say
you'll come. His manner's nothing to you, you know. Do now. It does
me good to look at you, John; it does indeed." And then, without
making any promise, he left her and went round to the office.

Kenneby had made up his mind, talking over the matter with Moulder
and his sister, that he would be very reserved in any communication
which he might make to Dockwrath as to his possible evidence at the
coming trial; but nevertheless when Dockwrath had got him into his
office, the attorney made him give a succinct account of everything
he knew, taking down his deposition in a regular manner. "And now if
you'll just sign that," Dockwrath said to him when he had done.

"I don't know about signing," said Kenneby. "A man should never write
his own name unless he knows why."

"You must sign your own deposition;" and the attorney frowned at him
and looked savage. "What would a judge say to you in court if you had
made such a statement as this, affecting the character of a woman
like Lady Mason, and then had refused to sign it? You'd never be able
to hold up your head again."

"Wouldn't I?" said Kenneby gloomily; and he did sign it. This was a
great triumph to Dockwrath. Mat Round had succeeded in getting the
deposition of Bridget Bolster, but he had got that of John Kenneby.

"And now," said Dockwrath, "I'll tell you what we'll do;--we'll go to
the Blue Posts--you remember the Blue Posts?--and I'll stand a beef
steak and a glass of brandy and water. I suppose you'll go back to
London by the 3 P.M. train. We shall have lots of time."

Kenneby said that he should go back by the 3 P.M. train, but he
declined, with considerable hesitation, the beefsteak and brandy and
water. After what had passed between him and Miriam he could not go
to the Blue Posts with her husband.

"Nonsense, man," said Dockwrath. "You must dine somewhere."

But Kenneby said that he should dine in London. He always preferred
dining late. Besides, it was a long time since he had been at
Hamworth, and he was desirous of taking a walk that he might renew
his associations.

"Associations!" said Dockwrath with a sneer. According to his ideas
a man could have no pleasant associations with a place unless he had
made money there or been in some way successful. Now John Kenneby
had enjoyed no success at Hamworth. "Well then, if you prefer
associations to the Blue Posts I'll say good-bye to you. I don't
understand it myself. We shall see each other at the trial you know."
Kenneby with a sigh said that he supposed they should.

"Are you going into the house," said Dockwrath, "to see her again?"
and he indicated with his head the side on which his wife was, as she
before had indicated his side.

"Well, yes; I think I'll say good-bye."

"Don't be talking to her about this affair. She understands nothing
about it, and everything goes up to that woman at Orley Farm." And so
they parted.

"And he wanted you to go to the Blue Posts, did he?" said Miriam when
she heard of the proposition. "It's like him. If there is to be any
money spent it's anywhere but at home."

"But I ain't going," said John.

"He'll go before the day's out, though he mayn't get his dinner
there. And he'll be ever so free when he's there. He'll stand brandy
and water to half Hamworth when he thinks he can get anything by
it; but if you'll believe me, John, though I've all the fag of the
house on me, and all them children, I can't get a pint of beer--not
regular--betwixt breakfast and bedtime." Poor Miriam! Why had she not
taken advice when she was younger? John Kenneby would have given her
what beer was good for her, quite regularly.

Then he went out and took his walk, sauntering away to the gate of
Orley Farm, and looking up the avenue. He ventured up some way, and
there at a distance before him he saw Lucius Mason walking up and
down, from the house towards the road and back again, swinging a
heavy stick in his hand, with his hat pressed down over his brows.
Kenneby had no desire to speak to him; so he returned to the gate,
and thence went back to the station, escaping the town by a side
lane; and in this way he got back to London without holding further
communication with the people of Hamworth.




CHAPTER XLIII.

JOHN KENNEBY'S COURTSHIP.


"She's as sweet a temper, John, as ever stirred a lump of sugar in
her tea," said Mrs. Moulder to her brother, as they sat together over
the fire in Great St. Helen's on that same evening,--after his return
from Hamworth. "That she is,--and so Smiley always found her. 'She's
always the same,' Smiley said to me many a day. And what can a man
want more than that?"

"That's quite true," said John.

"And then as to her habits--I never knew her take a drop too much
since first I set eyes on her, and that's nigh twenty years ago. She
likes things comfortable;--and why shouldn't she, with two hundred a
year of her own coming out of the Kingsland Road brick-fields? As for
dress, her things is beautiful, and she is the woman that takes care
of 'em! Why, I remember an Irish tabinet as Smiley gave her when
first that venture in the brick-fields came up money; if that tabinet
is as much as turned yet, why, I'll eat it. And then, the best of
it is, she'll have you to-morrow. Indeed she will; or to-night, if
you'll ask her. Goodness gracious! if there ain't Moulder!" And the
excellent wife jumped up from her seat, poked the fire, emptied the
most comfortable arm-chair, and hurried out to the landing at the top
of the stairs. Presently the noise of a loudly wheezing pair of lungs
was heard, and the commercial traveller, enveloped from head to foot
in coats and comforters, made his appearance. He had just returned
from a journey, and having deposited his parcels and packages at
the house of business of Hubbles and Grease in Houndsditch, had now
returned to the bosom of his family. It was a way he had, not to let
his wife know exactly the period of his return. Whether he thought
that by so doing he might keep her always on the alert and ready for
marital inspection, or whether he disliked to tie himself down by the
obligation of a fixed time for his return, Mrs. Moulder had never
made herself quite sure. But on neither view of the subject did she
admire this practice of her lord. She had on many occasions pointed
out to him how much more snug she could make him if he would only let
her know when he was coming. But he had never taken the hint, and in
these latter days she had ceased to give it.

"Why, I'm uncommon cold," he said in answer to his wife's inquiries
after his welfare. "And so would you be too, if you'd come up from
Leeds since you'd had your dinner. What, John, are you there? The two
of you are making yourself snug enough, I suppose, with something
hot?"

"Not a drop he's had yet since he's been in the house," said Mrs.
Moulder. "And he's hardly as much as darkened the door since you
left it." And Mrs. Moulder added, with some little hesitation in her
voice, "Mrs. Smiley is coming in to-night, Moulder."

"The d---- she is! There's always something of that kind when I gets
home tired out, and wants to be comfortable. I mean to have my supper
to myself, as I likes it, if all the Mother Smileys in London choose
to come the way. What on earth is she coming here for this time of
night?"

"Why, Moulder, you know."

"No; I don't know. I only know this, that when a man's used up with
business he don't want to have any of that nonsense under his nose."

"If you mean me--" began John Kenneby.

"I don't mean you; of course not; and I don't mean anybody. Here,
take my coats, will you? and let me have a pair of slippers. If Mrs.
Smiley thinks that I'm going to change my pants, or put myself about
for her--"

"Laws, Moulder, she don't expect that."

"She won't get it any way. Here's John dressed up as if he was
going to a box in the the-atre. And you--why should you be going to
expense, and knocking out things that costs money, because Mother
Smiley's coming? I'll Smiley her."

"Now, Moulder--" But Mrs. Moulder knew that it was of no use speaking
to him at the present moment. Her task should be this,--to feed and
cosset him if possible into good humour before her guest should
arrive. Her praises of Mrs. Smiley had been very fairly true. But
nevertheless she was a lady who had a mind and voice of her own,
as any lady has a right to possess who draws in her own right two
hundred a year out of a brick-field in the Kingsland Road. Such a one
knows that she is above being snubbed, and Mrs. Smiley knew this of
herself as well as any lady; and if Moulder, in his wrath, should
call her Mother Smiley, or give her to understand that he regarded
her as an old woman, that lady would probably walk herself off in a
great dudgeon,--herself and her share in the brick-field. To tell the
truth, Mrs. Smiley required that considerable deference should be
paid to her.

Mrs. Moulder knew well what was her husband's present ailment. He had
dined as early as one, and on his journey up from Leeds to London had
refreshed himself with drink only. That last glass of brandy which
he had taken at the Peterborough station had made him cross. If she
could get him to swallow some hot food before Mrs. Smiley came, all
might yet be well.

"And what's it to be, M.?" she said in her most insinuating
voice--"there's a lovely chop down stairs, and there's nothing so
quick as that."

"Chop!" he said, and it was all he did say at the moment.

"There's a 'am in beautiful cut," she went on, showing by the urgency
of her voice how anxious she was on the subject.

For the moment he did not answer her at all, but sat facing the fire,
and running his fat fingers through his uncombed hair. "Mrs. Smiley!"
he said; "I remember when she was kitchen-maid at old Pott's."

"She ain't nobody's kitchen-maid now," said Mrs. Moulder, almost
prepared to be angry in the defence of her friend.

"And I never could make out when it was that Smiley married
her,--that is, if he ever did."

"Now, Moulder, that's shocking of you. Of course he married her. She
and I is nearly an age as possible, though I think she is a year over
me. She says not, and it ain't nothing to me. But I remember the
wedding as if it was yesterday. You and I had never set eyes on each
other then, M." This last she added in a plaintive tone, hoping to
soften him.

"Are you going to keep me here all night without anything?" he then
said. "Let me have some whisky,--hot, with;--and don't stand there
looking at nothing."

"But you'll take some solids with it, Moulder? Why it stands to
reason you'll be famished."

"Do as you're bid, will you, and give me the whisky. Are you going to
tell me when I'm to eat and when I'm to drink, like a child?" This he
said in that tone of voice which made Mrs. Moulder know that he meant
to be obeyed; and though she was sure that he would make himself
drunk, she was compelled to minister to his desires. She got the
whisky and hot water, the lemon and sugar, and set the things beside
him; and then she retired to the sofa. John Kenneby the while sat
perfectly silent looking on. Perhaps he was considering whether he
would be able to emulate the domestic management of Dockwrath or of
Moulder when he should have taken to himself Mrs. Smiley and the
Kingsland brick-field.

"If you've a mind to help yourself, John, I suppose you'll do it,"
said Moulder.

"None for me just at present, thank'ee," said Kenneby.

"I suppose you wouldn't swallow nothing less than wine in them togs?"
said the other, raising his glass to his lips. "Well, here's better
luck, and I'm blessed if it's not wanting. I'm pretty well tired of
this go, and so I mean to let 'em know pretty plainly."

All this was understood by Mrs. Moulder, who knew that it only
signified that her husband was half tipsy, and that in all
probability he would be whole tipsy before long. There was no
help for it. Were she to remonstrate with him in his present mood,
he would very probably fling the bottle at her head. Indeed,
remonstrances were never of avail with him. So she sat herself down,
thinking how she would run down when she heard Mrs. Smiley's step,
and beg that lady to postpone her visit. Indeed it would be well to
send John to convey her home again.

Moulder swallowed his glass of hot toddy fast, and then mixed
another. His eyes were very bloodshot, and he sat staring at the
fire. His hands were thrust into his pockets between the periods of
his drinking, and he no longer spoke to any one. "I'm ---- if I stand
it," he growled forth, addressing himself. "I've stood it a ---- deal
too long." And then he finished the second glass. There was a sort
of understanding on the part of his wife that such interjections
as these referred to Hubbles and Grease, and indicated a painfully
advanced state of drink. There was one hope; the double heat, that of
the fire and of the whisky, might make him sleep; and if so, he would
be safe for two or three hours.

"I'm blessed if I do, and that's all," said Moulder, grasping the
whisky-bottle for the third time. His wife sat behind him very
anxious, but not daring to interfere. "It's going over the table,
M.," she then said.

"D---- the table!" he answered; and then his head fell forward on his
breast, and he was fast asleep with the bottle in his hand.

"Put your hand to it, John," said Mrs. Moulder in a whisper. But John
hesitated. The lion might rouse himself if his prey were touched.

"He'll let it go easy if you put your hand to it. He's safe enough
now. There. If we could only get him back from the fire a little, or
his face'll be burnt off of him."

"But you wouldn't move him?"

"Well, yes; we'll try. I've done it before, and he's never stirred.
Come here, just behind. The casters is good, I know. Laws! ain't he
heavy?" And then they slowly dragged him back. He grunted out some
half-pronounced threat as they moved him; but he did not stir, and
his wife knew that she was again mistress of the room for the next
two hours. It was true that he snored horribly, but then she was used
to that.

"You won't let her come up, will you?" said John.

"Why not? She knows what men is as well I do. Smiley wasn't that way
often, I believe; but he was awful when he was. He wouldn't sleep it
off, quite innocent, like that; but would break everything about the
place, and then cry like a child after it. Now Moulder's got none of
that about him. The worst of it is, how am I ever to get him into bed
when he wakes?"

While the anticipation of this great trouble was still on her mind,
the ring at the bell was heard, and John Kenneby went down to the
outer door that he might pay to Mrs. Smiley the attention of waiting
upon her up stairs. And up stairs she came, bristling with silk--the
identical Irish tabinet, perhaps, which had never been turned--and
conscious of the business which had brought her.

"What--Moulder's asleep is he?" she said as she entered the room. "I
suppose that's as good as a pair of gloves, any way."

"He ain't just very well," said Mrs. Moulder, winking at her friend;
"he's tired after a long journey."

"Oh-h! ah-h!" said Mrs. Smiley, looking down upon the sleeping
beauty, and understanding everything at a glance. "It's uncommon bad
for him, you know, because he's so given to flesh."

"It's as much fatigue as anything," said the wife.

"Yes, I dare say;" and Mrs. Smiley shook her head. "If he fatigues
himself so much as that often he'll soon be off the hooks."

Much was undoubtedly to be borne from two hundred a year in a
brick-field, especially when that two hundred a year was coming so
very near home; but there is an amount of impertinent familiarity
which must be put down even in two hundred a year. "I've known worse
cases than him, my dear; and that ended worse."

"Oh, I dare say. But you're mistook if you mean Smiley. It was
'sepilus as took him off, as everybody knows."

"Well, my dear, I'm sure I'm not going to say anything against that.
And now, John, do help her off with her bonnet and shawl, while I get
the tea-things."

Mrs. Smiley was a firm set, healthy-looking woman of--about forty.
She had large, dark, glassy eyes, which were bright without
sparkling. Her cheeks were very red, having a fixed settled colour
that never altered with circumstances. Her black wiry hair was
ended in short crisp curls, which sat close to her head. It almost
collected like a wig, but the hair was in truth her own. Her mouth
was small, and her lips thin, and they gave to her face a look of
sharpness that was not quite agreeable. Nevertheless she was not a
bad-looking woman, and with such advantages as two hundred a year and
the wardrobe which Mrs. Moulder had described, was no doubt entitled
to look for a second husband.

"Well, Mr. Kenneby, and how do you find yourself this cold weather?
Dear, how he do snore; don't he?"

"Yes," said Kenneby, very thoughtfully, "he does rather." He was
thinking of Miriam Usbech as she was twenty years ago, and of Mrs.
Smiley as she appeared at present. Not that he felt inclined to
grumble at the lot prepared for him, but that he would like to take a
few more years to think about it.

And then they sat down to tea. The lovely chops which Moulder had
despised, and the ham in beautiful cut which had failed to tempt
him, now met with due appreciation. Mrs. Smiley, though she had
never been known to take a drop too much, did like to have things
comfortable; and on this occasion she made an excellent meal,
with a large pocket-handkerchief of Moulder's--brought in for the
occasion--stretched across the broad expanse of the Irish tabinet.
"We sha'n't wake him, shall we?" said she, as she took her last bit
of muffin.

"Not till he wakes natural, of hisself," said Mrs. Moulder. "When
he's worked it off, he'll rouse himself, and I shall have to get him
to bed."

"He'll be a bit patchy then, won't he?"

"Well, just for a while of course he will," said Mrs. Moulder. "But
there's worse than him. To-morrow morning, maybe, he'll be just as
sweet as sweet. It don't hang about him, sullen like. That's what I
hate, when it hangs about 'em." Then the tea-things were taken away,
Mrs. Smiley in her familiarity assisting in the removal, and--in
spite of the example now before them--some more sugar and some more
spirits, and some more hot water were put upon the table. "Well,
I don't mind just the least taste in life, Mrs. Moulder, as we're
quite between friends; and I'm sure you'll want it to-night to keep
yourself up." Mrs. Moulder would have answered these last words with
some severity had she not felt that good humour now might be of great
value to her brother.

"Well, John, and what is it you've got to say to her?" said Mrs.
Moulder, as she put down her empty glass. Between friends who
understood each other so well, and at their time of life, what was
the use of ceremony?

"La, Mrs. Moulder, what should he have got to say? Nothing I'm sure
as I'd think of listening to."

"You try her, John."

"Not but what I've the greatest respect in life for Mr. Kenneby,
and always did have. If you must have anything to do with men, I've
always said, recommend me to them as is quiet and steady, and hasn't
got too much of the gab;--a quiet man is the man for me any day."

"Well, John?" said Mrs. Moulder.

"Now, Mrs. Moulder, can't you keep yourself to yourself, and we shall
do very well. Laws, how he do snore! When his head goes bobbing that
way I do so fear he'll have a fit."

"No he won't; he's coming to, all right. Well, John?"

"I'm sure I shall be very happy," said John, "if she likes it. She
says that she respects me, and I'm sure I've a great respect for her.
I always had--even when Mr. Smiley was alive."

"It's very good of you to say so," said she; not speaking however as
though she were quite satisfied. What was the use of his remembering
Smiley just at present?

"Enough's enough between friends any day," said Mrs. Moulder. "So
give her your hand, John."

"I think it'll be right to say one thing first," said Kenneby, with a
solemn and deliberate tone.

"And what's that?" said Mrs. Smiley, eagerly.

"In such a matter as this," continued Kenneby, "where the hearts are
concerned--"

"You didn't say anything about hearts yet," said Mrs. Smiley, with
some measure of approbation in her voice.

"Didn't I?" said Kenneby. "Then it was an omission on my part, and I
beg leave to apologise. But what I was going to say is this: when the
hearts are concerned, everything should be honest and above-board."

"Oh of course," said Mrs. Moulder; "and I'm sure she don't suspect
nothing else."

"You'd better let him go on," said Mrs. Smiley.

"My heart has not been free from woman's lovely image."

"And isn't free now, is it, John?" said Mrs. Moulder.

"I've had my object, and though she's been another's, still I've kept
her image on my heart."

"But it ain't there any longer, John? He's speaking of twenty years
ago, Mrs. Smiley."

"It's quite beautiful to hear him," said Mrs. Smiley. "Go on, Mr.
Kenneby."

"The years are gone by as though they was nothing, and still I've had
her image on my heart. I've seen her to-day."

"Her gentleman's still alive, ain't he?" asked Mrs. Smiley.

"And likely to live," said Mrs. Moulder.

"I've seen her to-day," Kenneby continued; "and now the Adriatic's
free to wed another."

Neither of the ladies present exactly understood the force of the
quotation; but as it contained an appropriate reference to marriage,
and apparently to a second marriage, it was taken by both of them in
good part. He was considered to have made his offer, and Mrs. Smiley
thereupon formally accepted him. "He's spoke quite handsome, I'm
sure," said Mrs. Smiley to his sister; "and I don't know that any
woman has a right to expect more. As to the brick-fields--." And then
there was a slight reference to business, with which it will not be
necessary that the readers of this story should embarrass themselves.

Soon after that Mr. Kenneby saw Mrs. Smiley home in a cab, and poor
Mrs. Moulder sat by her lord till he roused himself from his sleep.
Let us hope that her troubles with him were as little vexatious as
possible; and console ourselves with the reflection that at twelve
o'clock the next morning, after the second bottle of soda and brandy,
he was "as sweet as sweet."




CHAPTER XLIV.

SHOWING HOW LADY MASON COULD BE VERY NOBLE.


Lady Mason returned to The Cleeve after her visit to Mr. Furnival's
chambers, and nobody asked her why she had been to London or whom she
had seen. Nothing could be more gracious than the deference which was
shown to her, and the perfect freedom of action which was accorded
to her. On that very day Lady Staveley had called at The Cleeve,
explaining to Sir Peregrine and Mrs. Orme that her visit was made
expressly to Lady Mason. "I should have called at Orley Farm, of
course," said Lady Staveley, "only that I hear that Lady Mason is
likely to prolong her visit with you. I must trust to you, Mrs. Orme,
to make all that understood." Sir Peregrine took upon himself to say
that it all should be understood, and then drawing Lady Staveley
aside, told her of his own intended marriage. "I cannot but be
aware," he said, "that I have no business to trouble you with an
affair that is so exclusively our own; but I have a wish, which
perhaps you may understand, that there should be no secret about it.
I think it better, for her sake, that it should be known. If the
connection can be of any service to her, she should reap that benefit
now, when some people are treating her name with a barbarity which
I believe to be almost unparalleled in this country." In answer to
this Lady Staveley was of course obliged to congratulate him, and she
did so with the best grace in her power; but it was not easy to say
much that was cordial, and as she drove back with Mrs. Arbuthnot to
Noningsby the words which were said between them as to Lady Mason
were not so kindly meant towards that lady as their remarks on their
journey to The Cleeve.

Lady Staveley had hoped,--though she had hardly expressed her hope
even to herself, and certainly had not spoken of it to any one
else,--that she might have been able to say a word or two to Mrs.
Orme about young Peregrine, a word or two that would have shown her
own good feeling towards the young man,--her own regard, and almost
affection for him, even though this might have been done without
any mention of Madeline's name. She might have learned in this way
whether young Orme had made known at home what had been his hopes and
what his disappointments, and might have formed some opinion whether
or no he would renew his suit. She would not have been the first to
mention her daughter's name; but if Mrs. Orme should speak of it,
then the subject would be free for her, and she could let it be known
that the heir of The Cleeve should at any rate have her sanction and
good will. What happiness could be so great for her as that of having
a daughter so settled, within eight miles of her? And then it was not
only that a marriage between her daughter and Peregrine Orme would be
an event so fortunate, but also that those feelings with reference
to Felix Graham were so unfortunate! That young heart, she thought,
could not as yet be heavy laden, and it might be possible that the
whole affair should be made to run in the proper course,--if only
it could be done at once. But now, that tale which Sir Peregrine
had told her respecting himself and Lady Mason had made it quite
impossible that anything should be said on the other subject. And
then again, if it was decreed that the Noningsby family and the
family of The Cleeve should be connected, would not such a marriage
as this between the baronet and Lady Mason be very injurious? So that
Lady Staveley was not quite happy as she returned to her own house.

Lady Staveley's message, however, for Lady Mason was given with all
its full force. Sir Peregrine had felt grateful for what had been
done, and Mrs. Orme, in talking of it, made quite the most of it.
Civility from the Staveleys to the Ormes would not, in the ordinary
course of things, be accounted of any special value. The two families
might, and naturally would, know each other on intimate terms. But
the Ormes would as a matter of course stand the highest in general
estimation. Now, however, the Ormes had to bear up Lady Mason with
them. Sir Peregrine had so willed it, and Mrs. Orme had not for a
moment thought of contesting the wish of one whose wishes she had
never contested. No words were spoken on the subject; but still with
both of them there was a feeling that Lady Staveley's countenance
and open friendship would be of value. When it had come to this
with Sir Peregrine Orme, he was already disgraced in his own
estimation,--already disgraced, although he declared to himself a
thousand times that he was only doing his duty as a gentleman.

On that evening Lady Mason said no word of her new purpose. She
had pledged herself both to Peregrine Orme and to Mr. Furnival. To
both she had made a distinct promise that she would break off her
engagement, and she knew well that the deed should be done at once.
But how was she to do it? With what words was she to tell him that
she had changed her mind and would not take the hand that he had
offered to her? She feared to be a moment alone with Peregrine lest
he should tax her with the non-fulfilment of her promise. But in
truth Peregrine at the present moment was thinking more of another
matter. It had almost come home to him that his grandfather's
marriage might facilitate his own; and though he still was far from
reconciling himself to the connection with Lady Mason, he was almost
disposed to put up with it.

On the following day, at about noon, a chariot with a pair of
post-horses was brought up to the door of The Cleeve at a very fast
pace, and the two ladies soon afterwards learned that Lord Alston was
closeted with Sir Peregrine. Lord Alston was one of Sir Peregrine's
oldest friends. He was a man senior both in age and standing to the
baronet; and, moreover, he was a friend who came but seldom to The
Cleeve, although his friendship was close and intimate. Nothing was
said between Mrs. Orme and Lady Mason, but each dreaded that Lord
Alston had come to remonstrate about the marriage. And so in truth he
had. The two old men were together for about an hour, and then Lord
Alston took his departure without asking for, or seeing any other
one of the family. Lord Alston had remonstrated about the marriage,
using at last very strong language to dissuade the baronet from
a step which he thought so unfortunate; but he had remonstrated
altogether in vain. Every word he had used was not only fruitless,
but injurious; for Sir Peregrine was a man whom it was very difficult
to rescue by opposition, though no man might be more easily led by
assumed acquiescence.

"Orme, my dear fellow," said his lordship, towards the end of the
interview, "it is my duty, as an old friend, to tell you this."

"Then, Lord Alston, you have done your duty."

"Not while a hope remains that I may prevent this marriage."

"There is ground for no such hope on your part; and permit me to
say that the expression of such a hope to me is greatly wanting in
courtesy."

"You and I," continued Lord Alston, without apparent attention to the
last words which Sir Peregrine had spoken, "have nearly come to the
end of our tether here. Our careers have been run; and I think I may
say as regards both, but I may certainly say as regards you, that
they have been so run that we have not disgraced those who preceded
us. Our dearest hopes should be that our names may never be held as a
reproach by those who come after us."

"With God's blessing I will do nothing to disgrace my family."

"But, Orme, you and I cannot act as may those whose names in the
world are altogether unnoticed. I know that you are doing this from a
feeling of charity to that lady."

"I am doing it, Lord Alston, because it so pleases me."

"But your first charity is due to your grandson. Suppose that he was
making an offer of his hand to the daughter of some nobleman,--as he
is so well entitled to do,--how would it affect his hopes if it were
known that you at the time had married a lady whose misfortune made
it necessary that she should stand at the bar in a criminal court?"

"Lord Alston," said Sir Peregrine, rising from his chair, "I trust
that my grandson may never rest his hopes on any woman whose heart
could be hardened against him by such a thought as that."

"But what if she should be guilty?" said Lord Alston.

"Permit me to say," said Sir Peregrine, still standing, and standing
now bolt upright, as though his years did not weigh on him a feather,
"that this conversation has gone far enough. There are some surmises
to which I cannot listen, even from Lord Alston."

Then his lordship shrugged his shoulders, declared that in speaking
as he had spoken he had endeavoured to do a friendly duty by an old
friend,--certainly the oldest, and almost the dearest friend he
had,--and so he took his leave. The wheels of the chariot were heard
grating over the gravel, as he was carried away from the door at a
gallop, and the two ladies looked into each other's faces, saying
nothing. Sir Peregrine was not seen from that time till dinner; but
when he did come into the drawing-room his manner to Lady Mason was,
if possible, more gracious and more affectionate than ever.

"So Lord Alston was here to-day," Peregrine said to his mother that
night before he went to bed.

"Yes, he was here."

"It was about this marriage, mother, as sure as I am standing here."

"I don't think Lord Alston would interfere about that, Perry."

"Wouldn't he? He would interfere about anything he did not like; that
is, as far as the pluck of it goes. Of course he can't like it. Who
can?"

"Perry, your grandfather likes it; and surely he has a right to
please himself."

"I don't know about that. You might say the same thing if he wanted
to kill all the foxes about the place, or do any other outlandish
thing. Of course he might kill them, as far as the law goes, but
where would he be afterwards? She hasn't said anything to him, has
she?"

"I think not."

"Nor to you?"

"No; she has not spoken to me; not about that."

"She promised me positively that she would break it off."

"You must not be hard on her, Perry."

Just as these words were spoken, there came a low knock at Mrs.
Orme's dressing-room door. This room, in which Mrs. Orme was wont to
sit for an hour or so every night before she went to bed, was the
scene of all the meetings of affection which took place between the
mother and the son. It was a pretty little apartment, opening from
Mrs. Orme's bed-room, which had at one time been the exclusive
property of Peregrine's father. But by degrees it had altogether
assumed feminine attributes; had been furnished with soft chairs,
a sofa, and a lady's table; and though called by the name of Mrs.
Orme's dressing-room, was in fact a separate sitting-room devoted to
her exclusive use. Sir Peregrine would not for worlds have entered it
without sending up his name beforehand, and this he did on only very
rare occasions. But Lady Mason had of late been admitted here, and
Mrs. Orme now knew that it was her knock.

"Open the door, Perry," she said; "it is Lady Mason." He did open the
door, and Lady Mason entered.

"Oh, Mr. Orme, I did not know that you were here."

"I am just off. Good night, mother."

"But I am disturbing you."

"No, we had done;" and he stooped down and kissed his mother. "Good
night, Lady Mason. Hadn't I better put some coals on for you, or the
fire will be out?" He did put on the coals, and then he went his way.

Lady Mason while he was doing this had sat down on the sofa, close
to Mrs. Orme; but when the door was closed Mrs. Orme was the first
to speak. "Well, dear," she said, putting her hand caressingly on
the other's arm. I am inclined to think that had there been no one
whom Mrs. Orme was bound to consult but herself, she would have
wished that this marriage should have gone on. To her it would have
been altogether pleasant to have had Lady Mason ever with her in
the house; and she had none of those fears as to future family
retrospections respecting which Lord Alston had spoken with so much
knowledge of the world. As it was, her manner was so caressing and
affectionate to her guest, that she did much more to promote Sir
Peregrine's wishes than to oppose them. "Well, dear," she said, with
her sweetest smile.

"I am so sorry that I have driven your son away."

"He was going. Besides, it would make no matter; he would stay here
all night sometimes, if I didn't drive him away myself. He comes here
and writes his letters at the most unconscionable hours, and uses up
all my note-paper in telling some horsekeeper what is to be done with
his mare."

"Ah, how happy you must be to have him!"

"Well, I suppose I am," she said, as a tear came into her eyes.
"We are so hard to please. I am all anxiety now that he should be
married; and if he were married, then I suppose I should grumble
because I did not see so much of him. He would be more settled if he
would marry, I think. For myself I approve of early marriages for
young men." And then she thought of her own husband whom she had
loved so well and lost so soon. And so they sat silent for a while,
each thinking of her own lot in life.

"But I must not keep you up all night," said Lady Mason.

"Oh, I do so like you to be here," said the other. Then again she
took hold of her arm, and the two women kissed each other.

"But, Edith," said the other, "I came in here to-night with a
purpose. I have something that I wish to say to you. Can you listen
to me?"

"Oh yes," said Mrs. Orme; "surely."

"Has your son been talking to you about--about what was said between
him and me the other day? I am sure he has, for I know he tells you
everything,--as he ought to do."

"Yes, he did speak to me," said Mrs. Orme, almost trembling with
anxiety.

"I am so glad, for now it will be easier for me to tell you. And
since that I have seen Mr. Furnival, and he says the same. I tell you
because you are so good and so loving to me. I will keep nothing from
you; but you must not tell Sir Peregrine that I talked to Mr.
Furnival about this."

Mrs. Orme gave the required promise, hardly thinking at the moment
whether or no she would be guilty of any treason against Sir
Peregrine in doing so.

"I think I should have said nothing to him, though he is so very old
a friend, had not Mr. Orme--"

"You mean Peregrine?"

"Yes; had not he been so--so earnest about it. He told me that if I
married Sir Peregrine I should be doing a cruel injury to him--to his
grandfather."

"He should not have said that."

"Yes, Edith,--if he thinks it. He told me that I should be turning
all his friends against him. So I promised him that I would speak to
Sir Peregrine, and break it off if it be possible."

"He told me that."

"And then I spoke to Mr. Furnival, and he told me that I should be
blamed by all the world if I were to marry him. I cannot tell you all
he said, but he said this: that if--if--"

"If what, dear?"

"If in the court they should say--"

"Say what?"

"Say that I did this thing,--then Sir Peregrine would be crushed, and
would die with a broken heart."

"But they cannot say that;--it is impossible. You do not think it
possible that they can do so?" And then again she took hold of Lady
Mason's arm, and looked up anxiously, into her face. She looked up
anxiously, not suspecting anything, not for a moment presuming it
possible that such a verdict could be justly given, but in order that
she might see how far the fear of a fate so horrible was operating on
her friend. Lady Mason's face was pale and woe-worn, but not more so
than was now customary with her.

"One cannot say what may be possible," she answered slowly. "I
suppose they would not go on with it if they did not think they had
some chance of success."

"You mean as to the property?"

"Yes; as to the property."

"But why should they not try that, if they must try it, without
dragging you there?"

"Ah, I do not understand; or at least I cannot explain it. Mr.
Furnival says that it must be so; and therefore I shall tell Sir
Peregrine to-morrow that all this must be given up." And then they
sat together silently, holding each other by the hand.

"Good night, Edith," Lady Mason said at last, getting up from her
seat.

"Good night, dearest."

"You will let me be your friend still, will you not?" said Lady
Mason.

"My friend! Oh yes; always my friend. Why should this interfere
between you and me?"

"But he will be very angry--at least I fear that he will. Not
that--not that he will have anything to regret. But the very strength
of his generosity and nobleness will make him angry. He will be
indignant because I do not let him make this sacrifice for me. And
then--and then--I fear I must leave this house."

"Oh no, not that; I will speak to him. He will do anything for me."

"It will be better perhaps that I should go. People will think that I
am estranged from Lucius. But if I go, you will come to me? He will
let you do that; will he not?"

And then there were warm, close promises given, and embraces
interchanged. The women did love each other with a hearty, true
love, and each longed that they might be left together. And yet how
different they were, and how different had been their lives!

The prominent thought in Lady Mason's mind as she returned to her own
room was this:--that Mrs. Orme had said no word to dissuade her from
the line of conduct which she had proposed to herself. Mrs. Orme
had never spoken against the marriage as Peregrine had spoken, and
Mr. Furnival. Her heart had not been stern enough to allow her to
do that. But was it not clear that her opinion was the same as
theirs? Lady Mason acknowledged to herself that it was clear, and
acknowledged to herself also that no one was in favour of the
marriage. "I will do it immediately after breakfast," she said to
herself. And then she sat down,--and sat through the half the night
thinking of it.

Mrs. Orme, when she was left alone, almost rebuked herself in that
she had said no word of counsel against the undertaking which Lady
Mason proposed for herself. For Mr. Furnival and his opinion she did
not care much. Indeed, she would have been angry with Lady Mason
for speaking to Mr. Furnival on the subject, were it not that her
pity was too deep to admit of any anger. That the truth must be
established at the trial Mrs. Orme felt all but confident. When alone
she would feel quite sure on this point, though a doubt would always
creep in on her when Lady Mason was with her. But now, as she sat
alone, she could not realise the idea that the fear of a verdict
against her friend should offer any valid reason against the
marriage. The valid reasons, if there were such, must be looked for
elsewhere. And were these other reasons so strong in their validity?
Sir Peregrine desired the marriage; and so did Lady Mason herself, as
regarded her own individual wishes. Mrs. Orme was sure that this was
so. And then for her own self, she,--Sir Peregrine's daughter-in-law,
the only lady concerned in the matter,--she also would have liked it.
But her son disliked it, and she had yielded so far to the wishes of
her son. Well; was it not right that with her those wishes should be
all but paramount? And thus she endeavoured to satisfy her conscience
as she retired to rest.

On the following morning the four assembled at breakfast. Lady Mason
hardly spoke at all to any one. Mrs. Orme, who knew what was about to
take place, was almost as silent; but Sir Peregrine had almost more
to say than usual to his grandson. He was in good spirits, having
firmly made up his mind on a certain point; and he showed this by
telling Peregrine that he would ride with him immediately after
breakfast. "What has made you so slack about your hunting during the
last two or three days?" he asked.

"I shall hunt to-morrow," said Peregrine.

"Then you can afford time to ride with me through the woods after
breakfast." And so it would have been arranged had not Lady Mason
immediately said that she hoped to be able to say a few words to Sir
Peregrine in the library after breakfast. "_Place aux dames_," said
he. "Peregrine, the horses can wait." And so the matter was arranged
while they were still sitting over their toast.

Peregrine, as this was said, had looked at his mother, but she had
not ventured to take her eyes for a moment from the teapot. Then he
had looked at Lady Mason, and saw that she was, as it were, going
through a fashion of eating her breakfast. In order to break the
absolute silence of the room he muttered something about the weather,
and then his grandfather, with the same object, answered him. After
that no words were spoken till Sir Peregrine, rising from his chair,
declared that he was ready.

He got up and opened the door for his guest, and then hurrying across
the hall, opened the library door for her also, holding it till she
had passed in. Then he took her left hand in his, and passing his
right arm round her waist, asked her if anything disturbed her.

"Oh yes," she said, "yes; there is much that disturbs me. I have done
very wrong."

"How done wrong, Mary?" She could not recollect that he had called
her Mary before, and the sound she thought was very sweet;--was very
sweet, although she was over forty, and he over seventy years of age.

"I have done very wrong, and I have now come here that I may undo it.
Dear Sir Peregrine, you must not be angry with me."

"I do not think that I shall be angry with you; but what is it,
dearest?"

But she did not know how to find words to declare her purpose. It was
comparatively an easy task to tell Mrs. Orme that she had made up
her mind not to marry Sir Peregrine, but it was by no means easy to
tell the baronet himself. And now she stood there leaning over the
fireplace, with his arm round her waist,--as it behoved her to stand
no longer, seeing the resolution to which she had come. But still she
did not speak.

"Well, Mary, what is it? I know there is something on your mind or
you would not have summoned me in here. Is it about the trial? Have
you seen Mr. Furnival again?"

"No; it is not about the trial," she said, avoiding the other
question.

"What is it then?"

"Sir Peregrine, it is impossible that we should be married." And thus
she brought forth her tidings, as it were at a gasp, speaking at the
moment with a voice that was almost indicative of anger.

"And why not?" said he, releasing her from his arm and looking at
her.

"It cannot be," she said.

"And why not, Lady Mason?"

"It cannot be," she said again, speaking with more emphasis, and with
a stronger tone.

"And is that all that you intend to tell me? Have I done anything
that has offended you?"

"Offended me! No. I do not think that would be possible. The offence
is on the other side--"

"Then, my dear,--"

"But listen to me now. It cannot be. I know that it is wrong.
Everything tells me that such a marriage on your part would be a
sacrifice,--a terrible sacrifice. You would be throwing away your
great rank--"

"No," shouted Sir Peregrine; "not though I married a
kitchen-maid,--instead of a lady who in social life is my equal."

"Ah, no; I should not have said rank. You cannot lose that;--but your
station in the world, the respect of all around you, the--the--the--"

"Who has been telling you all this?"

"I have wanted no one to tell me. Thinking of it has told it me all.
My own heart which is full of gratitude and love for you has told
me."

"You have not seen Lord Alston?"

"Lord Alston! oh, no."

"Has Peregrine been speaking to you?"

"Peregrine!"

"Yes; Peregrine; my grandson?"

"He has spoken to me."

"Telling you to say this to me. Then he is an ungrateful boy;--a very
ungrateful boy. I would have done anything to guard him from wrong in
this matter."

"Ah; now I see the evil that I have done. Why did I ever come into
the house to make quarrels between you?"

"There shall be no quarrel. I will forgive him even that if you will
be guided by me. And, dearest Mary, you must be guided by me now.
This matter has gone too far for you to go back--unless, indeed, you
will say that personally you have an aversion to the marriage."

"Oh, no; no; it is not that," she said eagerly. She could not help
saying it with eagerness. She could not inflict the wound on his
feelings which her silence would then have given.

"Under those circumstances, I have a right to say that the marriage
must go on."

"No; no."

"But I say it must. Sit down, Mary." And she did sit down, while he
stood leaning over her and thus spoke. "You speak of sacrificing
me. I am an old man with not many more years before me. If I did
sacrifice what little is left to me of life with the object of
befriending one whom I really love, there would be no more in it than
what a man might do, and still feel that the balance was on the right
side. But here there will be no sacrifice. My life will be happier,
and so will Edith's. And so indeed will that boy's, if he did but
know it. For the world's talk, which will last some month or two, I
care nothing. This I will confess, that if I were prompted to this
only by my own inclination, only by love for you--" and as he spoke
he held out his hand to her, and she could not refuse him hers--"in
such a case I should doubt and hesitate and probably keep aloof from
such a step. But it is not so. In doing this I shall gratify my own
heart, and also serve you in your great troubles. Believe me, I have
thought of that."

"I know you have, Sir Peregrine,--and therefore it cannot be."

"But therefore it shall be. The world knows it now; and were we to
be separated after what has past, the world would say that I--I had
thought you guilty of this crime."

"I must bear all that." And now she stood before him, not looking him
in the face, but with her face turned down towards the ground, and
speaking hardly above her breath.

"By heavens, no; not whilst I can stand by your side. Not whilst I
have strength left to support you and thrust the lie down the throat
of such a wretch as Joseph Mason. No, Mary, go back to Edith and tell
her that you have tried it, but that there is no escape for you." And
then he smiled at her. His smile at times could be very pleasant!

But she did not smile as she answered him. "Sir Peregrine," she said;
and she endeavoured to raise her face to his but failed.

"Well, my love."

"Sir Peregrine, I am guilty."

"Guilty! Guilty of what?" he said, startled rather than instructed by
her words.

"Guilty of all this with which they charge me." And then she threw
herself at his feet, and wound her arms round his knees.

[Illustration: Guilty.]




CHAPTER XLV.

SHOWING HOW MRS. ORME COULD BE VERY WEAK MINDED.


I venture to think, I may almost say to hope, that Lady Mason's
confession at the end of the last chapter will not have taken anybody
by surprise. If such surprise be felt I must have told my tale badly.
I do not like such revulsions of feeling with regard to my characters
as surprises of this nature must generate. That Lady Mason had
committed the terrible deed for which she was about to be tried, that
Mr. Furnival's suspicion of her guilt was only too well founded, that
Mr. Dockwrath with his wicked ingenuity had discovered no more than
the truth, will, in its open revelation, have caused no surprise to
the reader;--but it did cause terrible surprise to Sir Peregrine
Orme.

And now we must go back a little and endeavour to explain how it was
that Lady Mason had made this avowal of her guilt. That she had not
intended to do so when she entered Sir Peregrine's library is very
certain. Had such been her purpose she would not have asked Mrs. Orme
to visit her at Orley Farm. Had such a course of events been in her
mind she would not have spoken of her departure from The Cleeve as
doubtful. No. She had intended still to keep her terrible secret to
herself; still to have leaned upon Sir Peregrine's arm as on the arm
of a trusting friend. But he had overcome her by his generosity; and
in her fixed resolve that he should not be dragged down into this
abyss of misery the sudden determination to tell the truth at least
to him had come upon her. She did tell him all; and then, as soon as
the words were out of her mouth, the strength which had enabled her
to do so deserted her, and she fell at his feet overcome by weakness
of body as well as spirit.

But the words which she spoke did not at first convey to his mind
their full meaning. Though she had twice repeated the assertion
that she was guilty, the fact of her guilt did not come home to his
understanding as a thing that he could credit. There was something,
he doubted not, to surprise and harass him,--something which when
revealed and made clear might, or might not, affect his purpose of
marrying,--something which it behoved this woman to tell before she
could honestly become his wife, something which was destined to give
his heart a blow. But he was very far as yet from understanding the
whole truth. Let us think of those we love best, and ask ourselves
how much it would take to convince us of their guilt in such a
matter. That thrusting of the lie down the throat of Joseph Mason had
become to him so earnest a duty, that the task of believing the lie
to be on the other side was no easy one. The blow which he had to
suffer was a cruel blow. Lady Mason, however, was merciful, for she
might have enhanced the cruelty tenfold.

He stood there wondering and bewildered for some minutes of time,
while she, with her face hidden, still clung round his knees. "What
is it?" at last he said. "I do not understand." But she had no answer
to make to him. Her great resolve had been quickly made and quickly
carried out, but now the reaction left her powerless. He stooped down
to raise her; but when he moved she fell prone upon the ground; he
could hear her sobs as though her bosom would burst with them.

And then by degrees the meaning of her words began to break upon him.
"I am guilty of all this with which they charge me." Could that be
possible? Could it be that she had forged that will; that with base,
premeditated contrivance she had stolen that property; stolen it and
kept it from that day to this;--through all these long years? And
then he thought of her pure life, of her womanly, dignified repose,
of her devotion to her son,--such devotion indeed!--of her sweet pale
face and soft voice! He thought of all this, and of his own love and
friendship for her,--of Edith's love for her! He thought of it all,
and he could not believe that she was guilty. There was some other
fault, some much lesser fault than that, with which she charged
herself. But there she lay at his feet, and it was necessary that he
should do something towards lifting her to a seat.

He stooped and took her by the hand, but his feeble strength was not
sufficient to raise her. "Lady Mason," he said, "speak to me. I do
not understand you. Will you not let me seat you on the sofa?"

But she, at least, had realised the full force of the revelation she
had made, and lay there covered with shame, broken-hearted, and
unable to raise her eyes from the ground. With what inward struggles
she had played her part during the last few months, no one might ever
know! But those struggles had been kept to herself. The world, her
world, that world for which she had cared, in which she had lived,
had treated her with honour and respect, and had looked upon her as
an ill-used innocent woman. But now all that would be over. Every one
now must know what she was. And then, as she lay there, that thought
came to her. Must every one know it? Was there no longer any hope
for her? Must Lucius be told? She could bear all the rest, if only
he might be ignorant of his mother's disgrace;--he, for whom all
had been done! But no. He, and every one must know it. Oh! if the
beneficent Spirit that sees all and pities all would but take her
that moment from the world!

When Sir Peregrine asked her whether he should seat her on the sofa,
she slowly picked herself up, and with her head still crouching
towards the ground, placed herself where she before had been sitting.
He had been afraid that she would have fainted, but she was not one
of those women whose nature easily admits of such relief as that.
Though she was always pale in colour and frail looking, there was
within her a great power of self-sustenance. She was a woman who with
a good cause might have dared anything. With the worst cause that a
woman could well have, she had dared and endured very much. She did
not faint, nor gasp as though she were choking, nor become hysteric
in her agony; but she lay there, huddled up in the corner of the
sofa, with her face hidden, and all those feminine graces forgotten
which had long stood her in truth so royally. The inner, true, living
woman was there at last,--that and nothing else.

But he,--what was he to do? It went against his heart to harass her
at that moment; but then it was essential that he should know the
truth. The truth, or a suspicion of the truth was now breaking upon
him; and if that suspicion should be confirmed, what was he to do?
It was at any rate necessary that everything should be put beyond a
doubt.

"Lady Mason," he said, "if you are able to speak to me--"

"Yes," she said, gradually straightening herself, and raising her
head though she did not look at him. "Yes. I am able." But there was
something terrible in the sound of her voice. It was such a sound of
agony that he felt himself unable to persist.

"If you wish it I will leave you, and come back,--say in an hour."

"No, no; do not leave me." And her whole body was shaken with a
tremour, as though of an ague fit. "Do not go away, and I will tell
you everything. I did it."

"Did what?"

"I--forged the will. I did it all.--I am guilty."

There was the whole truth now, declared openly and in the most simple
words, and there was no longer any possibility that he should doubt.
It was very terrible,--a terrible tragedy. But to him at this present
moment the part most frightful was his and her present position. What
should he do for her? How should he counsel her? In what way so act
that he might best assist her without compromising that high sense
of right and wrong which in him was a second nature. He felt at
the moment that he would still give his last shilling to rescue
her,--only that there was the property! Let the heavens fall, justice
must be done there. Even a wretch such as Joseph Mason must have that
which was clearly his own.

As she spoke those last words, she had risen from the sofa, and was
now standing before him resting with her hands upon the table, like a
prisoner in the dock.

"What!" he said; "with your own hands?"

"Yes; with my own hands. When he would not do justice to my baby,
when he talked of that other being the head of his house, I did it,
with my own hands,--during the night."

"And you wrote the names,--yourself?"

"Yes; I wrote them all." And then there was again silence in the
room; but she still stood, leaning on the table, waiting for him to
speak her doom.

He turned away from the spot in which he had confronted her and
walked to the window. What was he to do? How was he to help her? And
how was he to be rid of her? How was he to save his daughter from
further contact with a woman such as this? And how was he to bid his
daughter behave to this woman as one woman should behave to another
in her misery? Then too he had learned to love her himself,--had
yearned to call her his own; and though this in truth was a minor
sorrow, it was one which at the moment added bitterness to the
others. But there she stood, still waiting her doom, and it was
necessary that that doom should be spoken by him.

"If this can really be true--"

"It is true. You do not think that a woman would falsely tell such a
tale as that against herself!"

"Then I fear--that this must be over between you and me."

There was a relief to her, a sort of relief, in those words. The doom
as so far spoken was so much a matter of course that it conveyed no
penalty. Her story had been told in order that that result might be
attained with certainty. There was almost a tone of scorn in her
voice as she said, "Oh yes; all that must be over."

"And what next would you have me do?" he asked.

"I have nothing to request," she said. "If you must tell it to all
the world, do so."

"Tell it; no. It will not be my business to be an informer."

"But you must tell it. There is Mrs. Orme."

"Yes: to Edith!"

"And I must leave the house. Oh, where shall I go when he knows it?
And where will he go?" Wretched miserable woman, but yet so worthy
of pity! What a terrible retribution for that night's work was now
coming on her!

He again walked to the window to think how he might answer these
questions. Must he tell his daughter? Must he banish this criminal
at once from his house? Every one now had been told of his intended
marriage; every one had been told through Lord Alston, Mr. Furnival,
and such as they. That at any rate must now be untold. And would it
be possible that she should remain there, living with them at The
Cleeve, while all this was being done? In truth he did not know how
to speak. He had not hardness of heart to pronounce her doom.

"Of course I shall leave the house," she said, with something almost
of pride in her voice. "If there be no place open to me but a gaol I
will do that. Perhaps I had better go now and get my things removed
at once. Say a word of love for me to her;--a word of respectful
love." And she moved as though she were going to the door.

But he would not permit her to leave him thus. He could not let the
poor, crushed, broken creature wander forth in her agony to bruise
herself at every turn, and to be alone in her despair. She was still
the woman whom he had loved; and, over and beyond that, was she not
the woman who had saved him from a terrible downfall by rushing
herself into utter ruin for his sake? He must take some steps in her
behalf--if he could only resolve what those steps should be. She was
moving to the door, but stopping her, he took her by the hand. "You
did it," he said, "and he, your husband, knew nothing of it?" The
fact itself was so wonderful, that he had hardly as yet made even
that all his own.

"I did it, and he knew nothing of it. I will go now, Sir Peregrine; I
am strong enough."

"But where will you go?"

"Ah me, where shall I go?" And she put the hand which was at liberty
up to her temple, brushing back her hair as though she might thus
collect her thoughts. "Where shall I go? But he does not know it yet.
I will go now to Orley Farm. When must he be told? Tell me that. When
must he know it?"

"No, Lady Mason; you cannot go there to-day. It's very hard to say
what you had better do."

"Very hard," she echoed, shaking her head.

"But you must remain here at present;--at The Cleeve I mean; at any
rate for to-day. I will think about it. I will endeavour to think
what may be the best."

"But--we cannot meet now. She and I;--Mrs. Orme?" And then again
he was silent; for in truth the difficulties were too many for him.
Might it not be best that she should counterfeit illness and be
confined to her own room? But then he was averse to recommend any
counterfeit; and if Mrs. Orme did not go to her in her assumed
illness, the counterfeit would utterly fail of effect in the
household. And then, should he tell Mrs. Orme? The weight of these
tidings would be too much for him, if he did not share them with some
one. So he made up his mind that he must tell them to her--though to
no other one.

"I must tell her," he said.

"Oh yes," she replied; and he felt her hand tremble in his, and
dropped it. He had forgotten that he thus held her as all these
thoughts pressed upon his brain.

"I will tell it to her, but to no one else. If I might advise you, I
would say that it will be well for you now to take some rest. You are
agitated, and--"

"Agitated! yes. But you are right, Sir Peregrine. I will go at once
to my room. And then--"

"Then, perhaps,--in the course of the morning, you will see me
again."

"Where?--will you come to me there?"

"I will see you in her room, in her dressing-room. She will be down
stairs, you know." From which last words the tidings were conveyed to
Lady Mason that she was not to see Mrs. Orme again.

And then she went, and as she slowly made her way across the hall
she felt that all of evil, all of punishment that she had ever
anticipated, had now fallen upon her. There are periods in the lives
of some of us--I trust but of few--when, with the silent inner voice
of suffering, we call on the mountains to fall and crush us, and
on the earth to gape open and take us in. When, with an agony of
intensity, we wish that our mothers had been barren. In those moments
the poorest and most desolate are objects to us of envy, for their
sufferings can be as nothing to our own. Lady Mason, as she crept
silently across the hall, saw a servant girl pass down towards the
entrance to the kitchen, and would have given all, all that she had
in the world, to have changed places with that girl. But no change
was possible for her. Neither would the mountains crush her, nor
would the earth take her in. There was her burden, and she must bear
it to the end. There was the bed which she had made for herself, and
she must lie upon it. No escape was possible to her. She had herself
mixed the cup, and she must now drink of it to the dregs.

Slowly and very silently she made her way up to her own room, and
having closed the door behind her sat herself down upon the bed. It
was as yet early in the morning, and the servant had not been in the
chamber. There was no fire there although it was still mid-winter.
Of such details as these Sir Peregrine had remembered nothing when
he recommended her to go to her own room. Nor did she think of them
at first as she placed herself on the bed-side. But soon the bitter
air pierced her through and through, and she shivered with the cold
as she sat there. After a while she got herself a shawl, wrapped it
close around her, and then sat down again. She bethought herself that
she might have to remain in this way for hours, so she rose again
and locked the door. It would add greatly to her immediate misery
if the servants were to come while she was there, and see her in
her wretchedness. Presently the girls did come, and being unable to
obtain entrance were told by Lady Mason that she wanted the chamber
for the present. Whereupon they offered to light the fire, but she
declared that she was not cold. Her teeth were shaking in her head,
but any suffering was better than the suffering of being seen.

[Illustration: Lady Mason after her Confession.]

She did not lie down, or cover herself further than she was covered
with that shawl, nor did she move from her place for more than an
hour. By degrees she became used to the cold. She was numbed, and
as it were, half dead in all her limbs, but she had ceased to shake
as she sat there, and her mind had gone back to the misery of her
position. There was so much for her behind that was worse! What
should she do when even this retirement should not be allowed to her?
Instead of longing for the time when she should be summoned to meet
Sir Peregrine, she dreaded its coming. It would bring her nearer to
that other meeting when she would have to bow her head and crouch
before her son.

She had been there above an hour and was in truth ill with the cold
when she heard,--and scarcely heard,--a light step come quickly along
the passage towards her door. Her woman's ear instantly told her who
owned that step, and her heart once more rose with hope. Was she
coming there to comfort her, to speak to the poor bruised sinner one
word of feminine sympathy? The quick light step stopped at the door,
there was a pause, and then a low, low knock was heard. Lady Mason
asked no question, but dropping from the bed hurried to the door and
turned the key. She turned the key, and as the door was opened half
hid herself behind it;--and then Mrs. Orme was in the room.

"What! you have no fire?" she said, feeling that the air struck her
with a sudden chill. "Oh, this is dreadful! My poor, poor dear!" And
then she took hold of both Lady Mason's hands. Had she possessed the
wisdom of the serpent as well as the innocence of the dove she could
not have been wiser in her first mode of addressing the sufferer. For
she knew it all. During that dreadful hour Sir Peregrine had told
her the whole story; and very dreadful that hour had been to her. He,
when he attempted to give counsel in the matter, had utterly failed.
He had not known what to suggest, nor could she say what it might
be wisest for them all to do; but on one point her mind had been at
once resolved. The woman who had once been her friend, whom she had
learned to love, should not leave the house without some sympathy
and womanly care. The guilt was very bad; yes, it was terrible;
she acknowledged that it was a thing to be thought of only with
shuddering. But the guilt of twenty years ago did not strike her
senses so vividly as the abject misery of the present day. There was
no pity in her bosom for Mr. Joseph Mason when she heard the story,
but she was full of pity for her who had committed the crime. It was
twenty years ago, and had not the sinner repented? Besides, was she
to be the judge? "Judge not, and ye shall not be judged," she said,
when she thought that Sir Peregrine spoke somewhat harshly in the
matter. So she said, altogether misinterpreting the Scripture in her
desire to say something in favour of the poor woman.

But when it was hinted to her that Lady Mason might return to Orley
Farm without being again seen by her, her woman's heart at once
rebelled. "If she has done wrong," said Mrs. Orme--

"She has done great wrong--fearful wrong," said Sir Peregrine.

"It will not hurt me to see her because she has done wrong. Not see
her while she is in the house! If she were in the prison, would I not
go to see her?" And then Sir Peregrine had said no more, but he loved
his daughter-in-law all the better for her unwonted vehemence.

"You will do what is right," he said--"as you always do." Then he
left her; and she, after standing for a few moments while she shaped
her thoughts, went straight away to Lady Mason's room.

She took Lady Mason by both her hands and found that they were icy
cold. "Oh, this is dreadful," she said. "Come with me, dear." But
Lady Mason still stood, up by the bed-head, whither she had retreated
from the door. Her eyes were still cast upon the ground and she
leaned back as Mrs. Orme held her, as though by her weight she would
hinder her friend from leading her from the room.

"You are frightfully cold," said Mrs. Orme.

"Has he told you?" said Lady Mason, asking the question in the lowest
possible whisper, and still holding back as she spoke.

"Yes; he has told me;--but no one else--no one else." And then for a
few moments nothing was spoken between them.

"Oh, that I could die!" said the poor wretch, expressing in words
that terrible wish that the mountains might fall upon her and crush
her.

"You must not say that. That would be wicked, you know. He can
comfort you. Do you not know that He will comfort you, if you are
sorry for your sins and go to Him?"

But the woman in her intense suffering could not acknowledge to
herself any idea of comfort. "Ah, me!" she exclaimed, with a deep
bursting sob which went straight to Mrs. Orme's heart. And then a
convulsive fit of trembling seized her so strongly that Mrs. Orme
could hardly continue to hold her hands.

"You are ill with the cold," she said. "Come with me, Lady Mason, you
shall not stay here longer."

Lady Mason then permitted herself to be led out of the room, and the
two went quickly down the passage to the head of the front stairs,
and from thence to Mrs. Orme's room. In crossing the house they had
seen no one and been seen by no one; and Lady Mason when she came to
the door hurried in, that she might again hide herself in security
for the moment. As soon as the door was closed Mrs. Orme placed her
in an arm-chair which she wheeled up to the front of the fire, and
seating herself on a stool at the poor sinner's feet, chafed her
hands within her own. She took away the shawl and made her stretch
out her feet towards the fire, and thus seated close to her, she
spoke no word for the next half-hour as to the terrible fact that
had become known to her. Then, on a sudden, as though the ice of her
heart had thawed from the warmth of the other's kindness, Lady Mason
burst into a flood of tears, and flinging herself upon her friend's
neck and bosom begged with earnest piteousness to be forgiven.

And Mrs. Orme did forgive her. Many will think that she was wrong to
do so, and I fear it must be acknowledged that she was not strong
minded. By forgiving her I do not mean that she pronounced absolution
for the sin of past years, or that she endeavoured to make the
sinner think that she was no worse for her sin. Mrs. Orme was a good
churchwoman but not strong, individually, in points of doctrine. All
that she left mainly to the woman's conscience and her own dealings
with her Saviour,--merely saying a word of salutary counsel as to a
certain spiritual pastor who might be of aid. But Mrs. Orme forgave
her,--as regarded herself. She had already, while all this was
unknown, taken this woman to her heart as pure and good. It now
appeared that the woman had not been pure, had not been good!--And
then she took her to her heart again! Criminal as the woman was,
disgraced and debased, subject almost to the heaviest penalties of
outraged law and justice, a felon against whom the actual hands of
the law's myrmidons would probably soon prevail, a creature doomed to
bear the scorn of the lowest of her fellow-creatures,--such as she
was, this other woman, pure and high, so shielded from the world's
impurity that nothing ignoble might touch her,--this lady took her
to her heart again and promised in her ear with low sweet words of
consolation that they should still be friends. I cannot say that Mrs.
Orme was right. That she was weak minded I feel nearly certain. But,
perhaps, this weakness of mind may never be brought against her to
her injury, either in this world or in the next.

I will not pretend to give the words which passed between them at
that interview. After a while Lady Mason allowed herself to be guided
all in all by her friend's advice as though she herself had been a
child. It was decided that for the present,--that is for the next day
or two,--Lady Mason should keep her room at The Cleeve as an invalid.
Counterfeit in this there would be none certainly, for indeed she was
hardly fit for any place but her own bed. If inclined and able to
leave her room, she should be made welcome to the use of Mrs. Orme's
dressing-room. It would only be necessary to warn Peregrine that for
the present he must abstain from coming there. The servants, Mrs.
Orme said, had heard of their master's intended marriage. They would
now hear that this intention had been abandoned. On this they would
put their own construction, and would account in their own fashion
for the fact that Sir Peregrine and his guest no longer saw each
other. But no suspicion of the truth would get abroad when it was
seen that Lady Mason was still treated as a guest at The Cleeve. As
to such future steps as might be necessary to be taken, Mrs. Orme
would consult with Sir Peregrine, and tell Lady Mason from time to
time. And as for the sad truth, the terrible truth,--that, at any
rate for the present, should be told to no other ears. And so the
whole morning was spent, and Mrs. Orme saw neither Sir Peregrine nor
her son till she went down to the library in the first gloom of the
winter evening.




CHAPTER XLVI.

A WOMAN'S IDEA OF FRIENDSHIP.


Sir Peregrine after the hour that he had spent with his
daughter-in-law,--that terrible hour during which Lady Mason had sat
alone on the bed-side,--returned to the library and remained there
during the whole of the afternoon. It may be remembered that he had
agreed to ride through the woods with his grandson; but that purpose
had been abandoned early in the day, and Peregrine had in consequence
been hanging about the house. He soon perceived that something was
amiss, but he did not know what. He had looked for his mother, and
had indeed seen her for a moment at her door; but she had told him
that she could not then speak to him. Sir Peregrine also had shut
himself up, but about the hour of dusk he sent for his grandson; and
when Mrs. Orme, on leaving Lady Mason, went down to the library, she
found them both together.

They were standing with their backs to the fire, and the gloom in the
room was too dark to allow of their faces being seen, but she felt
that the conversation between them was of a serious nature. Indeed
what conversation in that house could be other than serious on
that day? "I see that I am disturbing you," she said, preparing to
retreat. "I did not know that you were together."

"Do not go, Edith," said the old man. "Peregrine, put a chair for
your mother. I have told him that all this is over now between me and
Lady Mason."

She trembled as she heard the words, for it seemed to her that there
must be danger now in even speaking of Lady Mason,--danger with
reference to that dreadful secret, the divulging of which would be so
fatal.

"I have told him," continued Sir Peregrine, "that for a few minutes I
was angry with him when I heard from Lady Mason that he had spoken to
her; but I believe that on the whole it is better that it should have
been so."

"He would be very unhappy if anything that he had done had distressed
you," said Mrs. Orme, hardly knowing what words to use, or how to
speak. Nor did she feel quite certain as yet how much had been told
to her son, and how much was concealed from him.

"No, no, no," said the old man, laying his arm affectionately on the
young man's shoulder. "He has done nothing to distress me. There is
nothing wrong--nothing wrong between him and me. Thank God for that.
But, Perry, we will think now of that other matter. Have you told
your mother anything about it?" And he strove to look away from the
wretchedness of his morning's work to something in his family that
still admitted of a bright hope.

"No, sir; not yet. We won't mind that just now." And then they all
remained silent, Mrs. Orme sitting, and the two men still standing
with their backs towards the fire. Her mind was too intent on the
unfortunate lady up stairs to admit of her feeling interest in that
other unknown matter to which Sir Peregrine had alluded.

"If you have done with Perry," she said at last, "I would be glad to
speak to you for a minute or two."

"Oh yes," said Peregrine;--"we have done." And then he went.

"You have told him," said she, as soon as they were left together.

"Told him; what, of her? Oh no. I have told him that that,--that
idea of mine has been abandoned." From this time forth Sir Peregrine
could never endure to speak of his proposed marriage, nor to hear it
spoken of. "He conceives that this has been done at her instance," he
continued.

"And so it has," said Mrs. Orme, with much more of decision in her
voice than was customary with her.

"And so it has," he repeated after her.

"Nobody must know of this,"--said she very solemnly, standing up and
looking into his face with eager eyes. "Nobody but you and I."

"All the world, I fear, will know it soon," said Sir Peregrine.

"No; no. Why should all the world know it? Had she not told us we
should not have known it. We should not have suspected it. Mr.
Furnival, who understands these things;--he does not think her
guilty."

"But, Edith--the property!"

"Let her give that up--after a while; when all this has passed by.
That man is not in want. It will not hurt him to be without it a
little longer. It will be enough for her to do that when this trial
shall be over."

"But it is not hers. She cannot give it up. It belongs to her
son,--or is thought to belong to him. It is not for us to be
informers, Edith--"

"No, no; it is not for us to be informers. We must remember that."

"Certainly. It is not for us to tell the story of her guilt; but her
guilt will remain the same, will be acted over and over again every
day, while the proceeds of the property go into the hands of Lucius
Mason. It is that which is so terrible, Edith;--that her conscience
should have been able to bear that load for the last twenty years! A
deed done,--that admits of no restitution, may admit of repentance.
We may leave that to the sinner and his conscience, hoping that he
stands right with his Maker. But here, with her, there has been a
continual theft going on from year to year,--which is still going
on. While Lucius Mason holds a sod of Orley Farm, true repentance
with her must be impossible. It seems so to me." And Sir Peregrine
shuddered at the doom which his own rectitude of mind and purpose
forced him to pronounce.

"It is not she that has it," said Mrs. Orme. "It was not done for
herself."

"There is no difference in that," said he sharply. "All sin
is selfish, and so was her sin in this. Her object was the
aggrandisement of her own child; and when she could not accomplish
that honestly, she did it by fraud, and--and--and--. Edith, my dear,
you and I must look at this thing as it is. You must not let your
kind heart make your eyes blind in a matter of such moment."

"No, father; nor must the truth make our hearts cruel. You talk of
restitution and repentance. Repentance is not the work of a day. How
are we to say by what struggles her poor heart has been torn?"

"I do not judge her."

"No, no; that is it. We may not judge her; may we? But we may assist
her in her wretchedness. I have promised that I will do all I can to
aid her. You will allow me to do so;--you will; will you not?" And
she pressed his arm and looked up into his face, entreating him.
Since first they two had known each other, he had never yet denied
her a request. It was a law of his life that he would never do so.
But now he hesitated, not thinking that he would refuse her, but
feeling that on such an occasion it would be necessary to point out
to her how far she might go without risk of bringing censure on her
own name. But in this case, though the mind of Sir Peregrine might
be the more logical, the purpose of his daughter-in-law was the
stronger. She had resolved that such communication with crime would
not stain her, and she already knew to what length she would go in
her charity. Indeed, her mind was fully resolved to go far enough.

"I hardly know as yet what she intends to do; any assistance that you
can give her must, I should say, depend on her own line of conduct."

"But I want your advice as to that. I tell you what I purpose. It is
clear that Mr. Furnival thinks she will gain the day at this trial."

"But Mr. Furnival does not know the truth."

"Nor will the judge and the lawyers, and all the rest. As you say so
properly, it is not for us to be the informers. If they can prove it,
let them. But you would not have her tell them all against herself?"
And then she paused, waiting for his answer.

"I do not know. I do not know what to say. It is not for me to advise
her."

"Ah, but it is for you," she said; and as she spoke she put her
little hand down on the table with an energy which startled him. "She
is here--a wretched woman, in your house. And why do you know the
truth? Why has it been told to you and me? Because without telling it
she could not turn you from that purpose of yours. It was generous,
father--confess that; it was very generous."

"Yes, it was generous," said Sir Peregrine.

"It was very generous. It would be base in us if we allowed ourselves
to forget that. But I was telling you my plan. She must go to this
trial."

"Oh yes; there will be no doubt as to that."

"Then--if she can escape, let the property be given up afterwards."

"I do not see how it is to be arranged. The property will belong to
Lucius, and she cannot give it up then. It is not so easy to put
matters right when guilt and fraud have set them wrong."

"We will do the best we can. Even suppose that you were to tell
Lucius afterwards;--you yourself! if that were necessary, you know."

And so by degrees she talked him over; but yet he would come to no
decision as to what steps he himself must take. What if he himself
should go to Mr. Round, and pledge himself that the whole estate
should be restored to Mr. Mason of Groby, on condition that the trial
were abandoned? The world would probably guess the truth after that;
but the terrible trial and the more terrible punishment which would
follow it might be thus escaped. Poor Sir Peregrine! Even when
he argued thus within himself, his conscience told him that in
taking such a line of conduct, he himself would be guilty of some
outrage against the law by aiding a criminal in her escape. He had
heard of misprision of felony; but nevertheless, he allowed his
daughter-in-law to prevail. Before such a step as this could be taken
the consent of Lady Mason must of course be obtained; but as to that
Mrs. Orme had no doubt. If Lucius could be induced to abandon the
property without hearing the whole story, it would be well. But if
that could not be achieved,--then the whole story must be told to
him. "And you will tell it," Mrs. Orme said to him. "It would be
easier for me to cut off my right arm," he answered; "but I will do
my best."

And then came the question as to the place of Lady Mason's immediate
residence. It was evident to Mrs. Orme that Sir Peregrine expected
that she would at once go back to Orley Farm;--not exactly on that
day, nor did he say on the day following. But his words made it
very manifest that he did not think it right that she should under
existing circumstances remain at The Cleeve. Sir Peregrine, however,
as quickly understood that Mrs. Orme did not wish her to go away for
some days.

"It would injure the cause if she were to leave us quite at once,"
said Mrs. Orme.

"But how can she stay here, my dear,--with no one to see her; with
none but the servants to wait upon her?"

"I should see her," said Mrs. Orme, boldly.

"Do you mean constantly--in your old, friendly way?"

"Yes, constantly; and," she added after a pause, "not only here, but
at Orley Farm also." And then there was another pause between them.

Sir Peregrine certainly was not a cruel man, nor was his heart by any
means hardened against the lady with whom circumstances had lately
joined him so closely. Indeed, since the knowledge of her guilt had
fully come upon him, he had undertaken the conduct of her perilous
affairs in a manner more confidential even than that which had
existed while he expected to make her his wife. But, nevertheless,
it went sorely against the grain with him when it was proposed that
there should still exist a close intimacy between the one cherished
lady of his household and the woman who had been guilty of so base
a crime. It seemed to him that he might touch pitch and not be
defiled;--he or any man belonging to him. But he could not reconcile
it to himself that the widow of his son should run such risk. In
his estimation there was something almost more than human about the
purity of the only woman that blessed his hearth. It seemed to him
as though she were a sacred thing, to be guarded by a shrine,--to be
protected from all contact with the pollutions of the outer world.
And now it was proposed to him that she should take a felon to her
bosom as her friend!

"But will that be necessary, Edith?" he said; "and after all that has
been revealed to us now, will it be wise?"

"I think so," she said, speaking again with a very low voice. "Why,
should I not?"

"Because she has shown herself unworthy of such friendship;--unfit
for it I should say."

"Unworthy! Dear father, is she not as worthy and as fit as she was
yesterday? If we saw clearly into each other's bosom, whom should we
think worthy?"

"But you would not choose for your friend one--one who could do such
a deed as that?"

"No; I would not choose her because she had so acted; nor perhaps if
I knew all beforehand would I open my heart to one who had so done.
But it is different now. What are love and friendship worth if they
cannot stand against such trials as these?"

"Do you mean, Edith, that no crime would separate you from a friend?"

"I have not said that. There are circumstances always. But if she
repents,--as I am sure she does, I cannot bring myself to desert her.
Who else is there that can stand by her now; what other woman? At any
rate I have promised her, and you would not have me break my word."

Thus she again gained her point, and it was settled that for the
present Lady Mason should be allowed to occupy her own room,--her own
room, and occasionally Mrs. Orme's sitting-room, if it pleased her
to do so. No day was named for her removal, but, Mrs. Orme perfectly
understood that the sooner such a day could be fixed the better Sir
Peregrine would be pleased. And, indeed, his household as at present
arranged was not a pleasant one. The servants had all heard of his
intended marriage, and now they must also hear that that intention
was abandoned. And yet the lady would remain up stairs as a guest
of his! There was much in this that was inconvenient; but under
circumstances as they now existed, what could he do?

When all this was arranged and Mrs. Orme had dressed for dinner, she
again went to Lady Mason. She found her in bed, and told her that at
night she would come to her and tell her all. And then she instructed
her own servant as to attending upon the invalid. In doing this she
was cunning in letting a word fall here and there, that might teach
the woman that that marriage purpose was all over; but nevertheless
there was so much care and apparent affection in her mode of
speaking, and she gave her orders for Lady Mason's comfort with so
much earnestness, that no idea could get abroad in the household that
there had been any cause for absolute quarrel.

Late at night, when her son had left her, she did go again to her
guest's room, and sitting down by the bed-side she told her all that
had been planned, pointing out however with much care that, as a
part of those plans, Orley Farm was to be surrendered to Joseph
Mason. "You think that is right; do you not?" said Mrs. Orme, almost
trembling as she asked a question so pertinent to the deed which the
other had done, and to that repentance for the deed which was now so
much to be desired.

"Yes," said the other, "of course it will be right." And then the
thought that it was not in her power to abandon the property occurred
to her also. If the estate must be voluntarily surrendered, no one
could so surrender it but Lucius Mason. She knew this, and felt at
the moment that of all men he would be the least likely to do so,
unless an adequate reason was made clearly plain to him. The same
thought at the same moment was passing through the minds of them
both; but Lady Mason could not speak out her thought, and Mrs. Orme
would not say more on that terrible day to trouble the mind of the
poor creature whose sufferings she was so anxious to assuage.

And then Lady Mason was left alone, and having now a partner in her
secret, slept sounder than she had done since the tidings first
reached her of Mr. Dockwrath's vengeance.




CHAPTER XLVII.

THE GEM OF THE FOUR FAMILIES.


And now we will go back to Noningsby. On that evening Graham ate his
pheasant with a relish although so many cares sat heavy on his mind,
and declared, to Mrs. Baker's great satisfaction, that the cook had
managed to preserve the bread sauce uninjured through all the perils
of delay which it had encountered.

"Bread sauce is so ticklish; a simmer too much and it's clean done
for," Mrs. Baker said with a voice of great solicitude. But she had
been accustomed perhaps to patients whose appetites were fastidious.
The pheasant and the bread sauce and the mashed potatoes, all
prepared by Mrs. Baker's own hands to be eaten as spoon meat,
disappeared with great celerity; and then, as Graham sat sipping the
solitary glass of sherry that was allowed to him, meditating that
he would begin his letter the moment the glass was empty, Augustus
Staveley again made his appearance.

[Illustration: "Bread Sauce is so ticklish."]

"Well, old fellow," said he, "how are you now?" and he was
particularly careful so to speak as to show by his voice that his
affection for his friend was as strong as ever. But in doing so he
showed also that there was some special thought still present in his
mind,--some feeling which was serious in its nature if not absolutely
painful.

"Staveley," said the other, gravely, "I have acquired knowledge
to-day which I trust I may carry with me to my grave."

"And what is that?" said Augustus, looking round to Mrs. Baker as
though he thought it well that she should be out of the room before
the expected communication was made. But Mrs. Baker's attention was
so riveted by her patient's earnestness, that she made no attempt to
go.

"It is a wasting of the best gifts of Providence," said Graham, "to
eat a pheasant after one has really done one's dinner."

"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Augustus.

"So it is, sir," said Mrs. Baker, thinking that the subject quite
justified the manner.

"And of no use whatsoever to eat only a little bit of one as a man
does then. To know what a pheasant is you should have it all to
yourself."

"So you should, sir," said Mrs. Baker, quite delighted and very much
in earnest.

"And you should have nothing else. Then, if the bird be good to begin
with, and has been well hung--"

"There's a deal in that," said Mrs. Baker.

"Then, I say, you'll know what a pheasant is. That's the lesson which
I have learned to-day, and I give it you as an adequate return for
the pheasant itself."

"I was almost afeard it would be spoilt by being brought up the
second time," said Mrs. Baker. "And so I said to my lady; but she
wouldn't have you woke, nohow." And then Mrs. Baker, having heard the
last of the lecture, took away the empty wine-glass and shut the door
behind her.

"And now I'll write those two letters," said Graham. "What I've
written hitherto I wrote in bed, and I feel almost more awkward now I
am up than I did then."

"But what letters are they?"

"Well, one to my laundress to tell her I shall be there to-morrow,
and one to Mary Snow to say that I'll see her the day after."

"Then, Felix, don't trouble yourself to write either. You positively
won't go to-morrow--"

"Who says so?"

"The governor. He has heard from my mother exactly what the doctor
said, and declares that he won't allow it. He means to see the doctor
himself before you stir. And he wants to see you also. I am to tell
you he'll come to you directly after breakfast."

"I shall be delighted to see your father, and am very much gratified
by his kindness, but--"

"But what--"

"I'm a free agent, I suppose,--to go when I please?"

"Not exactly. The law is unwritten; but by traditional law a man laid
up in his bedroom is not free to go and come. No action for false
imprisonment would lie if Mrs. Baker kept all your clothes away from
you."

"I should like to try the question."

"You will have the opportunity, for you may be sure that you'll not
leave this to-morrow."

"It would depend altogether on the evidence of the doctor."

"Exactly so. And as the doctor in this case would clearly be on the
side of the defendants, a verdict on behalf of the plaintiff would
not be by any means attainable." After that the matter was presumed
to be settled, and Graham said no more as to leaving Noningsby on
the next day. As things turned out afterwards he remained there for
another week.

"I must at any rate write a letter to Mary Snow," he said. And to
Mary Snow he did write some three or four lines, Augustus sitting by
the while. Augustus Staveley would have been very glad to know the
contents, or rather the spirit of those lines; but nothing was said
about them, and the letter was at last sealed up and intrusted to
his care for the post-bag. There was very little in it that could
have interested Augustus Staveley or any one else. It contained the
ordinary, but no more than the ordinary terms of affection. He told
her that he found it impracticable to move himself quite immediately.
And then as to that cause of displeasure,--that cause of supposed
displeasure as to which both Mary and Mrs. Thomas had written, he
declared that he did not believe that anything had been done that he
should not find it easy to forgive after so long an absence.

Augustus then remained there for another hour, but not a word was
said between the young men on that subject which was nearest, at the
moment, to the hearts of both of them. Each was thinking of Madeline,
but neither of them spoke as though any such subject were in their
thoughts.

"Heaven and earth!" said Augustus at last, pulling out his watch. "It
only wants three minutes to seven. I shall have a dozen messages from
the judge before I get down, to know whether he shall come and help
me change my boots. I'll see you again before I go to bed. Good-bye,
old fellow." And then Graham was again alone.

If Lady Staveley were really angry with him for loving her
daughter,--if his friend Staveley were in very truth determined
that such love must under no circumstances be sanctioned,--would
they treat him as they were treating him? Would they under such
circumstances make his prolonged stay in the house an imperative
necessity? He could not help asking himself this question, and
answering it with some gleam of hope. And then he acknowledged
to himself that it was ungenerous in him to do so. His remaining
there,--the liberty to remain there which had been conceded to
him,--had arisen solely from the belief that a removal in his present
state would be injudicious. He assured himself of this over and over
again, so that no false hope might linger in his heart. And yet hope
did linger there whether false or true. Why might he not aspire to
the hand of Madeline Staveley,--he who had been assured that he need
regard no woman as too high for his aspirations?

"Mrs. Baker," he said that evening, as that excellent woman was
taking away his tea-things, "I have not heard Miss Staveley's voice
these two days."

"Well, no; no more you have," said she. "There's two ways, you know,
Mr. Graham, of going to her part of the house. There's the door that
opens at the end of the passage by her mamma's room. She's been that
way, and that's the reason, I suppose. There ain't no other, I'm
sure."

"One likes to hear one's friends if one can't see them; that's all."

"To be sure one does. I remember as how when I had the measles--I was
living with my lady's mother, as maid to the young ladies. There was
four of 'em, and I dressed 'em all--God bless 'em. They've all got
husbands now and grown families--only there ain't one among 'em equal
to our Miss Madeline, though there's some of 'em much richer. When
my lady married him,--the judge, you know,--he was the poorest of
the lot. They didn't think so much of him when he came a-courting in
those days."

"He was only a practising barrister then."

"Oh yes; he knew well how to practise, for Miss Isabella--as she was
then--very soon made up her mind about him. Laws, Mr. Graham, she
used to tell me everything in them days. They didn't want her to
have nothing to say to Mr. Staveley at first; but she made up her
mind, and though she wasn't one of them as has many words, like Miss
Furnival down there, there was no turning her."

"Did she marry at last against their wish?"

"Oh dear, no; nothing of that sort. She wasn't one of them flighty
ones neither. She just made up her own mind and bided. And now I
don't know whether she hasn't done about the best of 'em all. Them
Oliphants is full of money, they do say--full of money. That was
Miss Louisa, who came next. But, Lord love you, Mr. Graham, he's so
crammed with gout as he can't ever put a foot to the ground; and as
cross;--as cross as cross. We goes there sometimes, you know. Then
the girls is all plain; and young Mr. Oliphant, the son,--why he
never so much as speaks to his own father; and though they're rolling
in money, they say he can't pay for the coat on his back. Now our Mr.
Augustus, unless it is that he won't come down to morning prayers and
always keeps the dinner waiting, I don't think there's ever a black
look between him and his papa. And as for Miss Madeline,--she's the
gem of the four families. Everybody gives that up to her."

If Madeline's mother married a barrister in opposition to the wishes
of her family--a barrister who then possessed nothing but his
wits--why should not Madeline do so also? That was of course the line
which his thoughts took. But then, as he said to himself, Madeline's
father had been one of the handsomest men of his day, whereas he was
one of the ugliest; and Madeline's father had been encumbered with no
Mary Snow. A man who had been such a fool as he, who had gone so far
out of the regular course, thinking to be wiser than other men, but
being in truth much more silly, could not look for that success and
happiness in life which men enjoy who have not been so lamentably
deficient in discretion! 'Twas thus that he lectured himself; but
still he went on thinking of Madeline Staveley.

There had been some disagreeable confusion in the house that
afternoon after Augustus had spoken to his sister. Madeline had gone
up to her own room, and had remained there, chewing the cud of her
thoughts. Both her sister and her brother had warned her about this
man. She could moreover divine that her mother was suffering under
some anxiety on the same subject. Why was all this? Why should these
things be said and thought? Why should there be uneasiness in the
house on her account in this matter of Mr. Graham? She acknowledged
to herself that there was such uneasiness;--and she almost
acknowledged to herself the cause.

But while she was still sitting over her own fire, with her needle
untouched beside her, her father had come home, and Lady Staveley had
mentioned to him that Mr. Graham thought of going on the next day.

"Nonsense, my dear," said the judge. "He must not think of such a
thing. He can hardly be fit to leave his room yet."

"Pottinger does say that it has gone on very favourably," pleaded
Lady Staveley.

"But that's no reason he should destroy the advantages of his healthy
constitution by insane imprudence. He's got nothing to do. He wants
to go merely because he thinks he is in your way."

Lady Staveley looked wishfully up in her husband's face, longing to
tell him all her suspicions. But as yet her grounds for them were so
slight that even to him she hesitated to mention them.

"His being here is no trouble to me, of course," she said.

"Of course not. You tell him so, and he'll stay," said the judge. "I
want to see him to-morrow myself;--about this business of poor Lady
Mason's."

Immediately after that he met his son. And Augustus also told him
that Graham was going.

"Oh no; he's not going at all," said the judge. "I've settled that
with your mother."

"He's very anxious to be off," said Augustus gravely.

"And why? Is there any reason?"

"Well; I don't know." For a moment he thought he would tell his
father the whole story; but he reflected that his doing so would
be hardly fair towards his friend. "I don't know that there is any
absolute reason; but I'm quite sure that he is very anxious to go."

The judge at once perceived that there was something in the wind,
and during that hour in which the pheasant was being discussed up
in Graham's room, he succeeded in learning the whole from his wife.
Dear, good, loving wife! A secret of any kind from him was an
impossibility to her, although that secret went no further than her
thoughts.

"The darling girl is so anxious about him, that--that I'm afraid,"
said she.

"He's by no means a bad sort of man, my love," said the judge.

"But he's got nothing--literally nothing," said the mother.

"Neither had I, when I went a wooing," said the judge. "But,
nevertheless, I managed to have it all my own way."

"You don't mean really to make a comparison?" said Lady Staveley. "In
the first place you were at the top of your profession."

"Was I? If so I must have achieved that distinction at a very early
age." And then he kissed his wife very affectionately. Nobody was
there to see, and under such circumstances a man may kiss his wife
even though he be a judge, and between fifty and sixty years old.
After that he again spoke to his son, and in spite of the resolves
which Augustus had made as to what friendship required of him,
succeeded in learning the whole truth.

Late in the evening, when all the party had drunk their cups of tea,
when Lady Staveley was beginning her nap, and Augustus was making
himself agreeable to Miss Furnival--to the great annoyance of
his mother, who half rousing herself every now and then, looked
sorrowfully at what was going on with her winking eyes,--the judge
contrived to withdraw with Madeline into the small drawing-room,
telling her as he put his arm around her waist, that he had a few
words to say to her.

"Well, papa," said she, as at his bidding she sat herself down beside
him on the sofa. She was frightened, because such summonses were very
unusual; but nevertheless her father's manner towards her was always
so full of love that even in her fear she felt a comfort in being
with him.

"My darling," he said, "I want to ask you one or two questions--about
our guest here who has hurt himself,--Mr. Graham."

"Yes, papa." And now she knew that she was trembling with nervous
dread.

"You need not think that I am in the least angry with you, or that I
suspect you of having done or said, or even thought anything that is
wrong. I feel quite confident that I have no cause to do so."

"Oh, thank you, papa."

"But I want to know whether Mr. Graham has ever spoken to you--as a
lover."

"Never, papa."

"Because under the circumstances of his present stay here, his doing
so would, I think, have been ungenerous."

"He never has, papa, in any way--not a single word."

"And you have no reason to regard him in that light."

"No, papa." But in the speaking of these last two words there was a
slight hesitation,--the least possible shade of doubt conveyed, which
made itself immediately intelligible to the practised ear of the
judge.

"Tell me all, my darling;--everything that there is in your heart, so
that we may help each other if that may be possible."

"He has never said anything to me, papa."

"Because your mamma thinks that you are more anxious about him than
you would be about an ordinary visitor."

"Does she?"

"Has any one else spoken to you about Mr. Graham?"

"Augustus did, papa; and Isabella, some time ago."

"Then I suppose they thought the same."

"Yes; I suppose they did."

"And now, dear, is there anything else you would like to say to me
about it?"

"No, papa, I don't think there is."

"But remember this always;--that my only wishes respecting you, and
your mother's wishes also, are to see you happy and good."

"I am very happy, papa."

"And very good also to the best of my belief." And then he kissed
her, and they went back again into the large drawing-room.

Many of my readers, and especially those who are old and wise,--if I
chance to have any such,--will be inclined to think that the judge
behaved foolishly in thus cross-questioning his daughter on a matter,
which, if it were expedient that it should die away, would die away
the more easily the less it were talked about. But the judge was
an odd man in many of the theories of his life. One of them, with
reference to his children, was very odd, and altogether opposed to
the usual practice of the world. It was this,--that they should be
allowed, as far as was practicable, to do what they liked. Now the
general opinion of the world is certainly quite the reverse--namely
this, that children, as long as they are under the control of their
parents, should be hindered and prevented in those things to which
they are most inclined. Of course the world in general, in carrying
out this practice, excuses it by an assertion,--made to themselves
or others,--that children customarily like those things which they
ought not to like. But the judge had an idea quite opposed to this.
Children, he said, if properly trained would like those things which
were good for them. Now it may be that he thought his daughter had
been properly trained.

"He is a very clever young man, my dear; you may be sure of that,"
were the last words which the judge said to his wife that night.

"But then he has got nothing," she replied; "and he is so uncommonly
plain."

The judge would not say a word more, but he could not help thinking
that this last point was one which might certainly be left to the
young lady.




CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE ANGEL OF LIGHT UNDER A CLOUD.


On the following morning, according to appointment, the judge visited
Felix Graham in his room. It was only the second occasion on which he
had done so since the accident, and he was therefore more inclined to
regard him as an invalid than those who had seen him from day to day.

"I am delighted to hear that your bones have been so amenable," said
the judge. "But you must not try them too far. We'll get you down
stairs into the drawing-room, and see how you get on there by the
next few days."

"I don't want to trouble you more than I can help," said Felix,
sheepishly. He knew that there were reasons why he should not go
into that drawing-room, but of course he could not guess that those
reasons were as well known to the judge as they were to himself.

"You sha'n't trouble us--more than you can help. I am not one of
those men who tell my friends that nothing is a trouble. Of course
you give trouble."

"I am so sorry!"

"There's your bed to make, my dear fellow, and your gruel to warm.
You know Shakspeare pretty well by heart I believe, and he puts that
matter,--as he did every other matter,--in the best and truest point
of view. Lady Macbeth didn't say she had no labour in receiving the
king. 'The labour we delight in physics pain,' she said. Those were
her words, and now they are mine."

"With a more honest purpose behind," said Felix.

"Well, yes; I've no murder in my thoughts at present. So that is all
settled, and Lady Staveley will be delighted to see you down stairs
to-morrow."

"I shall be only too happy," Felix answered, thinking within his own
mind that he must settle it all in the course of the day with
Augustus.

"And now perhaps you will be strong enough to say a few words about
business."

"Certainly," said Graham.

"You have heard of this Orley Farm case, in which our neighbour Lady
Mason is concerned."

"Oh yes; we were all talking of it at your table;--I think it was the
night, or a night or two, before my accident."

"Very well; then you know all about it. At least as much as the
public knows generally. It has now been decided on the part of Joseph
Mason,--the husband's eldest son, who is endeavouring to get the
property,--that she shall be indicted for perjury."

"For perjury!"

"Yes; and in doing that, regarding the matter from his point of view,
they are not deficient in judgment."

"But how could she have been guilty of perjury?"

"In swearing that she had been present when her husband and the three
witnesses executed the deed. If they have any ground to stand on--and
I believe they have none whatever, but if they have, they would much
more easily get a verdict against her on that point than on a charge
of forgery. Supposing it to be the fact that her husband never
executed such a deed, it would be manifest that she must have sworn
falsely in swearing that she saw him do so."

"Why, yes; one would say so."

"But that would afford by no means conclusive evidence that she had
forged the surreptitious deed herself."

"It would be strong presumptive evidence that she was cognizant of
the forgery."

"Perhaps so,--but uncorroborated would hardly bring a verdict after
such a lapse of years. And then moreover a prosecution for forgery,
if unsuccessful, would produce more painful feeling. Whether
successful or unsuccessful it would do so. Bail could not be taken in
the first instance, and such a prosecution would create a stronger
feeling that the poor lady was being persecuted."

"Those who really understand the matter will hardly thank them for
their mercy."

"But then so few will really understand it. The fact however is
that she will be indicted for perjury. I do not know whether the
indictment has not been already laid. Mr. Furnival was with me in
town yesterday, and at his very urgent request, I discussed the whole
subject with him. I shall be on the Home Circuit myself on these next
spring assizes, but I shall not take the criminal business at Alston.
Indeed I should not choose that this matter should be tried before me
under any circumstances, seeing that the lady is my near neighbour.
Now Furnival wants you to be engaged on the defence as junior
counsel."

"With himself?"

"Yes; with himself,--and with Mr. Chaffanbrass."

"With Mr. Chaffanbrass!" said Graham, in a tone almost of horror--as
though he had been asked to league himself with all that was most
disgraceful in the profession;--as indeed perhaps he had been.

"Yes--with Mr. Chaffanbrass."

"Will that be well, judge, do you think?"

"Mr. Chaffanbrass no doubt is a very clever man, and it may be wise
in such a case as this to have the services of a barrister who is
perhaps unequalled in his power of cross-examining a witness."

"Does his power consist in making a witness speak the truth, or in
making him conceal it?"

"Perhaps in both. But here, if it be the case as Mr. Furnival
suspects, that witnesses will be suborned to give false evidence--"

"But surely the Rounds would have nothing to do with such a matter as
that?"

"No, probably not. I am sure that old Richard Round would abhor any
such work as you or I would do. They take the evidence as it is
brought to them. I believe there is no doubt that at any rate one
of the witnesses to the codicil in question will now swear that the
signature to the document is not her signature."

"A woman--is it?"

"Yes; a woman. In such a case it may perhaps be allowable to employ
such a man as Mr. Chaffanbrass; and I should tell you also, such
another man as Mr. Solomon Aram."

"Solomon Aram, too! Why, judge, the Old Bailey will be left bare."

"The shining lights will certainly be down at Alston. Now under those
circumstances will you undertake the case?"

"Would you;--in my place?"

"Yes; if I were fully convinced of the innocence of my client at the
beginning."

"But what if I were driven to change my opinion as the thing
progressed?"

"You must go on, in such a case, as a matter of course."

"I suppose I can have a day or two to think of it?"

"Oh yes. I should not myself be the bearer to you of Mr. Furnival's
message, were it not that I think that Lady Mason is being very
cruelly used in the matter. If I were a young man in your position,
I should take up the case _con amore_, for the sake of beauty and
womanhood. I don't say that that Quixotism is very wise; but still I
don't think it can be wrong to join yourself even with such men as
Chaffanbrass and Mr. Solomon Aram, if you can feel confident that you
have justice and truth on your side." Then after a few more words the
interview was over, and the judge left the room making some further
observation as to his hope of seeing Graham in the drawing-room on
the next day.

On the following morning there came from Peckham two more letters for
Graham, one of course from Mary Snow, and one from Mrs. Thomas. We
will first give attention to that from the elder lady. She commenced
with much awe, declaring that her pen trembled within her fingers,
but that nevertheless she felt bound by her conscience and that
duty which she owed to Mr. Graham, to tell him everything that had
occurred,--"word by word," as she expressed it. And then Felix,
looking at the letter, saw that he held in his hand two sheets of
letter paper, quite full of small writing, the latter of which was
crossed. She went on to say that her care had been unremitting, and
her solicitude almost maternal; that Mary's conduct had on the whole
been such as to inspire her with "undeviating confidence;" but that
the guile of the present age was such, especially in respect to
female servants--who seemed, in Mrs. Thomas's opinion, to be sent in
these days express from a very bad place for the express assistance
of a very bad gentleman--that it was impossible for any woman, let
her be ever so circumspect, to say "what was what, or who was who."
From all which Graham learned that Mrs. Thomas had been "done;" but
by the middle of the third page he had as yet learned nothing as to
the manner of the doing.

But by degrees the long reel unwinded itself;--angel of light, and
all. Mary Snow had not only received but had answered a lover's
letter. She had answered that lover's letter by making an appointment
with him; and she had kept that appointment,--with the assistance of
the agent sent express from that very bad gentleman. All this Mrs.
Thomas had only discovered afterwards by finding the lover's letter,
and the answer which the angel of light had written. Both of these
she copied verbatim, thinking probably that the original documents
were too precious to be intrusted to the post; and then ended by
saying that an additional year of celibacy, passed under a closer
espionage, and with more severe moral training, might still perhaps
make Mary Snow fit for the high destiny which had been promised to
her.

The only part of this letter which Felix read twice was that which
contained the answer from the angel of light to her lover. "You have
been very wicked to address me," the angel of light said severely.
"And it is almost impossible that I should ever forgive you!" If only
she could have brought herself to end there! But her nature, which
the lover had greatly belied in likening it to her name, was not cold
enough for this. So she added a few more words very indiscreetly. "As
I want to explain to you why I can never see you again, I will meet
you on Thursday afternoon, at half-past four, a little way up Clapham
Lane, at the corner of the doctor's wall, just beyond the third
lamp." It was the first letter she had ever written to a lover, and
the poor girl had betrayed herself by keeping a copy of it.

And then Graham came to Mary Snow's letter to himself, which, as it
was short, the reader shall have entire.


   MY DEAR MR. GRAHAM,

   I never was so unhappy in my life, and I am sure I don't
   know how to write to you. Of course I do not think you
   will ever see me again unless it be to upbraid me for my
   perfidy, and I almost hope you won't, for I should sink
   into the ground before your eyes. And yet I didn't mean to
   do anything very wrong, and when I did meet him I wouldn't
   as much as let him take me by the hand;--not of my own
   accord. I don't know what she has said to you, and I think
   she ought to have let me read it; but she speaks to me now
   in such a way that I don't know how to bear it. She has
   rummaged among everything I have got, but I am sure she
   could find nothing except those two letters. It wasn't my
   fault that he wrote to me, though I know now I ought not
   to have met him. He is quite a genteel young man, and very
   respectable in the medical line; only I know that makes
   no difference now, seeing how good you have been to me. I
   don't ask you to forgive me, but it nearly kills me when I
   think of poor papa.

   Yours always, most unhappy, and very sorry for what I have
   done,

   MARY SNOW.


Poor Mary Snow! Could any man under such circumstances have been
angry with her? In the first place if men will mould their wives,
they must expect that kind of thing; and then, after all, was there
any harm done? If ultimately he did marry Mary Snow, would she make
a worse wife because she had met the apothecary's assistant at the
corner of the doctor's wall, under the third lamp-post? Graham, as he
sat with the letters before him, made all manner of excuses for her;
and this he did the more eagerly, because he felt that he would have
willingly made this affair a cause for breaking off his engagement,
if his conscience had not told him that it would be unhandsome in him
to do so.

When Augustus came he could not show the letters to him. Had he done
so it would have been as much as to declare that now the coast was
clear as far as he was concerned. He could not now discuss with his
friend the question of Mary Snow, without also discussing the other
question of Madeline Staveley. So he swept the letters away, and
talked almost entirely about the Orley Farm case.

"I only wish I were thought good enough for the chance," said
Augustus. "By heavens! I would work for that woman as I never could
work again for any fee that could be offered me."

"So would I; but I don't like my fellow-labourers."

"I should not mind that."

"I suppose," said Graham, "there can be no possible doubt as to her
absolute innocence?"

"None whatever. My father has no doubt. Furnival has no doubt. Sir
Peregrine has no doubt,--who, by-the-by, is going to marry her."

"Nonsense!"

"Oh, but he is though. He has taken up her case _con amore_ with a
vengeance."

"I should be sorry for that. It makes me think him a fool, and her--a
very clever woman."

And so that matter was discussed, but not a word was said between
them about Mary Snow, or as to that former conversation respecting
Madeline Staveley. Each felt then there was a reserve between them;
but each felt also that there was no way of avoiding this. "The
governor seems determined that you sha'n't stir yet awhile," Augustus
said as he was preparing to take his leave.

"I shall be off in a day or two at the furthest all the same," said
Graham.

"And you are to drink tea down stairs to-night. I'll come and fetch
you as soon as we're out of the dining-room. I can assure you that
your first appearance after your accident has been duly announced to
the public, and that you are anxiously expected." And then Staveley
left him.

So he was to meet Madeline that evening. His first feeling at the
thought was one of joy, but he soon brought himself almost to wish
that he could leave Noningsby without any such meeting. There
would have been nothing in it,--nothing that need have called for
observation or remark,--had he not told his secret to Augustus. But
his secret had been told to one, and might be known to others in the
house. Indeed he felt sure that it was suspected by Lady Staveley. It
could not, as he said to himself, have been suspected by the judge,
or the judge would not have treated him in so friendly a manner, or
have insisted so urgently on his coming down among them.

And then, how should he carry himself in her presence? If he were to
say nothing to her, his saying nothing would be remarked; and yet
he felt that all his powers of self-control would not enable him to
speak to her in the same manner that he would speak to her sister. He
had to ask himself, moreover, what line of conduct he did intend to
follow. If he was still resolved to marry Mary Snow, would it not be
better that he should take this bull by the horns and upset it at
once? In such case, Madeline Staveley must be no more to him than her
sister. But then he had two intentions. In accordance with one he
would make Mary Snow his wife; and in following the other he would
marry Miss Staveley. It must be admitted that the two brides which he
proposed to himself were very different. The one that he had moulded
for his own purposes was not, as he admitted, quite equal to her of
whom nature, education, and birth had had the handling.

Again he dined alone; but on this occasion Mrs. Baker was able to
elicit from him no enthusiasm as to his dinner. And yet she had done
her best, and placed before him a sweetbread and dish of sea-kale
that ought to have made him enthusiastic. "I had to fight with the
gardener for that like anything," she said, singing her own praises
when he declined to sing them.

"Dear me! They'll think that I am a dreadful person to have in the
house."

"Not a bit. Only they sha'n't think as how I'm going to be said 'no'
to in that way when I've set my mind on a thing. I know what's going
and I know what's proper. Why, laws, Mr. Graham, there's heaps of
things there and yet there's no getting of 'em;--unless there's a
party or the like of that. What's the use of a garden I say,--or of
a gardener neither, if you don't have garden stuff? It's not to look
at. Do finish it now;--after all the trouble I had, standing over him
in the cold while he cut it."

"Oh dear, oh dear, Mrs. Baker, why did you do that?"

"He thought to perish me, making believe it took him so long to get
at it; but I'm not so easy perished; I can tell him that! I'd have
stood there till now but what I had it. Miss Madeline see'd me as I
was coming in, and asked me what I'd been doing."

"I hope you didn't tell her that I couldn't live without sea-kale?"

"I told her that I meant to give you your dinner comfortable as long
as you had it up here; and she said--; but laws, Mr. Graham, you
don't care what a young lady says to an old woman like me. You'll see
her yourself this evening, and then you can tell her whether or no
the sea-kale was worth the eating! It's not so badly biled, I will
say that for Hannah Cook, though she is rampagious sometimes." He
longed to ask her what words Madeline had used, even in speaking on
such a subject as this; but he did not dare to do so. Mrs. Baker was
very fond of talking about Miss Madeline, but Graham was by no means
assured that he should find an ally in Mrs. Baker if he told her all
the truth.

At last the hour arrived, and Augustus came to convoy him down to
the drawing-room. It was now many days since he had been out of that
room, and the very fact of moving was an excitement to him. He hardly
knew how he might feel in walking down stairs, and could not quite
separate the nervousness arising from his shattered bones from that
other nervousness which came from his--shattered heart. The word is
undoubtedly a little too strong, but as it is there, there let it
stay. When he reached the drawing-room, he almost felt that he had
better decline to enter it. The door however was opened, and he was
in the room before he could make up his mind to any such step, and
he found himself being walked across the floor to some especial seat,
while a dozen kindly anxious faces were crowding round him.

"Here's an arm-chair, Mr. Graham, kept expressly for you, near the
fire," said Lady Staveley. "And I am extremely glad to see you well
enough to fill it."

"Welcome out of your room, sir," said the judge. "I compliment you,
and Pottinger also, upon your quick recovery; but allow me to tell
you that you don't yet look a man fit to rough it alone in London."

"I feel very well, sir," said Graham.

And then Mrs. Arbuthnot greeted him, and Miss Furnival, and four or
five others who were of the party, and he was introduced to one or
two whom he had not seen before. Marian too came up to him,--very
gently, as though he were as brittle as glass, having been warned by
her mother. "Oh, Mr. Felix," she said, "I was so unhappy when your
bones were broken. I do hope they won't break again."

And then he perceived that Madeline was in the room and was coming
up to him. She had in truth not been there when he first entered,
having thought it better, as a matter of strategy, to follow upon his
footsteps. He was getting up to meet her, when Lady Staveley spoke to
him.

"Don't move, Mr. Graham. Invalids, you know, are chartered."

"I am very glad to see you once more down stairs," said Madeline, as
she frankly gave him her hand,--not merely touching his--"very, very
glad. But I do hope you will get stronger before you venture to leave
Noningsby. You have frightened us all very much by your terrible
accident."

All this was said in her peculiarly sweet silver voice, not speaking
as though she were dismayed and beside herself, or in a hurry to get
through a lesson which she had taught herself. She had her secret to
hide, and had schooled herself how to hide it. But in so schooling
herself she had been compelled to acknowledge to herself that the
secret did exist. She had told herself that she must meet him, and
that in meeting him she must hide it. This she had done with absolute
success. Such is the peculiar power of women; and her mother, who had
listened not only to every word, but to every tone of her voice, gave
her exceeding credit.

"There's more in her than I thought there was," said Sophia Furnival
to herself, who had also listened and watched.

"It has not gone very deep, with her," said the judge, who on this
matter was not so good a judge as Miss Furnival.

"She cares about me just as Mrs. Baker does," said Graham to himself,
who was the worst judge of them all. He muttered something quite
unintelligible in answer to the kindness of her words; and then
Madeline, having gone through her task, retired to the further side
of the round table, and went to work among the teacups.

And then the conversation became general, turning altogether on the
affairs of Lady Mason. It was declared as a fact by Lady Staveley
that there was to be a marriage between Sir Peregrine Orme and his
guest, and all in the room expressed their sorrow. The women were
especially indignant. "I have no patience with her," said Mrs.
Arbuthnot. "She must know that such a marriage at his time of life
must be ridiculous, and injurious to the whole family."

The women were very indignant,--all except Miss Furnival, who did not
say much, but endeavoured to palliate the crimes of Lady Mason in
that which she did say. "I do not know that she is more to blame
than any other lady who marries a gentleman thirty years older than
herself."

"I do then," said Lady Staveley, who delighted in contradicting
Miss Furnival. "And so would you too, my dear, if you had known Sir
Peregrine as long as I have. And if--if--if--but it does not matter.
I am very sorry for Lady Mason,--very. I think she is a woman cruelly
used by her own connections; but my sympathies with her would
be warmer if she had refrained from using her power over an old
gentleman like Sir Peregrine, in the way she has done." In all which
expression of sentiment the reader will know that poor dear Lady
Staveley was wrong from the beginning to the end.

"For my part," said the judge, "I don't see what else she was to do.
If Sir Peregrine asked her, how could she refuse?"

"My dear!" said Lady Staveley.

"According to that, papa, every lady must marry any gentleman that
asks her," said Mrs. Arbuthnot.

"When a lady is under so deep a weight of obligation I don't know how
she is to refuse. My idea is that Sir Peregrine should not have asked
her."

"And mine too," said Felix. "Unless indeed he did it under an
impression that he could fight for her better as her husband than
simply as a friend."

"And I feel sure that that is what he did think," said Madeline, from
the further side of the table. And her voice sounded in Graham's ears
as the voice of Eve may have sounded to Adam. No; let him do what he
might in the world;--whatever might be the form in which his future
career should be fashioned, one thing was clearly impossible to him.
He could not marry Mary Snow. Had he never learned to know what were
the true charms of feminine grace and loveliness, it might have been
possible for him to do so, and to have enjoyed afterwards a fair
amount of contentment. But now even contentment would be impossible
to him under such a lot as that. Not only would he be miserable, but
the woman whom he married would be wretched also. It may be said that
he made up his mind definitely, while sitting in that arm-chair, that
he would not marry Mary Snow. Poor Mary Snow! Her fault in the matter
had not been great.

When Graham was again in his room, and the servant who was obliged
to undress him had left him, he sat over his fire, wrapped in his
dressing-gown, bethinking himself what he would do. "I will tell the
judge everything," he said at last. "Then, if he will let me into his
house after that, I must fight my own battle." And so he betook
himself to bed.




CHAPTER XLIX.

MRS. FURNIVAL CAN'T PUT UP WITH IT.


When Lady Mason last left the chambers of her lawyer in Lincoln's
Inn, she was watched by a stout lady as she passed through the narrow
passage leading from the Old to the New Square. That fact will I
trust be remembered, and I need hardly say that the stout lady was
Mrs. Furnival. She had heard betimes of the arrival of that letter
with the Hamworth post-mark, had felt assured that it was written by
the hands of her hated rival, and had at once prepared for action.

"I shall leave this house to-day,--immediately after breakfast," she
said to Miss Biggs, as they sat disconsolately at the table with the
urn between them.

"And I think you will be quite right, my dear," replied Miss Biggs.
"It is your bounden duty to put down such wicked iniquity as
this;--not only for your own sake, but for that of morals in general.
What in the world is there so beautiful and so lovely as a high tone
of moral sentiment?" To this somewhat transcendental question Mrs.
Furnival made no reply. That a high tone of moral sentiment as a
thing in general, for the world's use, is very good, she was no doubt
aware; but her mind at the present moment was fixed exclusively on
her own peculiar case. That Tom Furnival should be made to give up
seeing that nasty woman who lived at Hamworth, and to give up also
having letters from her,--that at present was the extent of her moral
sentiment. His wicked iniquity she could forgive with a facility
not at all gratifying to Miss Biggs, if only she could bring about
such a result as that. So she merely grunted in answer to the above
proposition.

"And will you sleep away from this?" asked Miss Biggs.

"Certainly I will. I will neither eat here, nor sleep here, nor stay
here till I know that all this is at an end. I have made up my mind
what I will do."

"Well?" asked the anxious Martha.

"Oh, never mind. I am not exactly prepared to talk about it. There
are things one can't talk about,--not to anybody. One feels as though
one would burst in mentioning it. I do, I know."

Martha Biggs could not but feel that this was hard, but she knew that
friendship is nothing if it be not long enduring. "Dearest Kitty!"
she exclaimed. "If true sympathy can be of service to you--"

"I wonder whether I could get respectable lodgings in the
neighbourhood of Red Lion Square for a week?" said Mrs. Furnival,
once more bringing the conversation back from the abstract to the
concrete.

In answer to this Miss Biggs of course offered the use of her own
bedroom and of her father's house; but her father was an old man, and
Mrs. Furnival positively refused to agree to any such arrangement. At
last it was decided that Martha should at once go off and look for
lodgings in the vicinity of her own home, that Mrs. Furnival should
proceed to carry on her own business in her own way,--the cruelty
being this, that she would not give the least hint as to what that
way might be,--and that the two ladies should meet together in the
Red Lion Square drawing-room at the close of the day.

"And about dinner, dear?" asked Miss Biggs.

"I will get something at a pastrycook's," said Mrs. Furnival.

"And your clothes, dear?"

"Rachel will see about them; she knows." Now Rachel was the old
female servant of twenty years' standing; and the disappointment
experienced by poor Miss Biggs at the ignorance in which she was left
was greatly enhanced by a belief that Rachel knew more than she did.
Mrs. Furnival would tell Rachel but would not tell her. This was
very, very hard, as Miss Biggs felt. But, nevertheless, friendship,
sincere friendship is long enduring, and true patient merit will
generally receive at last its appropriate reward.

Then Mrs. Furnival had sat down, Martha Biggs having been duly sent
forth on the mission after the lodgings, and had written a letter to
her husband. This she intrusted to Rachel, whom she did not purpose
to remove from that abode of iniquity from which she herself was
fleeing, and having completed her letter she went out upon her own
work. The letter ran as follows:--


   Harley Street--Friday.

   MY DEAREST TOM,

   I cannot stand this any longer, so I have thought it best
   to leave the house and go away. I am very sorry to be
   forced to such a step as this, and would have put up with
   a good deal first; but there are some things which I
   cannot put up with,--and won't. I know that a woman has
   to obey her husband, and I have always obeyed you, and
   thought it no hardship even when I was left so much alone;
   but a woman is not to see a slut brought in under her very
   nose,--and I won't put up with it. We've been married now
   going on over twenty-five years, and it's terrible to
   think of being driven to this. I almost believe it will
   drive me mad, and then, when I'm a lunatic, of course you
   can do as you please.

   I don't want to have any secrets from you. Where I shall
   go I don't yet know, but I've asked Martha Biggs to take
   lodgings for me somewhere near her. I must have somebody
   to speak to now and again, so you can write to 23 Red Lion
   Square till you hear further. It's no use sending for me,
   for I _won't come_;--not till I know that you think better
   of your present ways of going on. I don't know whether you
   have the power to get the police to come after me, but I
   advise you not. If you do anything of that sort the people
   about shall hear of it.

   And now, Tom, I want to say one word to you. You can't
   think it's a happiness to me going away from my own home
   where I have lived respectable so many years, or leaving
   you whom I've loved with all my whole heart. It makes me
   very very unhappy, so that I could sit and cry all day if
   it weren't for pride and because the servants shouldn't
   see me. To think that it has come to this after all! Oh,
   Tom, I wonder whether you ever think of the old days when
   we used to be so happy in Keppel Street! There wasn't
   anybody then that you cared to see, except me;--I do
   believe that. And you'd always come home then, and I never
   thought bad of it though you wouldn't have a word to speak
   to me for hours. Because you were doing your duty. But you
   ain't doing your duty now, Tom. You know you ain't doing
   your duty when you never dine at home, and come home so
   cross with wine that you curse and swear, and have that
   nasty woman coming to see you at your chambers. Don't tell
   me it's about law business. Ladies don't go to barristers'
   chambers about law business. All that is done by
   attorneys. I've heard you say scores of times that you
   never would see people themselves, and yet you see her.

   Oh, Tom, you have made me so wretched! But I can forgive
   it all, and will never say another word about it to fret
   you, if you'll only promise me to have nothing more to
   say to that woman. Of course I'd like you to come home to
   dinner, but I'd put up with that. You've made your own way
   in the world, and perhaps it's only right you should enjoy
   it. I don't think so much dining at the club can be good
   for you, and I'm afraid you'll have gout, but I don't
   want to bother you about that. Send me a line to say that
   you won't see her any more, and I'll come back to Harley
   Street at once. If you can't bring yourself to do that,
   you--and--I--must--part. I can put up with a great deal,
   but I can't put up with that;--_and won't_.

   Your affectionate loving wife,

   C. FURNIVAL.


"I wonder whether you ever think of the old days when we used to be
so happy in Keppel Street?" Ah me, how often in after life, in those
successful days when the battle has been fought and won, when all
seems outwardly to go well,--how often is this reference made to the
happy days in Keppel Street! It is not the prize that can make us
happy; it is not even the winning of the prize, though for the one
short half-hour of triumph that is pleasant enough. The struggle, the
long hot hour of the honest fight, the grinding work,--when the teeth
are set, and the skin moist with sweat and rough with dust, when all
is doubtful and sometimes desperate, when a man must trust to his own
manhood knowing that those around him trust to it not at all,--that
is the happy time of life. There is no human bliss equal to twelve
hours of work with only six hours in which to do it. And when
the expected pay for that work is worse than doubtful, the inner
satisfaction is so much the greater. Oh, those happy days in Keppel
Street, or it may be over in dirty lodgings in the Borough, or
somewhere near the Marylebone workhouse;--anywhere for a moderate
weekly stipend. Those were to us, and now are to others, and always
will be to many, the happy days of life. How bright was love, and how
full of poetry! Flashes of wit glanced here and there, and how they
came home and warmed the cockles of the heart. And the unfrequent
bottle! Methinks that wine has utterly lost its flavour since those
days. There is nothing like it; long work, grinding weary work, work
without pay, hopeless work; but work in which the worker trusts
himself, believing it to be good. Let him, like Mahomet, have one
other to believe in him, and surely nothing else is needed. "Ah me! I
wonder whether you ever think of the old days when we used to be so
happy in Keppel Street?"

Nothing makes a man so cross as success, or so soon turns a pleasant
friend into a captious acquaintance. Your successful man eats too
much and his stomach troubles him; he drinks too much and his nose
becomes blue. He wants pleasure and excitement, and roams about
looking for satisfaction in places where no man ever found it. He
frets himself with his banker's book, and everything tastes amiss to
him that has not on it the flavour of gold. The straw of an omnibus
always stinks; the linings of the cabs are filthy. There are but
three houses round London at which an eatable dinner may be obtained.
And yet a few years since how delicious was that cut of roast goose
to be had for a shilling at the eating-house near Golden Square. Mrs.
Jones and Mrs. Green, Mrs. Walker and all the other mistresses, are
too vapid and stupid and humdrum for endurance. The theatres are dull
as Lethe, and politics have lost their salt. Success is the necessary
misfortune of life, but it is only to the very unfortunate that it
comes early.

Mrs. Furnival, when she had finished her letter and fastened it, drew
one of the heavy dining-room arm-chairs over against the fire, and
sat herself down to consider her past life, still holding the letter
in her lap. She had not on that morning been very careful with her
toilet, as was perhaps natural enough. The cares of the world were
heavy on her, and he would not be there to see her. Her hair was
rough, and her face was red, and she had hardly had the patience
to make straight the collar round her neck. To the eye she was
an untidy, angry, cross-looking woman. But her heart was full of
tenderness,--full to overflowing. She loved him now as well as ever
she had loved him:--almost more as the thought of parting from
him pressed upon her! Was he not all in all to her? Had she not
worshipped him during her whole life? Could she not forgive him?

Forgive him! Yes. Forgive him with the fullest, frankest, freest
pardon, if he would only take forgiveness. Should she burn that
letter in the fire, send to Biggs saying that the lodgings were not
wanted, and then throw herself at Tom's feet, imploring him to have
mercy upon her? All that she could do within her heart, and make her
words as passionate, as soft, and as poetical as might be those of a
young wife of twenty. But she felt that such words,--though she could
frame the sentence while sitting there,--could never get themselves
spoken. She had tried it, and it had been of no avail. Not only
should she be prepared for softness, but he also must be so prepared
and at the same moment. If he should push her from him and call her
a fool when she attempted that throwing of herself at his feet, how
would it be with her spirit then? No. She must go forth and the
letter must be left. If there were any hope of union for the future
it must come from a parting for the present. So she went up stairs
and summoned Rachel, remaining with her in consultation for some
half-hour. Then she descended with her bonnet and shawl, got into a
cab while Spooner stood at the door looking very serious, and was
driven away,--whither, no one knew in Harley Street except Mrs.
Furnival herself, and that cabman.

"She'll never put her foot inside this hall door again. That's my
idea of the matter," said Spooner.

"Indeed and she will," said Rachel, "and be a happier woman than ever
she's been since the house was took."

"If I know master," said Spooner, "he's not the man to get rid of an
old woman, easy like that, and then 'ave her back agin." Upon hearing
which words, so very injurious to the sex in general, Rachel walked
into the house not deigning any further reply.

And then, as we have seen, Mrs. Furnival was there, standing in the
dark shadow of the Lincoln's Inn passage, when Lady Mason left the
lawyer's chambers. She felt sure that it was Lady Mason, but she
could not be quite sure. The woman, though she came out from the
entry which led to her husband's chambers, might have come down
from some other set of rooms. Had she been quite certain she would
have attacked her rival there, laying bodily hands upon her in the
purlieus of the Lord Chancellor's Court. As it was, the poor bruised
creature was allowed to pass by, and as she emerged out into the
light at the other end of the passage Mrs. Furnival became quite
certain of her identity.

"Never mind," she said to herself. "She sha'n't escape me long. Him
I could forgive, if he would only give it up; but as for her--! Let
what come of it, come may, I will tell that woman what I think of her
conduct before I am many hours older." Then, giving one look up to
the windows of her husband's chambers, she walked forth through the
dusty old gate into Chancery Lane, and made her way on foot up to No.
23 Red Lion Square. "I'm glad I've done it," she said to herself as
she went; "very glad. There's nothing else for it, when things come
to such a head as that." And in this frame of mind she knocked at her
friend's door.

"Well!" said Martha Biggs, with her eyes, and mouth, and arms, and
heart all open.

"Have you got me the lodgings?" said Mrs. Furnival.

"Yes, close by;--in Orange Street. I'm afraid you'll find them very
dull. And what have you done?"

"I have done nothing, and I don't at all mind their being dull. They
can't possibly be more dull than Harley Street."

"And I shall be near you; sha'n't I?" said Martha Biggs.

"Umph," said Mrs. Furnival. "I might as well go there at once and
get myself settled." So she did, the affectionate Martha of course
accompanying her; and thus the affairs of that day were over.

Her intention was to go down to Hamworth at once, and make her way
up to Orley Farm, at which place she believed that Lady Mason was
living. Up to this time she had heard no word of the coming trial
beyond what Mr. Furnival had told her as to his client's "law
business." And whatever he had so told her, she had scrupulously
disbelieved. In her mind all that went for nothing. Law business! she
was not so blind, so soft, so green, as to be hoodwinked by such
stuff as that. Beautiful widows don't have personal interviews with
barristers in their chambers over and over again, let them have what
law business they may. At any rate Mrs. Furnival took upon herself to
say that they ought not to have such interviews. She would go down to
Orley Farm and she would have an interview with Lady Mason. Perhaps
the thing might be stopped in that way.

On the following morning she received a note from her husband the
consideration of which delayed her proceedings for that day.

"DEAR KITTY," the note ran.


   I think you are very foolish. If regard for me had not
   kept you at home, some consideration with reference to
   Sophia should have done so. What you say about that poor
   lady at Orley Farm is too absurd for me to answer. If you
   would have spoken to me about her, I would have told you
   that which would have set your mind at rest, at any rate
   as regards her. I cannot do this in a letter, nor could I
   do it in the presence of your friend, Miss Biggs.

   I hope you will come back at once; but I shall not add
   to the absurdity of your leaving your own house by any
   attempt to bring you back again by force. As you must want
   money I enclose a check for fifty pounds. I hope you will
   be back before you want more; but if not I will send it as
   soon as you ask for it.

   Yours affectionately as always,

   T. FURNIVAL.


There was about this letter an absence of sentiment, and an absence
of threat, and an absence of fuss, which almost overset her. Could
it be possible that she was wrong about Lady Mason? Should she go to
him and hear his own account before she absolutely declared war by
breaking into the enemy's camp at Orley Farm? Then, moreover, she was
touched and almost overcome about the money. She wished he had not
sent it to her. That money difficulty had occurred to her, and been
much discussed in her own thoughts. Of course she could not live away
from him if he refused to make her any allowance,--at least not for
any considerable time. He had always been liberal as regards money
since money had been plenty with him, and therefore she had some
supply with her. She had jewels too which were her own; and though,
as she had already determined, she would not part with them without
telling him what she was about to do, yet she could, if pressed, live
in this way for the next twelve months;--perhaps, with close economy,
even for a longer time than that. In her present frame of mind she
had looked forward almost with gratification to being pinched and
made uncomfortable. She would wear her ordinary and more dowdy
dresses; she would spend much of her time in reading sermons; she
would get up very early and not care what she ate or drank. In short,
she would make herself as uncomfortable as circumstances would admit,
and thoroughly enjoy her grievances.

But then this check of fifty pounds, and this offer of as much more
as she wanted when that was gone, rather took the ground from under
her feet. Unless she herself chose to give way she might go on living
in Orange Street to the end of the chapter, with every material
comfort about her,--keeping her own brougham if she liked, for the
checks she now knew would come without stint. And he would go on
living in Harley street, seeing Lady Mason as often as he pleased.
Sophia would be the mistress of the house, and as long as this was
so, Lady Mason would not show her face there. Now this was not a
course of events to which Mrs. Furnival could bring herself to look
forward with satisfaction.

All this delayed her during that day, but before she went to bed she
made up her mind that she would at any rate go down to Hamworth. Tom,
she knew, was deceiving her; of that she felt morally sure. She would
at any rate go down to Hamworth, and trust to her own wit for finding
out the truth when there.




CHAPTER L.

IT IS QUITE IMPOSSIBLE.


All was now sadness at The Cleeve. It was soon understood among the
servants that there was to be no marriage, and the tidings spread
from the house, out among the neighbours and into Hamworth. But no
one knew the reason of this change;--none except those three, the
woman herself who had committed the crime and the two to whom she had
told it. On that same night, the night of the day on which the tale
had been told, Lady Mason wrote a line,--almost a single line to her
son.


   DEAREST LUCIUS,

   All is over between me and Sir Peregrine. It is better
   that it should be so. I write to tell you this without
   losing an hour. For the present I remain here with my
   dear--dearest friends.

   Your own affectionate mother,

   M. MASON.


This note she had written in obedience to the behests of Mrs. Orme,
and even under her dictation--with the exception of one or two words,
"I remain here with my friends," Mrs. Orme had said; but Lady Mason
had put in the two epithets, and had then declared her own conviction
that she had now no right to use such language.

"Yes, of me you may, certainly," said Mrs. Orme, keeping close to her
shoulder.

"Then I will alter it," said Lady Mason. "I will write it again and
say I am staying with you."

But this Mrs. Orme had forbidden. "No; it will be better so," she
said. "Sir Peregrine would wish it. I am sure he would. He quite
agrees that--" Mrs. Orme did not finish her sentence, but the letter
was despatched, written as above. The answer which Lucius sent down
before breakfast the next morning was still shorter.


   DEAREST MOTHER,

   I am greatly rejoiced that it is so.

   Your affectionate son,

   L. M.


He sent this note, but he did not go down to her, nor was there any
other immediate communication between them.

All was now sadness at The Cleeve. Peregrine knew that that marriage
project was over, and he knew also that his grandfather and Lady
Mason did not now meet each other; but he knew nothing of the cause,
though he could not but remark that he did not see her. On that day
she did not come down either to dinner or during the evening; nor
was she seen on the following morning. He, Peregrine, felt aware
that something had occurred at that interview in the library after
breakfast, but was lost in surmising what that something had been.
That Lady Mason should have told his grandfather that the marriage
must be given up would have been only in accordance with the promise
made by her to him; but he did not think that that alone would
have occasioned such utter sadness, such deathlike silence in the
household. Had there been a quarrel Lady Mason would have gone
home;--but she did not go home. Had the match been broken off without
a quarrel, why should she mysteriously banish herself to two rooms so
that no one but his mother should see her?

And he too had his own peculiar sorrow. On that morning Sir Peregrine
had asked him to ride through the grounds, and it had been the
baronet's intention to propose during that ride that he should go
over to Noningsby and speak to the judge about Madeline. We all know
how that proposition had been frustrated. And now Peregrine, thinking
over the matter, saw that his grandfather was not in a position at
the present moment to engage himself ardently in any such work. By
whatever means or whatever words he had been induced to agree to the
abandonment of that marriage engagement, that abandonment weighed
very heavily on his spirits. It was plain to see that he was a broken
man, broken in heart and in spirit. He shut himself up alone in his
library all that afternoon, and had hardly a word to say when he came
out to dinner in the evening. He was very pale too, and slow and weak
in his step. He tried to smile as he came up to his daughter-in-law
in the drawing-room; but his smile was the saddest thing of all. And
then Peregrine could see that he ate nothing. He was very gentle
in his demeanour to the servants, very courteous and attentive
to Mrs. Orme, very kind to his grandson. But yet his mind was
heavy;--brooding over some sorrow that oppressed it. On the following
morning it was the same, and the grandson knew that he could look to
his grandfather for no assistance at Noningsby.

Immediately after breakfast Peregrine got on his horse, without
speaking to any one of his intention,--almost without having formed
an intention, and rode off in the direction of Alston. He did not
take the road, but went out through The Cleeve woods, on to the
common, by which, had he turned to the left, he might have gone to
Orley Farm; but when on the top of the rise from Crutchley Bottom he
turned to the right, and putting his horse into a gallop, rode along
the open ground till he came to an enclosure into which he leaped.
From thence he made his way through a farm gate into a green country
lane, along which he still pressed his horse, till he found himself
divided from the end of a large wood by but one field. He knew the
ground well, and the direction in which he was going. He could pass
through that wood, and then down by an old farm-house at the other
end of it, and so on to the Alston road, within a mile of Noningsby.
He knew the ground well, for he had ridden over every field of it.
When a man does so after thirty he forgets the spots which he passes
in his hurry, but when he does so before twenty he never forgets.
That field and that wood Peregrine Orme would never forget. There was
the double ditch and bank over which Harriet Tristram had ridden with
so much skill and courage. There was the spot on which he had knelt
so long, while Felix Graham lay back against him, feeble and almost
speechless. And there, on the other side, had sat Madeline on her
horse, pale with anxiety but yet eager with hope, as she asked
question after question as to him who had been hurt.

Peregrine rode up to the ditch, and made his horse stand while he
looked at it. It was there, then, on that spot, that he had felt the
first pang of jealousy. The idea had occurred to him that he for
whom he had been doing a friend's offices with such zealous kindness
was his worst enemy. Had he,--he, Peregrine Orme,--broken his arms
and legs, or even broken his neck, would she have ridden up, all
thoughtless of herself, and thrown her very life into her voice as
she had done when she knew that Felix Graham had fallen from his
horse? And then he had gone on with his work, aiding the hurt man as
zealously as before, but still feeling that he was bound to hate him.
And afterwards, at Noningsby, he had continued to minister to him as
to his friend,--zealously doing a friend's offices, but still feeling
that the man was his enemy. Not that he was insincere. There was no
place for insincerity or treachery within his heart. The man had done
no ill,--was a good fellow--was entitled to his kindness by all the
social laws which he knew. They two had gone together from the same
table to the same spot, and had been close together when the one had
come to sorrow. It was his duty to act as Graham's friend; and yet
how could he not feel that he must hate him?

And now he sat looking at the fence, wishing,--wishing;--no,
certainly not wishing that Graham's hurt had been more serious; but
wishing that in falling from his horse he might utterly have fallen
out of favour with that sweet young female heart; or rather wishing,
could he so have expressed it, that he himself might have had the
fall, and the broken bones, and all the danger,--so that he might
also have had the interest which those eyes and that voice had shown.

And then quickly he turned his horse, and without giving the beast
time to steady himself he rammed him at the fence. The leap out of
the wood into the field was difficult, but that back into the wood
was still worse. The up-jump was higher, and the ditch which must be
first cleared was broader. Nor did he take it at the easiest part as
he had done on that day when he rode his own horse and then Graham's
back into the wood. But he pressed his animal exactly at the spot
from which his rival had fallen. There were still the marks of the
beast's struggle, as he endeavoured to save himself before he came
down, head foremost, into the ditch. The bank had been somewhat
narrowed and pared away, and it was clearly the last place in the
face of the whole opening into the wood, which a rider with his
senses about him would have selected for his jump.

The horse knowing his master's humour, and knowing also,--which is so
vitally important,--the nature of his master's courage, jumped at the
bank, without pausing. As I have said, no time had been given him to
steady himself,--not a moment to see where his feet should go, to
understand and make the most of the ground that he was to use. He
jumped and jumped well, but only half gained the top of the bank. The
poor brute, urged beyond his power, could not get his hind feet up so
near the surface as to give him a fulcrum for a second spring. For a
moment he strove to make good his footing, still clinging with his
fore feet, and then slowly came down backwards into the ditch, then
regained his feet, and dragging himself with an effort from the mud,
made his way back into the field. Peregrine Orme had kept his seat
throughout. His legs were accustomed to the saddle and knew how to
cling to it, while there was a hope that he might struggle through.
And now that he was again in the field he wheeled his horse to a
greater distance, striking him with his whip, and once more pushed
him at the fence. The gallant beast went at it bravely, slightly
swerving from the fatal spot to which Peregrine had endeavoured once
more to guide him, leaped with a full spring from the unworn turf,
and, barely touching the bank, landed himself and his master lightly
within the precincts of the wood.

"Ah-h!" said Peregrine, shouting angrily at the horse, as though the
brute had done badly instead of well. And then he rode down slowly
through the wood, and out by Monkton Grange farm, round the moat, and
down the avenue, and before long he was standing at Noningsby gate.

He had not made up his mind to any plan of action, nor indeed had he
determined that he would ask to see any of the family or even enter
the place. The woman at the lodge opened the gate, and he rode in
mechanically, asking if any of them were at home. The judge and Mr.
Augustus were gone up to London, but my lady and the other ladies
were in the house. Mr. Graham had not gone, the woman said in answer
to his question; nor did she know when he was going. And then, armed
with this information, Peregrine Orme rode round to the stables, and
gave up his horse to a groom.

"Yes, Lady Staveley was at home," the servant said at the door.
"Would Mr. Orme walk into the drawing-room, where he would find the
young ladies?" But Mr. Orme would not do this. He would go into a
small book-room with which he was well acquainted, and have his name
taken up to Lady Staveley. "He did not," he said, "mean to stay very
long; but particularly wished to see Lady Staveley." In a few minutes
Lady Staveley came to him, radiant with her sweetest smile, and with
both her hands held out to greet him.

"My dear Mr. Orme," she said, "I am delighted to see you; but what
made you run away from us so suddenly?" She had considered her words
in that moment as she came across the hall, and had thought that in
this way she might best enable him to speak.

"Lady Staveley," he said, "I have come here on purpose to tell you.
Has your daughter told you anything?"

"Who--Madeline?"

"Yes, Madeline. I mean Miss Staveley. Has she said anything to you
about me?"

"Well; yes, she has. Will you not sit down, Mr. Orme, and then
we shall be more comfortable." Hitherto he had stood up, and had
blurted out his words with a sudden, determined, and almost ferocious
air,--as though he were going to demand the girl's hand, and
challenge all the household if it were refused him. But Lady Staveley
understood his manner and his nature, and liked him almost the better
for his abruptness.

"She has spoken to me, Mr. Orme; she has told me of what passed
between you on the last day that you were with us."

"And yet you are surprised that I should have gone! I wonder at that,
Lady Staveley. You must have known--"

"Well; perhaps I did know; but sit down, Mr. Orme. I won't let you
get up in that restless way, if we are to talk together. Tell me
frankly; what is it you think that I can do for you?"

"I don't suppose you can do anything;--but I thought I would come
over and speak to you. I don't suppose I've any chance?" He had
seated himself far back on a sofa, and was holding his hat between
his knees, with his eyes fixed on the ground; but as he spoke the
last words he looked round into her face with an anxious inquiring
glance which went direct to her heart.

"What can I say, Mr. Orme?"

"Ah, no. Of course nothing. Good-bye, Lady Staveley. I might as well
go. I know that I was a fool for coming here. I knew it as I was
coming. Indeed I hardly meant to come in when I found myself at the
gate."

"But you must not go from us like that."

"I must though. Do you think that I could go in and see her? If I did
I should make such a fool of myself that I could never again hold up
my head. And I am a fool. I ought to have known that a fellow like me
could have no chance with her. I could knock my own head off, if I
only knew how, for having made such an ass of myself."

"No one here thinks so of you, Mr. Orme."

"No one here thinks what?"

"That it was--unreasonable in you to propose to Madeline. We all know
that you did her much honour."

"Psha!" said he, turning away from her.

"Ah! but you must listen to me. That is what we all think--Madeline
herself, and I, and her father. No one who knows you could think
otherwise. We all like you, and know how good and excellent you are.
And as to worldly station, of course you stand above her."

"Psha!" he said again angrily. How could any one presume to talk of
the worldly station of his goddess? For just then Madeline Staveley
to him was a goddess!

"That is what we think, indeed, Mr. Orme. As for myself, had my girl
come to me telling me that you had proposed to her, and telling me
also that--that--that she felt that she might probably like you, I
should have been very happy to hear it." And Lady Staveley as she
spoke, put out her hand to him.

"But what did she say?" asked Peregrine, altogether disregarding the
hand.

"Ah, she did not say that. She told me that she had declined the
honour that you had offered her;--that she did not regard you as she
must regard the man to whom she would pledge her heart."

"But did she say that she could never love me?" And now as he asked
the question he stood up again, looking down with all his eyes into
Lady Staveley's face,--that face which would have been so friendly to
him, so kind and so encouraging, had it been possible.

"Never is a long word, Mr. Orme."

"Ah, but did she say it? Come, Lady Staveley; I know I have been a
fool, but I am not a cowardly fool. If it be so;--if I have no hope,
tell me at once, that I may go away. In that case I shall be better
anywhere out of the county."

"I cannot say that you should have no hope."

"You think then that there is a chance?" and for a moment he looked
as though all his troubles were nearly over.

"If you are so impetuous, Mr. Orme, I cannot speak to you. If you
will sit down for a minute or two I will tell you exactly what I
think about it." And then he sat down, trying to look as though he
were not impetuous. "I should be deceiving you if I were not to tell
you that she speaks of the matter as though it were all over,--as
though her answer to you was a final one."

"Ah; I knew it was so."

"But then, Mr. Orme, many young ladies who have been at the first
moment quite as sure of their decision have married the gentlemen
whom they refused, and have learned to love them with all their
hearts."

"But she isn't like other girls," said Peregrine.

"I believe she is a great deal better than many, but nevertheless she
may be like others in that respect. I do not say that it will be so,
Mr. Orme. I would not on any account give you hopes which I believed
to be false. But if you are anxious in the matter--"

"I am as anxious about it as I am about my soul!"

"Oh fie, Mr. Orme! You should not speak in that way. But if you are
anxious, I would advise you to wait."

"And see her become the wife of some one else."

"Listen to me, Mr. Orme. Madeline is very young. And so indeed are
you too;--almost too young to marry as yet, even if my girl were
willing that it should be so. But we all like you very much; and
as you both are so very young, I think that you might wait with
patience,--say for a year. Then come to Noningsby again, and try your
fortune once more. That is my advice."

"Will you tell me one thing, Lady Staveley?"

"What is that, Mr. Orme?"

"Does she care for any one else?"

Lady Staveley was prepared to do anything she could for her young
friend except to answer that question. She did believe that Madeline
cared for somebody else,--cared very much. But she did not think that
any way would be opened by which that caring would be made manifest;
and she thought also that if wholly ungratified by any word of
intercourse that feeling would die away. Could she have told
everything to Peregrine Orme she would have explained to him that his
best chance lay in that liking for Felix Graham; or, rather, that as
his rejection had been caused by that liking, his chance would be
good again when that liking should have perished from starvation. But
all this Lady Staveley could not explain to him; nor would it have
been satisfactory to her feelings had it been in her power to do so.
Still there remained the question, "Does she care for any one else?"

"Mr. Orme," she said, "I will do all for you that a mother can do or
ought to do; but I must not admit that you have a right to ask such
a question as that. If I were to answer that now, you would feel
yourself justified in asking it again when perhaps it might not be so
easy to answer."

"I beg your pardon, Lady Staveley;" and Peregrine blushed up to his
eyes. "I did not intend--"

"No; do not beg my pardon, seeing that you have given me no offence.
As I said just now, all that a mother can and ought to do I will do
for you. I am very frank, and tell you that I should be rejoiced to
have you for my son-in-law."

"I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you."

"But neither by me nor by her father will any constraint ever be put
on the inclinations of our child. At any rate as to whom she will not
accept she will always be allowed to judge for herself. I have told
you that to us you would be acceptable as a suitor; and after that
I think it will be best to leave the matter for the present without
any further words. Let it be understood that you will spend next
Christmas at Noningsby, and then you will both be older and perhaps
know your own minds better."

"That's a year, you know."

"A year is not so very long--at your time of life." By which latter
remark Lady Staveley did not show her knowledge of human nature.

"And I suppose I had better go now?" said Peregrine sheepishly.

"If you like to go into the drawing-room, I'm sure they will all be
very glad to see you."

But Peregrine declared that he would not do this on any account. "You
do not know, Lady Staveley, what a fool I should make myself. It
would be all over with me then."

"You should be more moderate in your feelings, Mr. Orme."

"It's all very well saying that; but you wouldn't be moderate if
Noningsby were on fire, or if you thought the judge was going to
die."

"Good gracious, Mr. Orme!"

"It's the same sort of thing to me, I can tell you. A man can't be
moderate when he feels that he should like to break his own neck. I
declare I almost tried to do it to-day."

"Oh, Mr. Orme!"

"Well; I did. But don't suppose I say that as a sort of threat. I'm
safe enough to live for the next sixty years. It's only the happy
people and those that are some good in the world that die. Good-bye,
Lady Staveley. I'll come back next Christmas;--that is if it isn't
all settled before then; but I know it will be no good." Then he got
on his horse and rode very slowly home, along the high road to The
Cleeve.

Lady Staveley did not go in among the other ladies till luncheon was
announced, and when she did so, she said no word about her visitor.
Nevertheless it was known by them all that Peregrine Orme had been
there. "Ah, that's Mr. Orme's roan- horse," Sophia Furnival
had said, getting up and thrusting her face close to the drawing-room
window. It was barely possible to see a portion of the road from the
drawing-room; but Sophia's eyes had been sharp enough to see that
portion.

"A groom has probably come over with a note," said Mrs. Arbuthnot.

"Very likely," said Sophia. But they all knew from her voice that the
rider was no groom, and that she did not intend it to be thought that
he was a groom. Madeline said not a word, and kept her countenance
marvellously; but she knew well enough that Peregrine had been with
her mother; and guessed also why he had been there.

Madeline had asked herself some serious questions, and had answered
them also, since that conversation which she had had with her father.
He had assured her that he desired only her happiness; and though in
so saying he had spoken nothing of marriage, she had well understood
that he had referred to her future happiness,--at that time when by
her own choice she should be leaving her father's house. And now
she asked herself boldly in what way might that happiness be best
secured. Hitherto she had refrained from any such home questions.
Latterly, within the last week or two, ideas of what love meant had
forced themselves upon her mind. How could it have been otherwise?
But she had never dared to tell herself either that she did love, or
that she did not. Mr. Orme had come to her with his offer, plainly
asking her for the gift of her heart, and she had immediately been
aware that any such gift on her part was impossible,--any such gift
in his favour. She had known without a moment's thought that there
was no room for hesitation. Had he asked her to take wings and fly
away with him over the woods, the feat would not have been to her
more impossible than that of loving him as his wife. Yet she liked
him,--liked him much in these latter days, because he had been so
good to Felix Graham. When she felt that she liked him as she refused
him, she felt also that it was for this reason that she liked him.
On the day of Graham's accident she had thought nothing of him,--had
hardly spoken to him. But now she loved him--with a sort of love,
because he had been so good to Graham. Though in her heart she knew
all this, she asked herself no questions till her father had spoken
to her of her future happiness.

Then, as she wandered about the house alone,--for she still went on
wandering,--she did ask herself a question or two. What was it that
had changed her thus, and made her gay quick step so slow? what had
altered the happy silver tone of her voice? what had created that
load within her which seemed to weigh her down during every hour of
the day? She knew that there had been a change; that she was not as
she had been; and now she asked herself the question. Not on the
first asking nor on the second did the answer come; not perhaps on
the twentieth. But the answer did come at last, and she told herself
that her heart was no longer her own. She knew and acknowledged to
herself that Felix Graham was its master and owner.

And then came the second question. Under those circumstances what had
she better do? Her mother had told her,--and the words had fallen
deep into her ears,--that it would be a great misfortune if she loved
any man before she had reason to know that that man loved her. She
had no such knowledge as regarded Felix Graham. A suspicion that it
might be so she did feel,--a suspicion which would grow into a hope
let her struggle against it as she might. Baker, that injudicious
Baker, had dropped in her hearing a word or two, which assisted this
suspicion. And then the open frank question put to her by her father
when he demanded whether Graham had addressed her as a lover, had
tended towards the same result. What had she better do? Of one thing
she now felt perfectly certain. Let the world go as it might in
other respects, she could never leave her father's house as a bride
unless the bridegroom were Felix Graham. A marriage with him might
probably be impracticable, but any other marriage would be absolutely
impossible. If her father or her mother told her not to think of
Felix Graham, as a matter of course she would obey them; but not even
in obedience to father or mother could she say that she loved any one
else.

And now, all these matters having been considered, what should she
do? Her father had invited her to tell everything to him, and she was
possessed by a feeling that in this matter she might possibly find
more indulgence with her father than with her mother; but yet it was
more natural that her mother should be her confidante and adviser.
She could speak to her mother, also, with a better courage, even
though she felt less certain of sympathy. Peregrine Orme had now been
there again, and had been closeted With Lady Staveley. On that ground
she would speak, and having so resolved she lost no time in carrying
out her purpose.

"Mamma, Mr. Orme was here to-day; was he not?"

"Yes, my love." Lady Staveley was sorry rather than otherwise that
her daughter had asked her, but would have been puzzled to explain
why such should have been the case.

"I thought so," said Madeline.

"He rode over, and told me among other things that the match between
his grandfather and Lady Mason is at an end. I was very glad to hear
it, for I thought that Sir Peregrine was going to do a very foolish
thing." And then there were a few further remarks on that subject,
made probably by Lady Staveley with some undefined intention of
inducing her daughter to think that Peregrine Orme had come over
chiefly on that matter.

"But, mamma--"

"Well, my love."

"Did he say anything about--about what he was speaking to me about?"

"Well, Madeline; he did. He did say something on that subject; but I
had not intended to tell you unless you had asked."

"I hope, mamma, he understands that what he wants can never
happen;--that is if he does want it now?"

"He does want it certainly, my dear."

"Then I hope you told him that it can never be? I hope you did,
mamma!"

"But why should you be so certain about it, my love? He does not
intend to trouble you with his suit,--nor do I. Why not leave that
to time? There can be no reason why you should not see him again on
a friendly footing when this embarrassment between you shall have
passed away."

"There would be no reason, mamma, if he were quite sure that there
could never be any other footing."

"Never is a very long word."

[Illustration: "Never is a very long word."]

"But it is the only true word, mamma. It would be wrong in you, it
would indeed, if you were to tell him to come again. I like Mr. Orme
very much as a friend, and I should be very glad to know him,--that
is if he chose to know me." And Madeline as she made this little
proviso was thinking what her own worldly position might be as the
wife of Felix Graham. "But as it is quite impossible that he and I
should ever be anything else to each other, he should not be asked to
come here with any other intention."

"But Madeline, I do not see that it is so impossible."

"Mamma, it is impossible; quite impossible!" To this assertion
Lady Staveley made no answer in words, but there was that in her
countenance which made her daughter understand that she did not quite
agree in this assertion, or understand this impossibility.

"Mamma, it is quite, quite impossible!" Madeline repeated.

"But why so?" said Lady Staveley, frightened by her daughter's
manner, and almost fearing that something further was to come which
had by far better be left unsaid.

"Because, mamma, I have no love to give him. Oh, mamma, do not be
angry with me; do not push me away. You know who it is that I love.
You knew it before." And then she threw herself on her knees, and hid
her face on her mother's lap.

Lady Staveley had known it, but up to that moment she had hoped that
that knowledge might have remained hidden as though it were unknown.




CHAPTER LI.

MRS. FURNIVAL'S JOURNEY TO HAMWORTH.


When Peregrine got back to The Cleeve he learned that there was a
lady with his mother. He had by this time partially succeeded in
reasoning himself out of his despondency. He had learned at any rate
that his proposition to marry into the Staveley family had been
regarded with favour by all that family except the one whose views
on that subject were by far the most important to him; and he had
learned, as he thought, that Lady Staveley had no suspicion that her
daughter's heart was preoccupied. But in this respect Lady Staveley
had been too cunning for him. "Wait!" he said to himself as he went
slowly along the road. "It's all very well to say wait, but there
are some things which won't bear waiting for. A man who waits never
gets well away with the hounds." Nevertheless as he rode into the
courtyard his hopes were somewhat higher than they had been when he
rode out of it.

"A lady! what lady? You don't mean Lady Mason?"

No. The servant did not mean Lady Mason. It was an elderly stout lady
who had come in a fly, and the elderly stout lady was now in the
drawing-room with his mother. Lady Mason was still up stairs. We all
know who was that elderly stout lady, and we must now go back and say
a few words as to her journey from Orange Street to Hamworth.

On the preceding evening Mrs. Furnival had told Martha Biggs what was
her intention; Or perhaps it would be more just to say that Martha
Biggs had worked it out of her. Now that Mrs. Furnival had left the
fashionable neighbourhood of Cavendish Square, and located herself in
that eastern homely district to which Miss Biggs had been so long
accustomed, Miss Biggs had been almost tyrannical. It was not that
she was less attentive to her friend, or less willing to slave for
her with a view to any possible or impossible result. But the friend
of Mrs. Furnival's bosom could not help feeling her opportunity. Mrs.
Furnival had now thrown herself very much upon her friend, and of
course the friend now expected unlimited privileges;--as is always
the case with friends in such a position. It is very well to have
friends to lean upon, but it is not always well to lean upon one's
friends.

"I will be with you before you start in the morning," said Martha.

"It will not be at all necessary," said Mrs. Furnival.

"Oh, but I shall indeed. And, Kitty, I should think nothing of going
with you, if you would wish it. Indeed I think you should have a
female friend alongside of you in such a trouble. You have only to
say the word and I'll go in a minute."

Mrs. Furnival however did not say the word, and Miss Biggs was
obliged to deny herself the pleasure of the journey. But true to her
word she came in the morning in ample time to catch Mrs. Furnival
before she started, and for half an hour poured out sweet counsel
into her friend's ear. If one's friends would as a rule refrain from
action how much more strongly would real friendship flourish in the
world!

"Now, Kitty, I do trust you will persist in seeing her."

"That's why I'm going there."

"Yes; but she might put you off it, if you're not firm. Of course
she'll deny herself if you send in your name first. What I should do
would be this;--to ask to be shown in to her and then follow the
servant. When the happiness of a life is at stake,--the happinesses
of two lives I may say, and perhaps the immortal welfare of one of
them in another world,--one must not stand too much upon etiquette.
You would never forgive yourself if you did. Your object is to save
him and to shame her out of her vile conduct. To shame her and
frighten her out of it if that be possible. Follow the servant in and
don't give them a moment to think. That's my advice."

In answer to all this Mrs. Furnival did not say much, and what little
she did say was neither in the affirmative nor in the negative.
Martha knew that she was being ill treated, but not on that account
did she relax her friendly efforts. The time would soon come, if
all things went well, when Mrs. Furnival would be driven by the
loneliness of her position to open her heart in a truly loving and
confidential manner. Miss Biggs hoped sincerely that her friend and
her friend's husband might be brought together again;--perhaps by
her own efforts; but she did not anticipate,--or perhaps desire any
speedy termination of the present arrangements. It would be well
that Mr. Furnival should be punished by a separation of some months.
Then, when he had learned to know what it was to have a home without
a "presiding genius," he might, if duly penitent and open in his
confession, be forgiven. That was Miss Biggs's programme, and she
thought it probable that Mrs. Furnival might want a good deal of
consolation before that day of open confession arrived.

"I shall go with you as far as the station, Kitty," she said in a
very decided voice.

"It will not be at all necessary," Mrs. Furnival replied.

"Oh, but I shall. You must want support at such a moment as this, and
as far as I can give it you shall have it."

"But it won't be any support to have you in the cab with me. If you
will believe me, I had rather go alone. It is so necessary that I
should think about all this."

But Martha would not believe her; and as for thinking, she was quite
ready to take that part of the work herself. "Don't say another
word," she said, as she thrust herself in at the cab-door after her
friend. Mrs. Furnival hardly did say another word, but Martha Biggs
said many. She knew that Mrs. Furnival was cross, ill pleased, and
not disposed to confidence. But what of that? Her duty as a friend
was not altered by Mrs. Furnival's ill humour. She would persevere,
and having in her hands so great an opportunity, did not despair but
what the time might come when both Mr. and Mrs. Furnival would with
united voices hail her as their preserver. Poor Martha Biggs! She did
not mean amiss; but she was troublesome.

It was very necessary that Mrs. Furnival should think over the step
which she was taking. What was it that she intended to do when she
arrived at Hamworth? That plan of forcing her way into Lady Mason's
house did not recommend itself to her the more in that it was
recommended by Martha Biggs. "I suppose you will come up to us this
evening?" Martha said, when she left her friend in the railway
carriage. "Not this evening, I think. I shall be so tired," Mrs.
Furnival had replied. "Then I shall come down to you," said Martha,
almost holloaing after her friend, as the train started. Mr. Furnival
would not have been displeased had he known the state of his wife's
mind at that moment towards her late visitor. During the whole of her
journey down to Hamworth she tried to think what she would say to
Lady Mason, but instead of so thinking her mind would revert to the
unpleasantness of Miss Biggs's friendship.

When she left the train at the Hamworth station she was solicited by
the driver of a public vehicle to use his fly, and having ascertained
from the man that he well knew the position of Orley Farm, she got
into the carriage and had herself driven to the residence of her
hated rival. She had often heard of Orley Farm, but she had never as
yet seen it, and now felt considerable anxiety both as regards the
house and its occupant.

"This is Orley Farm, ma'am," said the man, stopping at the gate.
"Shall I drive up?"

But at this moment the gate was opened by a decent, respectable
woman,--Mrs. Furnival would not quite have called her a lady,--who
looked hard at the fly as it turned on to the private road.

"Perhaps this lady could tell me," said Mrs. Furnival, putting out
her hand. "Is this where Lady Mason lives?"

The woman was Mrs. Dockwrath. On that day Samuel Dockwrath had gone
to London, but before starting he had made known to his wife with
fiendish glee that it had been at last decided by all the persons
concerned that Lady Mason should be charged with perjury, and tried
for that offence.

"You don't mean to say that the judges have said so?" asked poor
Miriam.

"I do mean to say that all the judges in England could not save her
from having to stand her trial, and it is my belief that all the
lawyers in the land cannot save her from conviction. I wonder whether
she ever thinks now of those fields which she took away from me!"

Then, when her master's back was turned, she put on her bonnet and
walked up to Orley Farm. She knew well that Lady Mason was at The
Cleeve, and believed that she was about to become the wife of Sir
Peregrine; but she knew also that Lucius was at home, and it might
be well to let him know what was going on. She had just seen Lucius
Mason when she was met by Mrs. Furnival's fly. She had seen Lucius
Mason, and the angry manner in which he declared that he could in no
way interfere in his mother's affairs had frightened her. "But, Mr.
Lucius," she had said, "she ought to be doing something, you know.
There is no believing how bitter Samuel is about it."

"He may be as bitter as he likes, Mrs. Dockwrath," young Mason had
answered with considerable dignity in his manner. "It will not in the
least affect my mother's interests. In the present instance, however,
I am not her adviser." Whereupon Mrs. Dockwrath had retired, and as
she was afraid to go to Lady Mason at The Cleeve, she was about to
return home when she opened the gate for Mrs. Furnival. She then
explained that Lady Mason was not at home and had not been at home
for some weeks; that she was staying with her friends at The Cleeve,
and that in order to get there Mrs. Furnival must go back through
Hamworth and round by the high road.

"I knows the way well enough, Mrs. Dockwrath," said the driver. "I've
been at The Cleeve before now, I guess."

So Mrs. Furnival was driven back to Hamworth, and on going over that
piece of ground she resolved that she would follow Lady Mason to The
Cleeve. Why should she be afraid of Sir Peregrine Orme or of all the
Ormes? Why should she fear any one while engaged in the performance
of so sacred a duty? I must confess that in truth she was very much
afraid, but nevertheless she had herself taken on to The Cleeve. When
she arrived at the door, she asked of course for Lady Mason, but did
not feel at all inclined to follow the servant uninvited into the
house as recommended by Miss Biggs. Lady Mason, the man said, was
not very well, and after a certain amount of parley at the door the
matter ended in her being shown into the drawing-room, where she was
soon joined by Mrs. Orme.

"I am Mrs. Furnival," she began, and then Mrs. Orme begged her to sit
down. "I have come here to see Lady Mason--on some business--some
business not of a very pleasant nature. I'm sure I don't know how to
trouble you with it, and yet--" And then even Mrs. Orme could see
that her visitor was somewhat confused.

"Is it about the trial?" asked Mrs. Orme.

"Then there is really a lawsuit going on?"

"A lawsuit!" said Mrs. Orme, rather puzzled.

"You said something about a trial. Now, Mrs. Orme, pray do not
deceive me. I'm a very unhappy woman; I am indeed."

"Deceive you! Why should I deceive you?"

"No, indeed. Why should you? And now I look at you I do not think you
will."

"Indeed I will not, Mrs. Furnival."

"And there is really a lawsuit then?" Mrs. Furnival persisted in
asking.

"I thought you would know all about it," said Mrs. Orme, "as Mr.
Furnival manages Lady Mason's law business. I thought that perhaps it
was about that that you had come."

Then Mrs. Furnival explained that she knew nothing whatever about
Lady Mason's affairs, that hitherto she had not believed that there
was any trial or any lawsuit, and gradually explained the cause of
all her trouble. She did not do this without sundry interruptions,
caused both by her own feelings and by Mrs. Orme's exclamations. But
at last it all came forth; and before she had done she was calling
her husband Tom, and appealing to her listener for sympathy.

"But indeed it's a mistake, Mrs. Furnival. It is indeed. There are
reasons which make me quite sure of it." So spoke Mrs. Orme. How
could Lady Mason have been in love with Mr. Furnival,--if such a
state of things could be possible under any circumstances,--seeing
that she had been engaged to marry Sir Peregrine? Mrs. Orme did not
declare her reasons, but repeated with very positive assurances her
knowledge that Mrs. Furnival was labouring under some very grievous
error.

"But why should she always be at his chambers? I have seen her there
twice, Mrs. Orme. I have indeed;--with my own eyes."

Mrs. Orme would have thought nothing of it if Lady Mason had
been seen there every day for a week together, and regarded Mrs.
Furnival's suspicions as an hallucination bordering on insanity. A
woman be in love with Mr. Furnival! A very pretty woman endeavour
to entice away from his wife the affection of such a man as that!
As these ideas passed through Mrs. Orme's mind she did not perhaps
remember that Sir Peregrine, who was more than ten years Mr.
Furnival's senior, had been engaged to marry the same lady. But then
she herself loved Sir Peregrine dearly, and she had no such feeling
with reference to Mr. Furnival. She however did what was most within
her power to do to allay the suffering under which her visitor
laboured, and explained to her the position in which Lady Mason was
placed. "I do not think she can see you," she ended by saying, "for
she is in very great trouble."

"To be tried for perjury!" said Mrs. Furnival, out of whose heart all
hatred towards Lady Mason was quickly departing. Had she heard that
she was to be tried for murder,--that she had been convicted for
murder,--it would have altogether softened her heart towards her
supposed enemy. She could forgive her any offence but the one.

"Yes indeed," said Mrs. Orme, wiping a tear away from her eye as she
thought of all the troubles present and to come. "It is the saddest
thing. Poor lady! It would almost break your heart if you were to see
her. Since first she heard of this, which was before Christmas, she
has not had one quiet moment."

"Poor creature!" said Mrs. Furnival.

"Ah, you would say so, if you knew all. She has had to depend a great
deal upon Mr. Furnival for advice, and without that I don't know
what she would do." This Mrs. Orme said, not wishing to revert to
the charge against Lady Mason which had brought Mrs. Furnival down
to Hamworth, but still desirous of emancipating her poor friend
completely from that charge. "And Sir Peregrine also is very kind
to her,--very." This she added; feeling that up to that moment Mrs.
Furnival could have heard nothing of the intended marriage, but
thinking it probable that she must do so before long. "Indeed anybody
would be kind to her who saw her in her suffering. I am sure you
would, Mrs. Furnival."

"Dear, dear!" said Mrs. Furnival who was beginning to entertain
almost a kindly feeling towards Mrs. Orme.

"It is such a dreadful position for a lady. Sometimes I think that
her mind will fail her before the day comes."

"But what a very wicked man that other Mr. Mason must be!" said Mrs.
Furnival.

That was a view of the matter on which Mrs. Orme could not say much.
She disliked that Mr. Mason as much as she could dislike a man whom
she had never seen, but it was not open to her now to say that he was
very wicked in this matter. "I suppose he thinks the property ought
to belong to him," she answered.

"That was settled years ago," said Mrs. Furnival. "Horrid, cruel man!
But after all I don't see why she should mind it so much."

"Oh, Mrs. Furnival!--to stand in a court and be tried."

"But if one is innocent! For my part, if I knew myself innocent I
could brave them all. It is the feeling that one is wrong that cows
one." And Mrs. Furnival thought of the little confession which she
would be called upon to make at home.

And then feeling some difficulty as to her last words in such an
interview, Mrs. Furnival got up to go. "Perhaps, Mrs. Orme," she
said, "I have been foolish in this."

"You have been mistaken, Mrs. Furnival. I am sure of that."

"I begin to think I have. But, Mrs. Orme, will you let me ask you
a favour? Perhaps you will not say anything about my coming here.
I have been very unhappy; I have indeed; and--" Mrs. Furnival's
handkerchief was now up at her eyes, and Mrs. Orme's heart was again
full of pity. Of course she gave the required promise; and, looking
to the character of the woman, we may say that, of course, she kept
it.

"Mrs. Furnival! What was she here about?" Peregrine asked of his
mother.

"I would rather not tell you, Perry," said his mother, kissing him;
and then there were no more words spoken on the subject.

Mrs. Furnival as she made her journey back to London began to dislike
Martha Biggs more and more, and most unjustly attributed to that lady
in her thoughts the folly of this journey to Hamworth. The journey
to Hamworth had been her own doing, and had the idea originated with
Miss Biggs the journey would never have been made. As it was, while
she was yet in the train, she came to the strong resolution of
returning direct from the London station to her own house in Harley
Street. It would be best to cut the knot at once, and thus by a bold
stroke of the knife rid herself of the Orange Street rooms and Miss
Biggs at the same time. She did drive to Harley Street, and on her
arrival at her own door was informed by the astonished Spooner that,
"Master was at home,--all alone in the dining-room. He was going to
dine at home, and seemed very lonely like." There, as she stood in
the hall, there was nothing but the door between her and her husband,
and she conceived that the sound of her arrival must have been
heard by him. For a moment her courage was weak, and she thought of
hurrying up stairs. Had she done so her trouble would still have been
all before her. Some idea of this came upon her mind, and after a
moment's pause, she opened the dining-room door and found herself
in her husband's presence. He was sitting over the fire in his
arm-chair, very gloomily, and had not heard the arrival. He too had
some tenderness left in his heart, and this going away of his wife
had distressed him.

"Tom," she said, going up to him, and speaking in a low voice, "I
have come back again." And she stood before him as a suppliant.

[Illustration: "Tom," she said, "I have come back."]




CHAPTER LII.

SHOWING HOW THINGS WENT ON AT NONINGSBY.


Yes, Lady Staveley had known it before. She had given a fairly
correct guess at the state of her daughter's affections, though
she had not perhaps acknowledged to herself the intensity of her
daughter's feelings. But the fact might not have mattered if it had
never been told. Madeline might have overcome this love for Mr.
Graham, and all might have been well if she had never mentioned
it. But now the mischief was done. She had acknowledged to her
mother,--and, which was perhaps worse, she had acknowledged to
herself,--that her heart was gone, and Lady Staveley saw no cure for
the evil. Had this happened but a few hours earlier she would have
spoken with much less of encouragement to Peregrine Orme.

And Felix Graham was not only in the house, but was to remain there
for yet a while longer, spending a very considerable portion of his
time in the drawing-room. He was to come down on this very day at
three o'clock, after an early dinner, and on the next day he was
to be promoted to the dining-room. As a son-in-law he was quite
ineligible. He had, as Lady Staveley understood, no private fortune,
and he belonged to a profession which he would not follow in the only
way by which it was possible to earn an income by it. Such being
the case, her daughter, whom of all girls she knew to be the most
retiring, the least likely to speak of such feelings unless driven to
it by great stress,--her daughter had positively declared to her that
she was in love with this man! Could anything be more hopeless? Could
any position be more trying?

"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!" she said, almost wringing her hands in
her vexation,--"No, my darling I am not angry," and she kissed her
child and smoothed her hair. "I am not angry; but I must say I think
it very unfortunate. He has not a shilling in the world."

"I will do nothing that you and papa do not approve," said Madeline,
holding down her head.

"And then you know he doesn't think of such a thing himself--of
course he does not. Indeed, I don't think he's a marrying man at
all."

"Oh, mamma, do not talk in that way;--as if I expected anything. I
could not but tell you the truth when you spoke of Mr. Orme as you
did."

"Poor Mr. Orme! he is such an excellent young man."

"I don't suppose he's better than Mr. Graham, mamma, if you speak of
goodness."

"I'm sure I don't know," said Lady Staveley, very much put beside
herself. "I wish there were no such things as young men at all.
There's Augustus making a fool of himself." And she walked twice the
length of the room in an agony of maternal anxiety. Peregrine Orme
had suggested to her what she would feel if Noningsby were on fire;
but could any such fire be worse than these pernicious love flames?
He had also suggested another calamity, and as Lady Staveley
remembered that, she acknowledged to herself that the Fates were not
so cruel to her as they might have been. So she kissed her daughter,
again assured her that she was by no means angry with her, and then
they parted.

This trouble had now come to such a head that no course was any
longer open to poor Lady Staveley, but that one which she had adopted
in all the troubles of her married life. She would tell the judge
everything, and throw all the responsibility upon his back. Let him
decide whether a cold shoulder or a paternal blessing should be
administered to the ugly young man up stairs, who had tumbled off
his horse the first day he went out hunting, and who would not earn
his bread as others did, but thought himself cleverer than all the
world. The feelings in Lady Staveley's breast towards Mr. Graham at
this especial time were not of a kindly nature. She could not make
comparisons between him and Peregrine Orme without wondering at her
daughter's choice. Peregrine was fair and handsome, one of the
curled darlings of the nation, bright of eye and smooth of skin,
good-natured, of a sweet disposition, a young man to be loved by
all the world, and--incidentally--the heir to a baronetcy and a
good estate. All his people were nice, and he lived close in the
neighbourhood! Had Lady Staveley been set to choose a husband for
her daughter she could have chosen none better. And then she counted
up Felix Graham. His eyes no doubt were bright enough, but taken
altogether he was,--at least so she said to herself--hideously ugly.
He was by no means a curled darling. And then he was masterful in
mind, and not soft and pleasant as was young Orme. He was heir to
nothing; and as to people of his own he had none in particular. Who
could say where he must live? As likely as not in Patagonia, having
been forced to accept a judgeship in that new colony for the sake of
bread. But her daughter should not go to Patagonia with him if she
could help it! So when the judge came home that evening, she told him
all before she would allow him to dress for dinner.

"He certainly is not very handsome," the judge said, when Lady
Staveley insisted somewhat strongly on that special feature of the
case.

"I think he is the ugliest young man I know," said her ladyship.

"He looks very well in his wig," said the judge.

"Wig! Madeline would not see him in a wig; nor anybody else very
often, seeing the way he is going on about his profession. What are
we to do about it?"

"Well. I should say, do nothing."

"And let him propose to the dear girl if he chooses to take the fancy
into his head?"

"I don't see how we are to hinder him. But I have that impression of
Mr. Graham that I do not think he will do anything unhandsome by us.
He has some singular ideas of his own about law, and I grant you that
he is plain--"

"The plainest young man I ever saw," said Lady Staveley.

"But, if I know him, he is a man of high character and much more than
ordinary acquirement."

"I cannot understand Madeline," Lady Staveley went on, not caring
overmuch about Felix Graham's acquirements.

"Well, my dear, I think the key to her choice is this, that she has
judged not with her eyes, but with her ears, or rather with her
understanding. Had she accepted Mr. Orme, I as a father should of
course have been well satisfied. He is, I have no doubt, a fine young
fellow, and will make a good husband some day."

"Oh, excellent!" said her ladyship; "and The Cleeve is only seven
miles."

"But I must acknowledge that I cannot feel angry with Madeline."

"Angry! no, not angry. Who would be angry with the poor child?"

"Indeed, I am somewhat proud of her. It seems to me that she prefers
mind to matter, which is a great deal to say for a young lady."

"Matter!" exclaimed Lady Staveley, who could not but feel that the
term, as applied to such a young man as Peregrine Orme, was very
opprobrious.

"Wit and intellect and power of expression have gone further with her
than good looks and rank and worldly prosperity. If that be so, and I
believe it is, I cannot but love her the better for it."

"So do I love her, as much as any mother can love her daughter."

"Of course you do." And the judge kissed his wife.

"And I like wit and genius and all that sort of thing."

"Otherwise you would have not taken me, my dear."

"You were the handsomest man of your day. That's why I fell in love
with you."

"The compliment is a very poor one," said the judge.

"Never mind that. I like wit and genius too; but wit and genius are
none the better for being ugly; and wit and genius should know how to
butter their own bread before they think of taking a wife."

"You forget, my dear, that for aught we know wit and genius may be
perfectly free from any such thought." And then the judge made it
understood that if he were left to himself he would dress for dinner.

When the ladies left the parlour that evening they found Graham
in the drawing-room, but there was no longer any necessity for
embarrassment on Madeline's part at meeting him. They had been in the
room together on three or four occasions, and therefore she could
give him her hand, and ask after his arm without feeling that every
one was watching her. But she hardly spoke to him beyond this, nor
indeed did she speak much to anybody. The conversation, till the
gentlemen joined them, was chiefly kept up by Sophia Furnival and
Mrs. Arbuthnot, and even after that the evening did not pass very
briskly.

One little scene there was, during which poor Lady Staveley's eyes
were anxiously fixed upon her son, though most of those in the room
supposed that she was sleeping. Miss Furnival was to return to
London on the following day, and it therefore behoved Augustus to be
very sad. In truth he had been rather given to a melancholy humour
during the last day or two. Had Miss Furnival accepted all his civil
speeches, making him answers equally civil, the matter might very
probably have passed by without giving special trouble to any one.
But she had not done this, and therefore Augustus Staveley had
fancied himself to be really in love with her. What the lady's
intentions were I will not pretend to say; but if she was in truth
desirous of becoming Mrs. Staveley, she certainly went about her
business in a discreet and wise manner.

"So you leave us to-morrow, immediately after breakfast," said he,
having dressed his face with that romantic sobriety which he had been
practising for the last three days.

"I am sorry to say that such is the fact," said Sophia.

"To tell you the truth I am not sorry," said Augustus; and he turned
away his face for a moment, giving a long sigh.

"I dare say not, Mr. Staveley; but you need not have said so to me,"
said Sophia, pretending to take him literally at his word.

"Because I cannot stand this kind of thing any longer. I suppose I
must not see you in the morning,--alone?"

"Well, I suppose not. If I can get down to prayers after having all
my things packed up, it will be as much as I can do."

"And if I begged for half an hour as a last kindness--"

"I certainly should not grant it. Go and ask your mother whether such
a request would be reasonable."

"Psha!"

"Ah, but it's not psha! Half-hours between young ladies and young
gentlemen before breakfast are very serious things."

"And I mean to be serious," said Augustus.

"But I don't," said Sophia.

"I am to understand then that under no possible circumstances--"

"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 I am 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 I
do 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," she 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.

"I will take business first," said Graham.

"And then pleasure will be the sweeter afterwards," said the judge.

"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 I do not like having dealings with Mr. Chaffanbrass
and Mr. Aram."

"Mr. Chaffanbrass and Mr. Aram may not be so bad as you, perhaps
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 I have
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 earliest
possible time--and still wish it."

"You are right there, Mr. Graham. I must say you are right 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. Therefore,
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, till 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.




CHAPTER LIII.

LADY MASON RETURNS HOME.


Lady 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 accordance with Mr. Furnival's
wishes. Mr. Furnival wrote to say that at such a time 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 Peregrine was the other, but it was brought about by
amicable management 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, provided by the special
care of the latter-named gentleman.

[Illustration: Lady Mason going before the Magistrates.]

The arrival in the village of four different vehicles, and the sight
of such gentlemen as Mr. Furnival, Mr. Round, and Mr. Aram, of course
aroused some excitement there; 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 her.
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 unfortunate 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 indictment, 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."

"I 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 marriage has, as
I think very properly, been laid aside."

"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 him only. But
she 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
circumstances 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 sympathise 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 otherwise.

And there had been one other scene. Mr. Furnival had introduced Lady
Mason to Mr. Solomon Aram, having explained to her that it would be
indispensable that Mr. Aram should see her, probably once or twice
before the trial came on.

"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.
Furnival. "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 bearing about him no other sign of
vulgarity. Nor at first sight would it probably have been discerned
that he was of the Hebrew persuasion. 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 Christian 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 understood both
his words and his face, when he told her how indispensable 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
Peregrine 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 darkness. 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 accompanied 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 understood 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.

"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 perplexed 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 up stairs 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.

"It 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."

"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, with 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 up stairs 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
easier to say good-bye here."

"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 up stairs secluded for the last week,
and that she was to leave the house this morning, 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 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 the tale;
whereas her whole life had been spent in an effort to conceal it from
him? No. She knew that she could not do it. 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 a home? 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 adjoining chamber, had she with
infinite care and much slow preparation done that deed, to undo
which, were it possible, she would now give 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. It 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 when 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 bring 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 the south, no comfort though gods should bring
to her their banquets. She was heavy laden,--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.

"A man's part, and a son's part. Shall I see these lawyers and learn
from them what they are at? Have I your leave to tell them that you
want 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 LIV.

TELLING ALL THAT HAPPENED BENEATH THE LAMP-POST.


When 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 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 position,--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
consented 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
unmended 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.

It 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 otherwise he was
again well. His accident however was so far a godsend to both the
women at Peckham that it gave them a subject on 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, I'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 interposed
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 assistance to
a father in distress?" Whereupon Mary put her handkerchief 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 yourself
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 subject
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 contemplated 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. 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, I do not think you have been bad at all. I should have
been sorry that that had happened, and that I should not have known
it."

"I suppose she was right to tell, only--" In truth Mary did not at
all 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 according to the rules of
the world recognised 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 conviction 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. It never for a moment
occurred to her that she could rebel against such 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 I am going to scold you, or even that I am
angry with you."

"Oh, but I know you must be angry."

"Indeed I am 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?

"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 gentleman whom--whom you
met out of doors you know?"

"Albert Fitzallen," said Mary, hesitating very much as she pronounced
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 I'd 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."

"I 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 to me? Did you say nothing to him as to
your feelings towards himself?"

"I 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 anything 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 ain't a
bad girl, whatever she may say of me. Indeed I ain't." And then poor
Mary Snow burst out into an agony of tears.

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 ain't;" still sobbing convulsively. "I 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--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. I take it that you do like this young gentleman. 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--"

"Wait a moment, Mary. But there is nothing wicked in your liking
him." It may be presumed that Mr. Graham 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."

"I'll 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. I'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 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.

"I'll do anything that you please," said Mary, upon whose mind and
heart all these changes had come with a suddenness which prevented
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?"

"I'll 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. 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 LV.

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.

"I'm 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--"

"I'll 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 I say 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; I promise you that."

"She isn't very nice, I know," said Mrs. Furnival--"that is, for
gentlemen."

"I should say not," said Mr. Furnival. Then the reconciliation had
been effected, and Mrs. Furnival went up stairs to prepare for
dinner, knowing that her husband would be present, and that Martha
Biggs would not. And just as she was taking her accustomed place at
the head of the table, almost ashamed to look 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.

"It'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 ins 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 suppose 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 to Lady Mason;--not as to Lady Mason's visits to
Lincoln's Inn and their impropriety as formerly presumed;--not at
all as 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 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 innocent 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!"

"I fancy that Mrs. Orme arranged it all. Whether Lord Alston saw
her or not I don't know. My belief is that Lady Mason behaved very
well all through, though they say very bitter things against her at
Noningsby."

"Poor thing!" said Mrs. Furnival, the feelings of whose heart 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 go on. 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." Particularly
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 the people
staring at her?"

"That won't kill her," said Sophia, who felt that she herself would
not perish under any such process. "If 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 Mrs. Furnival. "I wish that I could do anything
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 up stairs. 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 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 believe me in this--I would
not for worlds encroach on your kindness. I knew that when I pressed
your hand 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."

"Oh no. 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 troubles 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 altogether
unable to comfort her."

"Surely that at present should specially be your task."

"I cannot do it. What should I say to her? I think 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?"

"I 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.

"I 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
sympathise 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 acceptance 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--will 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
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. Lucius 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 a moment, or become embarrassed, or lose her command
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 Furnival 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 services to
his mother; but it behoved her to look carefully at the circumstances
before she would pledge herself to such an arrangement 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. 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 prudently, and when Lucius left her
she was pledged to nothing but that one simple fact of a marriage
engagement.




CHAPTER LVI.

HOW SIR PEREGRINE DID BUSINESS WITH MR. ROUND.


In the mean time Sir Peregrine was sitting at home trying to
determine in what way he should act under the present emergency,
actuated as he was on one side by friendship 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
bewilderment, 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 now as when they
both believed her to be as guiltless as themselves. But Sir Peregrine
could not look at it in this light. He did not say that he wished
that she might be found guilty;--nor 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 so far
willing that she should be saved from further outward punishment, 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 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 pronounce 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 consented, 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
herself? 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 comfort 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 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 be a 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--this is very sudden. 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 detestable
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. Orme trusted that no jury would convict her friend.
Let Lady Mason go through that ordeal; and then, when the law had
declared her innocent, let restitution be made.

"It will be very terrible to all if she be condemned," said Sir
Peregrine.

"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. I 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 everything, 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 authorised to do that."

"But he will entice it from you! He is a 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 that 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 inwardly the truth of her words,
and loved her for her constancy. But nevertheless they were very
bitter. How had it come to pass that he was thus indebted to so deep
a criminal? 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 repress a
sob. "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 worn and feeble; very much older and much more worn than he
had been at the period spoken of in the commencement 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.

[Illustration: Sir Peregrine at Mr. Round's office.]

There was much ceremonial talk between them before Sir Peregrine
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; and 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. I am 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."

"But still;--all that you can 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
considerable 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, I 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 compromise
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. If on 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, collected his hat and
gloves, and with slow step made his way down 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, thrusting 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 declared 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 character!" 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. Chaffanbrass 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 Dockwrath 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 intercourse in the matter. I 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 Mr. 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 LVII.

THE LOVES AND HOPES OF ALBERT FITZALLEN.


Felix Graham, when he left poor Mary Snow, did not go on immediately
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 at a
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 L1,200 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
incipient 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 favourable eyes.

"Is it in the medical way?" asked Fitzallen, when Graham suggested
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 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.

"I 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. I
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 between you.
You may regard me, Mr. Fitzallen, as Mary's best and surest friend."

"I know you have been a friend to her; I am 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.

"I 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. I do 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 not a 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 will 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 acquaintance 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
this Albert gave a blushing consent. "Mother has heard of it," said
Albert, "but I don't exactly know how." Perhaps Mrs. Fitzallen 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 be a 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, she
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 approbation are very absurd
but, nevertheless, are quite true to nature. Lovers would be great
losers if the path of love were always to run 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 I 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 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 pere say? Snow pere 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 pere to abandon that
natural ambition to have a barrister for his son-in-law? In these
days, too, Snow pere had derogated 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 appearance
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 can
still touch her;--ay, and if the task be in one's way, can 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 himself 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 mercy watch over
us and protect us both!

Such a man was Snow pere 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. And if 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 me? Whose
child is she, I should like to know? Look here, Mr. Gorm; perhaps
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 think, sir, I
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."

"I hope 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!"

"I'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
ain't 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 pere 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 LVIII.

MISS STAVELEY DECLINES TO EAT MINCED VEAL.


The house at Noningsby was now very quiet. All the visitors had gone,
including even the Arbuthnots. Felix Graham 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 realise 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 whispered
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 sweetness 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;
she 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. But a conclusion is drawn; the
mind does receive an impression; and the conclusion and impression
are as true as though 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 good-natured and sharp-witted housekeeper said a
word or two in praise of her late patient.

"We are very lonely, ain't 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
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 practical effects. She was not
given to backbiting--though, when stirred by any motive near to her
own belongings, she would say an ill-natured 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 what sort of a wife she would make,
and what commencements of education would best fit her to be a good
mother. It is 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 read 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 daughter sat at dinner alone, that Madeline would eat
nothing but potatoes and sea-kale. "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.

"But it is terrible to think of their having no income," said his
wife.

"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."

"If you 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, I'll walk to the top if you like," said Madeline.

"If you 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 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 reviews; 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 since.
A very clever fellow is Felix Graham. There can be no 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 of
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. I have 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 and a
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 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. But a man could
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 softly
lest 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 for her? 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 impertinent. Be
frank with me. I have 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 understand 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 should have
done just the same. And now let us decide this important 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 doubts 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 conversation.
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?"

[Illustration: "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. I shall
now give him that permission." Whereupon Madeline made her answer by
a slight pressure upon his arm.

"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 recommended 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 I have not been sad, papa," 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 LIX.

NO SURRENDER.


Sir Peregrine 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 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 neighbour. 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 do so? 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 the trial. It seemed to Sir Peregrine that his daughter's
affection for this woman had grown with the knowledge 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 accustomed 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 mornings. 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. Peregrine, 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. I am too old to bear up against it;--too old and too
weak." Peregrine knew that he alluded in some way to that proposed
marriage, but he was quite in the 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 Cowcross Street 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 outlook 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 settled, and he knows 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 appearance 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 Peregrine.
"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
understanding 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 I am
unhappy for the hour, or that I shall repent it when the moment has
gone by."

"Doing what?" asked Peregrine.

"I have thought much of it, and I know that I am right. I cannot 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 intend to do
is this;--to give up the property into your hands at Lady-day. You
shall be master of The Cleeve from that time forth."

"Sir?"

"The truth is, you desire employment, and I don't. The property is
small, and therefore wants the more looking after. I have never 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 that 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 purport of his great
resolution with a clear, strong voice, as though the saying of the
words pleased him well.

"I 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 I
should not have named it had I not fully resolved upon it. I have
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 goodness 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.

"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."

"Oh 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 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 trouser-pockets, and shook his head.

[Illustration: "No Surrender."]

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 falsehood," 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."

"I'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
occasions;--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 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.

I 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 possessed 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 delinquencies 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
Peregrine broken his promise to him, no acting would have been
necessary. 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 deceived. He
could not forgive himself for having mingled with the sweet current
of his Edith's life the foul waters of that criminal 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 remember 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, desperately 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 LX.

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 mother. 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?"

"I did; and I think that he believed me. He knew 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 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 sympathised with the female
weakness which had succumbed 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. "I am 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 outspoken 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 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 circumstances 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 surrendered." But Mrs. Orme feared
that if the trial were over, and the criminal saved from justice,
the property would not be surrendered. 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 straightminded, 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 son 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, 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, preferring 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 right direction
till the whole truth had been confessed to him?

The two women were sitting together in that up stairs 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. "I 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 movement of her eyes, sat Mrs.
Orme,--intent upon that one thing, that the woman before her should
be brought to repent the evil 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 understand."

"Unless you told him everything, of course he could not understand."

"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 circumstanced.
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 came my
baby, and the world was all altered for me. What could I do for the
only thing that I 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," she 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
with a word. "I cannot tell him," she said at last. "It is a thing
impossible. I should die at his feet before the words were spoken."

"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; I do 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
the village of Coldharbour to The 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."

"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 understand
each other. Till then I doubt whether I shall 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 sworn 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 LXI.

THE STATE OF PUBLIC OPINION.


The 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 inclined to fear,
that, in spite of her innocence, she would be found guilty. The elder
world of barristers was not, perhaps, so demonstrative, 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 preposterous. 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 various 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
Alston. The court-house, too, was very defective in its arrangements,
and 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 prejudices
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 confound 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 elsewhere.

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 Usbech; 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 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-examined 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 the 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 I have 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
admiration 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, simpered, and looked
down with averted head on the fulness of her Irish 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."

It 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 arrangements
as to the coming marriage, and the four were now sitting round the
fire with their glasses of hot toddy at their elbows. 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 however 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 Kenneby 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. "I 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 standing in
that box the best part of a day. I knowed 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 ain't one of that sort," said Mrs. Smiley.

"I suppose that man did not want to unbosom himself," said Kenneby.

"Well; no. The likes of him seldom do like to unbosom themselves,"
said Moulder.

"But that will be my desire. If they 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.

"I 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."

"I'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 disrespectful
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'll 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 'll 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 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 him,--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 ain't justice," said Mrs. Smiley.

"Why not? I say it is justice. You can have it if you choose to pay
for it, and so can I. If I buy a greatcoat against the winter, and
you go out at night without having one, is it injustice because
you're perished by the cold while I'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.

"Snengkeld, I shouldn't wonder," said his wife.

"I hope it ain't no stranger," said Mrs. Smiley. "Situated as 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 sufficiently 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."

"I've just parted from--Mr. Dockwrath," said Kantwise, speaking
in a tone of voice which implied the great importance of the
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 so 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. Dockwrath 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, I'll take it;--only I must see the
money down."

"I don't know what he'll bet, Mr. Moulder; only he says it's all up
with her."

"Will he back his side, even handed?"

"I ain't 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.

"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 I ain't 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 hocussing--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 Aegis.

"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 Mr.
Joseph Mason and Mr. Matthew Round. According to his own story Mr.
Matthew had quite come round and been forced to acknowledge 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."

"I'll lay an even bet she's acquitted," said Moulder. "And I'll do it
in a ten-p'und note."




CHAPTER LXII.

WHAT THE FOUR LAWYERS THOUGHT ABOUT IT.


I have 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 whatever was entertained
either by Mr. Aram or by Mr. Chaffanbrass. From the day on which they
had first gone into the real circumstances 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 bloodshed. I've
saved the country thousands of pounds in the maintenance 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 be a 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 establishment. 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 profession. There were no tin boxes with old names
labelled on them; there were no piles of letters, and no pigeon-holes
loaded with old memoranda. 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.

[Illustration: Mr. Chaffanbrass and Mr. Solomon Aram.]

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 nevertheless, 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. Furnival's chambers with
reference to the division of those labours which were to be commenced
at Alston on the day but one following, 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 much as 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 and Bolster, no
jury can convict her. And if they don't--"

"Then no jury can acquit her. But let me tell you, Aram, 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. Furnival 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! I should 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, you're 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.

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 wonderfully gifted. In the hands of
Mr. Chaffanbrass it was not improbable 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
difficulty 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?"

"I'm quite indifferent. If the memory of either of these two persons
is doubtful,--and after twenty years it may be so,--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 to see
Dockwrath in your hands; I shall indeed."

"I doubt he'll be too many for me."

"Ha, ha, ha!" Aram might well laugh; for when had any one shown
himself able to withstand the powers of Mr. Chaffanbrass?

"They say he is a sharp fellow," said Mr. Chaffanbrass. "Well, we
must be off. When those gentlemen at the West End get into Parliament
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 his 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, according to his view
of the matter, a peculiarly expensive luxury. Snow pere, moreover,
came forward with claims which he rested on various arguments, that
Graham found it almost impossible to resist them. At first,--that is
immediately subsequent to the interview 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 immediate 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 her
school." Poor woman! she thought she was telling the truth while
making these false plaints. She did not mean to be dishonest, but it
is so easy to be dishonest without meaning 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 parted from her on that day without
kissing her, Mary Snow knew that all that was over. But not the less
did Graham recognise 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 endeavoured 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 enthusiastic 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 Chaffanbrass 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 of a 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 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 believing 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 it must be answered.

"Eh?" he said.

"I suppose we may take it for granted that Lady Mason is really
innocent,--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 I
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. Furnival'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.
No such impertinent questions were asked then, nor were there
any communications between them of a confidential nature. Mr.
Chaffanbrass 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 LXIII.

THE EVENING BEFORE THE TRIAL.


The 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 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 herself; 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."

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 I am 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 will
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 she 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 the farthest 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 neighbourhood.

"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
recognised 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 associate 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
remain 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, however, 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 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 be 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 herself. Though she
recognised 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 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 turn in her favour? And thus, though
her face was pale with suffering and thin with care, though she
had realised 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. O 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 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 be 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."

"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 strangers."

"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."

"I do not say that it is your fault;--nor will I say that it has been
my own. If I have seemed harsh to you, I beg your pardon."

"No, Lucius, no; you have not been harsh. I have understood you
through it all."

"I have 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 I do, 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 has 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. I have 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. I will say no more about that. But, mother, I will go
into the court with you to-morrow. That support I can at any rate
give you, and they shall see that there is no quarrel between 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 to 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 herself 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 Peregrine
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. I will 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 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 kindness
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 necessary. 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 be so
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 even for one moment
cast a shadow upon his peace of mind.




CHAPTER LXIV.

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 prosecution. 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 necessary 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 matter 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," Mr. Round had
said, "and I do not suppose that the other side will do so. They
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.

"I 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 others 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 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 attendance
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 carriage from the inn," Mrs.
Orme had said.

"Certainly, certainly; a carriage from the inn; yes. But in the
evening, ma'am?"

"When the trial is over?" said Mrs. Orme, inquiring from him his
meaning.

"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?"

"Oh no," said Mrs. Orme. "I must return home, you know. How many days
will it be, sir?"

"Well, perhaps two,--perhaps three. It may run on 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 recognised 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 said
nothing of this to 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 something.
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. I have spoken to the sheriff already. There
is no knowing what may turn up; so if anything does turn 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 forgiveness
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 the reason for that sudden
change,--for that breaking off of the intended marriage? Even
Peregrine, as he went down the steps 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 Mr. Aram
waiting there to receive her. "I am 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 unfortunate.
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 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 could 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 occasion as
this. But I am grateful to you, Mrs. Orme, for coming also."

"I 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 court-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 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 I 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 a
minute," he said; and in half a dozen half-minutes he was back. "We
are all ready now, and shall have no trouble about our places. If you
have anything to leave,--shawls, or things of that sort,--they will
be quite safe here: Mrs. Hitcham will look after them." And then
an old woman who had followed Mr. Aram into the room on the last
occasion curtsied to them. But they had nothing to leave, and their
little procession was soon made.

Lucius at first offered his arm to his mother, and she had taken it
till she had gone through the door into the hall. Mr. Aram also had,
with some hesitation, offered his arm to Mrs. Orme; but she, in spite
of that touch of sympathy, had managed, without speaking, to decline
it. In the hall, however, when all the crowd of gazers had turned
their eyes upon them and was only kept off from pressing on them by
the policemen and sheriff's officers, Lady Mason remembered herself,
and suddenly dropping her son's arm, she put out her hand for Mrs.
Orme. Mr. Aram was now in front of them, and thus they two followed
him into the body of the court. The veils of both of them were down;
but Mrs. Orme's veil was not more than ordinarily thick, and she
could see everything that was around her. So they walked up through
the crowded way, and Lucius followed them by himself.

They were very soon in their seats, the crowd offering them no
impediment. The judge was already on the bench,--not our old
acquaintance Justice Staveley, but his friend and colleague Baron
Maltby. Judge Staveley was sitting in the other court. Mrs. Orme and
Lady Mason soon found themselves seated on a bench, with a slight
standing desk before them, much as though they were seated in
a narrow pew. Up above them, on the same seat, were the three
barristers employed on Lady Mason's behalf; nearest to the judge
was Mr. Furnival; then came Felix Graham, and below him sat Mr.
Chaffanbrass, somewhat out of the line of precedence, in order that
he might more easily avail himself of the services of Mr. Aram.
Lucius found himself placed next to Mr. Chaffanbrass, and his mother
sat between him and Mrs. Orme. On the bench below them, immediately
facing a large table which was placed in the centre of the court, sat
Mr. Aram and his clerk.

[Illustration: The Court.]

Mrs. Orme as she took her seat was so confused that she could hardly
look around her; and it may be imagined that Lady Mason must have
suffered at any rate as much in the same way. But they who were
looking at her--and it may be said that every one in the court was
looking at her--were surprised to see that she raised her veil as
soon as she was seated. She raised her veil, and never lowered it
again till she left the court, and repassed out into the hall. She
had thought much of this day,--even of the little incidents which
would occur,--and she was aware that her identification would be
necessary. Nobody should tell her to unveil herself, nor would she
let it be thought that she was afraid to face her enemies. So there
she sat during the whole day, bearing the gaze of the court.

She had dressed herself with great care. It may be said of most women
who could be found in such a situation, that they would either give
no special heed to their dress on such a morning, or that they would
appear in garments of sorrow studiously unbecoming and lachrymose, or
that they would attempt to outface the world, and have appeared there
in bright trappings, fit for happier days. But Lady Mason had dressed
herself after none of these fashions. Never had her clothes been
better made, or worn with a better grace; but they were all black,
from her bonnet-ribbon down to her boot, and were put on without
any attempt at finery or smartness. As regards dress, she had never
looked better than she did now; and Mr. Furnival, when his eye caught
her as she turned her head round towards the judge, was startled by
the grace of her appearance. Her face was very pale, and somewhat
hard; but no one on looking at it could say that it was the
countenance of a woman overcome either by sorrow or by crime. She was
perfect mistress of herself, and as she looked round the court, not
with defiant gaze, but with eyes half raised, and a look of modest
but yet conscious intelligence, those around her hardly dared to
think that she could be guilty.

As she thus looked her gaze fell on one face that she had not seen
for years, and their eyes met. It was the face of Joseph Mason of
Groby, who sat opposite to her; and as she looked at him her own
countenance did not quail for a moment. Her own countenance did not
quail; but his eyes fell gradually down, and when he raised them
again she had averted her face.




CHAPTER LXV.

FELIX GRAHAM RETURNS TO NONINGSBY.


"If you love the man, let him come." It was thus that the judge had
declared to his daughter his opinion of what had better be done in
that matter of Felix Graham. Then he had gone on to declare that he
had given his permission to Felix Graham to say anything that he had
got to say, and finally had undertaken to invite Felix Graham to
spend the assize week at Noningsby. Of course in the mind of the
judge all this amounted to an actual giving away of his daughter.
He regarded the thing now as done, looking upon the young people as
betrothed, and his reflections mainly ran on the material part of
the business. How should Graham be made to earn an income, and what
allowance must be made to him till he did so? There was a certain sum
set apart for Madeline's fortune, but that would by no means suffice
for the livelihood of a married barrister in London. Graham no doubt
earned something as it was, but that was done by his pen rather than
by his wig, and the judge was inclined to think that the pen must
be abandoned before the wig could be made profitable. Such were the
directions which his thoughts took regarding Madeline's lot in life.
With him the next week or two, with their events, did not signify
much; whereas the coming years did signify a great deal.

At that time, on that Sunday afternoon, there still remained to
Madeline the best part of a month to think of it all, before Felix
should reappear upon the scene. But then she could not think of it
by herself in silence. Her father had desired her to tell her mother
what had passed, and she felt that a great difficulty still lay
before her. She knew that her mother did not wish her to marry Felix
Graham. She knew that her mother did wish her to marry Peregrine
Orme. And therefore though no mother and child had ever treated each
other with a sweeter confidence, or loved each other with warmer
hearts, there was as it were a matter of disunion between them. But
nevertheless she must tell her mother, and the dread of this telling
weighed heavy upon her as she sat that night in the drawing-room
reading the article which Felix had written.

But she need not have been under any alarm. Her father, when he told
her to discuss the matter with her mother, had by no means intended
to throw on her shoulders the burden of converting Lady Staveley to
the Graham interest. He took care to do this himself effectually, so
that in fact there should be no burden left for Madeline's shoulders.
"Well, my dear," he said that same Sunday evening to his wife, "I
have had it all out with Madeline this afternoon."

"About Mr. Graham, do you mean?"

"Yes; about Mr. Graham. I have promised that he shall come here for
the assize week."

"Oh, dear!"

"It's done, my love; and I believe we shall find it all for the
best. The bishops' daughters always marry clergymen, and the judges'
daughters ought to marry lawyers."

"But you can't give him a practice. The bishops have livings to give
away."

"Perhaps I may show him how to make a practice for himself, which
would be better. Take my word for it that it will be best for her
happiness. You would not have liked to be disappointed yourself, when
you made up your mind to be married."

"No, I should not," said Lady Staveley.

"And she will have a will of her own quite as strong as you had." And
then there was silence in the room for some time.

"You'll be kind to him when he comes?" said the judge.

"Oh, yes," said Lady Staveley, in a voice that was by no means devoid
of melancholy.

"Nobody can be so kind as you when you please. And as it is to be--"

"I always did like him," said Lady Staveley, "although he is so very
plain."

"You'll soon get used to that, my dear."

"And as for poor young Mr. Orme--"

"As for poor young Mr. Orme, as you call him, he will not die of a
broken heart. Poor young Mr. Orme has all the world before him and
will soon console himself."

"But he is so attached to her. And then The Cleeve is so near."

"We must give up all that, my dear."

"Very well," said Lady Staveley; and from that moment it may be said
that she had given in her adhesion to the Graham connection. When
some time after she gave her orders to Baker as to preparing a room
for Mr. Graham, it was made quite clear to that excellent woman by
her mistress's manner and anxiety as to the airing of the sheets,
that Miss Madeline was to have her own way in the matter.

But long previous to these preparations Madeline and her mother had
discussed the matter fully. "Papa says that Mr. Graham is to come
here for the assize week," said Lady Staveley.

"Yes; so he told me," Madeline replied, very bashfully.

"I suppose it's all for the best."

"I hope it is," said Madeline. What could she do but hope so?

"Your papa understands everything so very well that I am sure he
would not let him come if it were not proper."

"I suppose not," said Madeline.

"And now I look upon the matter as all settled."

"What matter, mamma?"

"That he--that he is to come here as your lover."

"Oh, no, mamma. Pray don't imagine that. It is not so at all. What
should I do if you were to say anything to make him think so?"

"But you told me that you loved him."

"So I do, mamma."

"And he told your papa that he was desperately in love with you."

"I don't know, mamma."

"But he did;--your papa told me so, and that's why he asked him to
come down here again. He never would have done it without."

Madeline had her own idea about this, believing that her father had
thought more of her wants in the matter than he had of those of Felix
Graham; but as to this she said nothing. "Nevertheless, mamma, you
must not say that to any one," she answered. "Mr. Graham has never
spoken to me,--not a word. I should of course have told you had he
done so."

"Yes, I am sure of that. But, Madeline, I suppose it's all the same.
He asked papa for permission to speak to you, and your papa has given
it."

"I'm sure I don't know, mamma."

It was a quarter of an hour after that when Lady Staveley again
returned to the subject. "I am sure Mr. Graham is very clever, and
all that."

"Papa says that he is very clever indeed."

"I'm quite sure he is, and he makes himself very nice in the house,
always talking when there are people to dinner. Mr. Arbuthnot never
will talk when there are people to dinner. But Mr. Arbuthnot has got
a very nice place in Warwickshire, and they say he'll come in for the
county some day."

"Of course, mamma, if there should be anything of that sort, we
should not be rich people, like Isabella and Mr. Arbuthnot."

"Not at first, dear."

"Neither first nor last. But I don't care about that. If you and papa
will like him, and--and--if it should come to that!--Oh, mamma, he is
so good, and so clever, and he understands things, and talks about
things as though he knew how to make himself master of them. And he
is honest and proud. Oh, mamma, if it should be so, I do hope you
will love him."

And then Lady Staveley promised that she would love him, thinking
nevertheless that had things gone differently she would have extended
a more motherly warmth of affection to Peregrine Orme.

And about this time Peregrine Orme made another visit to Noningsby.
His intention was to see the judge, explaining what steps his
grandfather had taken as to The Cleeve property, and then once more
to have thrown himself at Madeline's feet. But circumstances as they
turned out prevented this. Although he had been at some trouble to
ascertain when the judge would be at Noningsby, nevertheless, on his
arrival, the judge was out. He would be home, the servant said,
to dinner, but not before; and therefore he had again seen Lady
Staveley, and after seeing her had not thrown himself at Madeline's
feet.

He had made up his mind to give a systematic and detailed account of
his pecuniary circumstances, and had selected nearly the very words
in which this should be made, not actuated by any idea that such a
process would have any weight with Madeline, or by any means assist
him with her, but hoping that he might thus procure the judge's
permission to press his suit. But all this preparation and all his
chosen words were of no use to him. When he saw Lady Staveley's face
he at once knew that she had no comfort to offer to him. "Well," he
said; "is there any chance for me?" He had intended to speak in a
very different tone, but words which have been prepared seldom manage
to fit themselves into their appropriate places.

"Oh, Mr. Orme," she said, taking him by the hand, and holding it. "I
wish it were different; I wish it could be different."

"There is no hope then?" And as he spoke there was a sound in his
voice as though the tidings would utterly unman him.

"I should be wicked to deceive you," she said. "There is no hope."
And then as she looked up at the sorrow so plainly written in the
lines of his young, handsome face, tears came into her eyes and
rolled down her cheeks. How could it be that a daughter of hers
should be indifferent to the love of such a suitor as this?

But Peregrine, when he saw her sorrow, repressed his own. "Very
well," said he; "I will at any rate know how to take an answer. And
for your kindness to me in the matter I am much obliged. I ought to
have known myself better than to have supposed she could have cared
for me."

"I am sure she feels that you have done her great honour."

"Psha! honour! But never mind--Good-bye, Lady Staveley."

"Will you not see her?"

"No. Why should I see her? Give her my love--my best love--"

"I will--I will."

"And tell her that I hope she may be happy, and make some fellow
happy who is more fortunate than I am. I shall get out of the way
somewhere, so that I shall not make a fool of myself when I see it."
And then he took his departure, and rode back again to The Cleeve.
This happened two days before the commencement of the trial, and the
day before that on which Graham was to arrive at Noningsby.

When Graham received the judge's note asking him to put up at
Noningsby for the assize week, he was much astonished. It was very
short.


   DEAR GRAHAM,

   As you are coming down to Alston, special in Lady Mason's
   case, you may as well come and stay here. Lady Staveley
   bids me say that she will be delighted. Your elder
   brethren will no doubt go back to London each night, so
   that you will not be expected to remain with them.

   Yours always, &c.


What could be the intention of the judge in taking so strange a step
as this? The judge had undertaken to see him in three months, having
given him some faint idea that there then might be a chance of hope.
But now, before one month was over, he was actually sending for him
to the house, and inviting him to stay there. What would all the bar
world say when they found that a young barrister was living at the
judge's house during the assizes? Would it not be in every man's
mouth that he was a suitor accepted both by the judge's daughter and
by the judge? There would be nothing in that to go against the grain
with him, if only the fact were so. That the fact should be so he
could not venture to hope even on this hint; but he accepted the
judge's invitation, sent his grateful thanks to Lady Staveley;--as
to Lady Staveley's delight, he was sure that the judge must have
romanced a little, for he had clearly recognised Lady Staveley as his
enemy;--and then he prepared himself for the chances of war.

On the evening before the trial he arrived at Noningsby just in time
for dinner. He had been obliged to remain an hour or two at Alston in
conference with Mr. Aram, and was later than he had expected he would
be. He had been afraid to come early in the day, lest by doing so he
might have seemed to overstep the margin of his invitation. When he
did arrive, the two ladies were already dressing, and he found the
judge in the hall.

"A pretty fellow you are," said the judge. "It's dinner-time already,
and of course you take an hour to dress."

"Mr. Aram--" began Felix.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Aram! I'll give you fifteen minutes, but not a moment
more." And so Felix was hurried on up to his bedroom--the old bedroom
in which he had passed so many hours, and been so very uneasy. As
he entered the room all that conversation with Augustus Staveley
returned upon his memory. He had seen his friend in London, and told
him that he was going down to Noningsby. Augustus had looked grave,
but had said nothing about Madeline. Augustus was not in his father's
confidence in this matter, and had nothing to do but to look grave.
On that very morning, moreover, some cause had been given to himself
for gravity of demeanour.

At the door of his room he met Mrs. Baker, and, hurried though he was
by the judge's strict injunction, he could not but shake hands with
his old and very worthy friend.

"Quite strong again," said he, in answer to her tender inquiries.

"So you are, I do declare. I will say this, Mr. Graham, for
wholesomeness of flesh you beat anything I ever come nigh. There's
a many would have been weeks and weeks before they could have been
moved."

"It was your good nursing, Mrs. Baker."

"Well, I think we did take care of you among us. Do you remember the
pheasant, Mr. Graham?"

"Remember it! I should think so; and how I improved the occasion."

"Yes; you did improve fast enough. And the sea-kale, Mr. Graham.
Laws! the row I had with John Gardener about that! And, Mr. Graham,
do you remember how a certain friend used to come and ask after you
at the door? Dear, dear, dear! I nearly caught it about that."

But Graham in his present frame of mind could not well endure to
discuss his remembrances on that subject with Mrs. Baker, so he
good-humouredly pushed her out of the room, saying that the judge
would be mad if he delayed.

"That's true, too, Mr. Graham. And it won't do for you to take up Mr.
Augustus's tricks in the house yet; will it?" And then she left the
room. "What does she mean by 'yet'?" Felix said to himself as he went
through the ceremony of dressing with all the haste in his power.

He was in the drawing-room almost within the fifteen minutes, and
there he found none but the judge and his wife and daughter. He had
at first expected to find Augustus there, but had been told by Mrs.
Baker that he was to come down on the following morning. His first
greeting from Lady Staveley was something like that he had already
received up stairs, only made in less exuberant language. He was
congratulated on his speedy recovery and made welcome by a kind
smile. Then he shook hands with Madeline, and as he did so he
observed that the judge was at the trouble to turn away, so that he
should not watch the greeting. This he did see, but into Madeline's
face he hardly ventured to look. He touched her hand, however, and
said a word; and she also murmured something about his injury. "And
now we'll go to dinner," said the judge. "Give your arm that is not
broken to Lady Staveley." And so the meeting was over. "Augustus will
be in Alston to-morrow when the court is opened," said the judge.
"That is to say if he finds it possible to get up so soon; but to-day
he had some engagements in town." The truth however was that the
judge had chosen to be alone with Felix after dinner.

The dinner was very pleasant, but the judge talked for the whole
party. Madeline hardly spoke at all, nor did Lady Staveley say much.
Felix managed to put in a few words occasionally, as it always
becomes a good listener to do, but the brunt of the battle lay with
the host. One thing Felix observed painfully,--that not a word was
spoken about Lady Mason or Orley Farm. When he had been last there
the judge had spoken of it openly before the whole party, expressing
his opinion that she was a woman much injured; but now neither did
he say anything nor did Lady Staveley. He would probably not have
observed this had not a feeling crept upon him during the last
fortnight, that that thorough conviction which men had felt as to her
innocence was giving way. While the ladies were there, however, he
did not himself allude to the subject.

When they had left the room and the door had been closed behind
them, the judge began the campaign--began it, and as far as he was
concerned, ended it in a very few minutes. "Graham," said he, "I am
glad to see you."

"Thank you, judge," said he.

"Of course you know, and I know, what that amounts to now. My idea is
that you acted as an honest man when you were last here. You are not
a rich man--"

"Anything but that."

"And therefore I do not think it would have been well had you
endeavoured to gain my daughter's affections without speaking to
me,--or to her mother." Judge Staveley always spoke of his wife
as though she were an absolute part of himself. "She and I have
discussed the matter now,--and you are at liberty to address yourself
to Madeline if you please."

"My dear judge--"

"Of course you understand that I am not answering for her?"

"Oh, of course not."

"That's your look out. You must fight your own battle there. What you
are allowed to understand is this,--that her father and mother will
give their consent to an engagement, if she finds that she can bring
herself to give hers. If you are minded to ask her, you may do so."

"Of course I shall ask her."

"She will have five thousand pounds on her marriage, settled upon
herself and her children,--and as much more when I die, settled
in the same way. Now fill your glass." And in his own easy way he
turned the subject round and began to talk about the late congress at
Birmingham.

Felix felt that it was not open to him at the present moment to say
anything further about Madeline; and though he was disappointed at
this,--for he would have wished to go on talking about her all the
evening--perhaps it was better for him. The judge would have said
nothing further to encourage him, and he would have gradually been
taught to think that his chance with Madeline was little, and then
less. "He must have been a fool," my readers will say, "not to
have known that Madeline was now his own." Probably. But then
modest-minded young men are fools.

At last he contrived to bring the conversation round from the
Birmingham congress to the affairs of his new client; and indeed he
contrived to do so in spite of the judge, who was not particularly
anxious to speak on the subject. "After all that we said and did at
Birmingham, it is odd that I should so soon find myself joined with
Mr. Furnival."

"Not at all odd. Of course you must take up your profession as others
have taken it up before you. Very many young men dream of a Themis
fit for Utopia. You have slept somewhat longer than others, and your
dreams have been more vivid."

"And now I wake to find myself leagued with the Empson and Dudley of
our latter-day law courts."

"Fie, Graham, fie. Do not allow yourself to speak in that tone of men
whom you know to be zealous advocates, and whom you do not know to be
dishonest opponents."

"It is they and such as they that make so many in these days feel the
need of some Utopia,--as it was in the old days of our history. But I
beg your pardon for nicknaming them, and certainly ought not to have
done so in your presence."

"Well; if you repent yourself, and will be more charitable for the
future, I will not tell of you."

"I have never yet even seen Mr. Chaffanbrass in court," said Felix,
after a pause.

"The more shame for you, never to have gone to the court in which he
practises. A barrister intending to succeed at the common law bar
cannot have too wide an experience in such matters."

"But then I fear that I am a barrister not intending to succeed."

"I am very sorry to hear it," said the judge. And then again the
conversation flagged for a minute or two.

"Have you ever seen him at a country assize town before, judge?"
asked Felix.

"Whom? Chaffanbrass? I do not remember that I have."

"His coming down in this way is quite unusual, I take it."

"Rather so, I should say. The Old Bailey is his own ground."

"And why should they think it necessary in such a case as this to
have recourse to such a proceeding?"

"It would be for me to ask you that, seeing that you are one of the
counsel."

"Do you mean to say, judge, that between you and me you are unwilling
to give an opinion on such a subject?"

"Well; you press me hard, and I think I may fairly say that I am
unwilling. I would sooner discuss the matter with you after the
verdict than before it. Come; we will go into the drawing-room."

There was not much in this. Indeed if it were properly looked at
there was nothing in it. But nevertheless Graham, as he preceded the
judge out of the dining-room, felt that his heart misgave him about
Lady Mason. When first the matter had been spoken of at Noningsby,
Judge Staveley had been fully convinced of Lady Mason's innocence,
and had felt no reserve in expressing his opinion. He had expressed
such an opinion very openly. Why should he now affect so much
reticence, seeing that the question had been raised in the presence
of them two alone? It was he who had persuaded Graham to undertake
this work, and now he went back from what he had done, and refused
even to speak upon the subject. "It must be that he thinks she is
guilty," said Graham to himself, as he lay down that night in bed.

But there had been something more for him to do before bedtime came.
He followed the judge into the drawing-room, and in five minutes
perceived that his host had taken up a book with the honest intention
of reading it. Some reference was made to him by his wife, but he
showed at once that he did not regard Graham as company, and that he
conceived himself to be entitled to enjoy the full luxury of home.
"Upon my word I don't know," he answered, without taking his eye off
the page. And then nobody spoke to him another word.

After another short interval Lady Staveley went to sleep. When Felix
Graham had before been at Noningsby, she would have rebelled against
nature with all her force rather than have slept while he was left to
whisper what he would to her darling. But now he was authorised to
whisper, and why should not Lady Staveley sleep if she wished it? She
did sleep, and Felix was left alone with his love.

[Illustration: The Drawing-Room at Noningsby.]

And yet he was not altogether alone. He could not say to her those
words which he was now bound to say; which he longed to say in order
that he might know whether the next stage of his life was to be light
or dark. There sat the judge, closely intent no doubt upon his book,
but wide awake. There also sat Lady Staveley, fast asleep certainly;
but with a wondrous power of hearing even in her sleep. And yet how
was he to talk to his love unless he talked of love? He wished that
the judge would help them to converse; he wished that some one else
was there; he wished at last that he himself was away. Madeline sat
perfectly tranquil stitching a collar. Upon her there was incumbent
no duty of doing anything beyond that. But he was in a measure bound
to talk. Had he dared to do so he also would have taken up a book;
but that he knew to be impossible.

"Your brother will be down to-morrow," he said at last.

"Yes; he is to go direct to Alston. He will be here in the
evening,--to dinner."

"Ah, yes; I suppose we shall all be late to-morrow."

"Papa always is late when the assizes are going on," said Madeline.

"Alston is not very far," said Felix.

"Only two miles," she answered.

And during the whole of that long evening the conversation between
them did not reach a more interesting pitch than that.

"She must think me an utter fool," said Felix to himself, as he sat
staring at the fire. "How well her brother would have made the most
of such an opportunity!" And then he went to bed, by no means in a
good humour with himself.

On the next morning he again met her at breakfast, but on that
occasion there was no possible opportunity for private conversation.
The judge was all alive, and talked enough for the whole party during
the twenty minutes that was allowed to them before they started
for Alston. "And now we must be off. We'll say half-past seven for
dinner, my dear." And then they also made their journey to Alston.




CHAPTER LXVI.

SHOWING HOW MISS FURNIVAL TREATED HER LOVERS.


It is a great thing for young ladies to live in a household in which
free correspondence by letter is permitted. "Two for mamma, four for
Amelia, three for Fanny, and one for papa." When the postman has left
his budget they should be dealt out in that way, and no more should
be said about it,--except what each may choose to say. Papa's letter
is about money of course, and interests nobody. Mamma's contain the
character of a cook and an invitation to dinner, and as they interest
everybody, are public property. But Fanny's letters and Amelia's
should be private; and a well-bred mamma of the present day scorns
even to look at the handwriting of the addresses. Now in Harley
Street things were so managed that nobody did see the handwriting
of the addresses of Sophia's letters till they came into her own
hand,--that is, neither her father nor her mother did so. That both
Spooner and Mrs. Ball examined them closely is probable enough.

This was well for her now, for she did not wish it to be known as yet
that she had accepted an offer from Lucius Mason, and she did wish
to have the privilege of receiving his letters. She fancied that she
loved him. She told herself over and over again that she did so. She
compared him within her own mind to Augustus Staveley, and always
gave the preference to Lucius. She liked Augustus also, and could
have accepted him as well, had it been the way of the world in
England for ladies to have two accepted lovers. Such is not the
way of the world in England, and she therefore had been under the
necessity of choosing one. She had taken the better of the two, she
declared to herself very often; but nevertheless was it absolutely
necessary that the other should be abandoned altogether? Would it not
be well at any rate to wait till this trial should be over? But then
the young men themselves were in such a hurry!

Lucius, like an honest man, had proposed to go at once to Mr.
Furnival when he was accepted; but to this Sophia had objected, "The
peculiar position in which my father stands to your mother at the
present moment," said she, "would make it very difficult for him
to give you an answer now." Lucius did not quite understand the
reasoning, but he yielded. It did not occur to him for a moment that
either Mr. or Miss Furnival could doubt the validity of his title to
the Orley Farm property.

But there was no reason why he should not write to her. "Shall I
address here?" he had asked. "Oh yes," said Sophia; "my letters are
quite private." And he had written very frequently, and she had
answered him. His last letter before the trial I propose to publish,
together with Sophia's answer, giving it as my opinion that the
gentleman's production affords by no means a good type of a lover's
letter. But then his circumstances were peculiar. Miss Furnival's
answer was, I think, much better.


   Orley Farm, ---- ---- ----.

   MY OWN SOPHIA,

   My only comfort--I may really say my only comfort now--is
   in writing to you. It is odd that at my age, and having
   begun the world early as I did, I should now find myself
   so much alone. Were it not for you, I should have no
   friend. I cannot describe to you the sadness of this
   house, nor the wretched state in which my mother exists. I
   sometimes think that had she been really guilty of those
   monstrous crimes which people lay to her charge, she could
   hardly have been more miserable. I do not understand it;
   nor can I understand why your father has surrounded her
   with lawyers whom he would not himself trust in a case of
   any moment. To me she never speaks on the subject, which
   makes the matter worse--worse for both of us. I see her
   at breakfast and at dinner, and sometimes sit with her
   for an hour in the evening; but even then we have no
   conversation. The end of it is I trust soon coming, and
   then I hope that the sun will again be bright. In these
   days it seems as though there were a cloud over the whole
   earth.

   I wish with all my heart that you could have been here
   with her. I think that your tone and strength of mind
   would have enabled her to bear up against these troubles
   with more fortitude. After all, it is but the shadow of
   a misfortune which has come across her, if she would but
   allow herself so to think. As it is, Mrs. Orme is with
   her daily, and nothing I am sure can be more kind. But I
   can confess to you, though I could do so to no one else,
   that I do not willingly see an intimacy kept up between
   my mother and The Cleeve. Why was there that strange
   proposition as to her marriage; and why, when it was once
   made, was it abandoned? I know that my mother has been
   not only guiltless, but guileless, in these matters as to
   which she is accused; but nevertheless her affairs will
   have been so managed that it will be almost impossible for
   her to remain in this neighbourhood.

   When all this is over, I think I shall sell this place.
   What is there to bind me,--to bind me or you to Orley
   Farm? Sometimes I have thought that I could be happy here,
   devoting myself to agriculture,--

"Fiddlesticks!" Sophia exclaimed, as she read this,

   --and doing something to lessen the dense ignorance of
   those around me; but for such work as that a man should
   be able to extend himself over a larger surface than that
   which I can influence. My dream of happiness now carries
   me away from this to other countries,--to the sunny
   south. Could you be happy there? A friend of mine whom I
   well knew in Germany, has a villa on the Lake of Como,--

"Indeed, sir, I'll do no such thing," said Sophia to herself,

   --and there I think we might forget all this annoyance.

   I shall not write again now till the trial is over. I have
   made up my mind that I will be in court during the whole
   proceedings. If my mother will admit it, I will remain
   there close to her, as her son should do in such an
   emergency. If she will not have this, still I will be
   there. No one shall say that I am afraid to see my mother
   in any position to which fortune can bring her, or that I
   have ever doubted her innocence.

   God bless you, my own one.

   Yours,

   L. M.


Taking this letter as a whole perhaps we may say that there was not
as much nonsense in it as young gentlemen generally put into their
love-letters to young ladies; but I am inclined to think that it
would have been a better love-letter had there been more nonsense. At
any rate there should have been less about himself, and more about
the lady. He should have omitted the agriculture altogether, and been
more sure of his loved one's tastes before he suggested the sunny
south and the Como villa. It is true that he was circumstanced as few
lovers are, with reference to his mother; but still I think he might
have been less lachrymose. Sophia's answer, which was sent after the
lapse of a day or two, was as follows:--


   Harley Street, ---- ---- ----.

   MY DEAR LUCIUS,

   I am not surprised that you should feel somewhat
   low-spirited at the present moment; but you will find,
   I have no doubt, that the results of the next week will
   cure all that. Your mother will be herself again when this
   trial is over, and you will then wonder that it should
   ever have had so depressing an influence either upon you
   or upon her. I cannot but suppose that papa has done the
   best as to her advisers. I know how anxious he is about
   it, and they say that he is very clever in such matters.
   Pray give your mother my love. I cannot but think she
   is lucky to have Mrs. Orme with her. What can be more
   respectable than a connection at such a time with such
   people?

   As to your future residence, do not make up your mind
   to anything while your spirits are thus depressed. If
   you like to leave Orley Farm, why not let it instead of
   selling it? As for me, if it should be fated that our lots
   are to go together, I am inclined to think that I should
   prefer to live in England. In London papa's position might
   probably be of some service, and I should like no life
   that was not active. But it is too early in the day to
   talk thus at present. You must not think me cold hearted
   if I say that what has as yet been between us must not be
   regarded as an absolute and positive engagement. I, on my
   part, hope that it may become so. My heart is not cold,
   and I am not ashamed to own that I esteem you favourably;
   but marriage is a very serious thing, and there is so much
   to be considered! I regard myself as a free agent, and in
   a great measure independent of my parents on such a matter
   as that; but still I think it well to make no positive
   promise without consulting them. When this trial is over
   I will speak to my father, and then you will come up to
   London and see us.

   Mind you give my love to your mother; and--if it have any
   value in your eyes--accept it yourself.

   Your affectionate friend,

   SOPHIA FURNIVAL.


I feel very confident that Mrs. Furnival was right in declining
to inquire very closely into the circumstances of her daughter's
correspondence. A young lady who could write such a letter to her
lover as that requires but little looking after; and in those points
as to which she may require it, will--if she be so minded--elude it.
Such as Miss Furnival was, no care on her mother's part would, I
think, have made her better. Much care might have made her worse, as,
had she been driven to such resources, she would have received her
letters under a false name at the baker's shop round the corner.

But the last letter was not written throughout without interruption.
She was just declaring how on her part she hoped that her present
uncertain tenure of her lover's hand might at some future time become
certain, when Augustus Staveley was announced. Sophia, who was
alone in the drawing-room, rose from her table, gracefully, slipped
her note under the cover of the desk, and courteously greeted her
visitor. "And how are they all at dear Noningsby?" she asked.

[Illustration: "And how are they all at Noningsby?"]

"Dear Noningsby is nearly deserted. There is no one there but my
mother and Madeline."

"And who more would be wanting to make it still dear,--unless it be
the judge? I declare, Mr. Staveley, I was quite in love with your
father when I left. Talk of honey falling from people's mouths!--he
drops nothing less than champagne and pineapples."

"How very difficult of digestion his conversation must be!"

"By no means. If the wine be good and the fruit ripe, nothing can be
more wholesome. And is everybody else gone? Let me see;--Mr. Graham
was still there when I left."

"He came away shortly afterwards,--as soon, that is, as his arm would
allow him."

"What a happy accident that was for him, Mr. Staveley!"

"Happy!--breaking three of his ribs, his arm, and his collar-bone! I
thought it very unhappy."

"Ah, that's because your character is so deficient in true chivalry.
I call it a very happy accident which gives a gentleman an
opportunity of spending six weeks under the same roof with the lady
of his love. Mr. Graham is a man of spirit, and I am by no means sure
that he did not break his bones on purpose."

Augustus for a moment thought of denying the imputation with regard
to his sister, but before he had spoken he had changed his mind. He
was already aware that his friend had been again invited down to
Noningsby, and if his father chose to encourage Graham, why should
he make difficulties? He had conceived some general idea that Felix
Graham was not a guest to be welcomed into a rich man's family as a
son-in-law. He was poor and crotchety, and as regards professional
matters unsteady. But all that was a matter for his father to
consider, not for him. So he held his peace as touching Graham, and
contrived to change the subject, veering round towards that point of
the compass which had brought him into Harley Street.

"Perhaps then, Miss Furnival, it might answer some purpose if I were
to get myself run over outside there. I could get one of Pickford's
vans, or a dray from Barclay and Perkins', if that might be thought
serviceable."

"It would be of no use in the world, Mr. Staveley. Those very
charitable middle-aged ladies opposite, the Miss Mac Codies, would
have you into their house in no time, and when you woke from your
first swoon, you would find yourself in their best bedroom, with one
on each side of you."

"And you in the mean time--"

"I should send over every morning at ten o'clock to inquire after
you--in mamma's name. 'Mrs. Furnival's compliments, and hopes Mr.
Staveley will recover the use of his legs.' And the man would bring
back word: 'The doctor hopes he may, miss; but his left eye is gone
for ever.' It is not everybody that can tumble discreetly. Now you, I
fancy, would only disfigure yourself."

"Then I must try what fortune can do for me without the brewer's
dray."

"Fortune has done quite enough for you, Mr. Staveley; I do not advise
you to tempt her any further."

"Miss Furnival, I have come to Harley Street to-day on purpose to
tempt her to the utmost. There is my hand--"

"Mr. Staveley, pray keep your hand for a while longer in your own
possession."

"Undoubtedly I shall do so, unless I dispose of it this morning. When
we were at Noningsby together, I ventured to tell you what I felt for
you--"

"Did you, Mr. Staveley? If your feelings were anything beyond the
common, I don't remember the telling."

"And then," he continued, without choosing to notice her words, "you
affected to believe that I was not in earnest in what I said to you."

"And you must excuse me if I affect to believe the same thing of you
still."

Augustus Staveley had come into Harley Street with a positive resolve
to throw his heart and hand and fortune at the feet of Miss Furnival.
I fear that I shall not raise him in the estimation of my readers by
saying so. But then my readers will judge him unfairly. They will
forget that they have had a much better opportunity of looking into
the character of Miss Furnival than he had had; and they will also
forget that they have had no such opportunity of being influenced by
her personal charms. I think I remarked before that Miss Furnival
well understood how best to fight her own battle. Had she shown
herself from the first anxious to regard as a definite offer the
first words tending that way which Augustus had spoken to her,
he would at once have become indifferent about the matter. As a
consequence of her judicious conduct he was not indifferent. We
always want that which we can't get easily. Sophia had made herself
difficult to be gotten, and therefore Augustus fancied that he wanted
her. Since he had been in town he had been frequently in Harley
Street, and had been arguing with himself on the matter. What match
could be more discreet or better? Not only was she very handsome, but
she was clever also. And not only was she handsome and clever, but
moreover she was an heiress. What more could his friends want for
him, and what more could he want for himself? His mother did in truth
regard her as a nasty, sly girl; but then his mother did not know
Sophia, and in such matters mothers are so ignorant!

Miss Furnival, on his thus repeating his offer, again chose to affect
a belief that he was not in earnest. I am inclined to think that she
rather liked this kind of thing. There is an excitement in the game;
and it is one which may be played without great danger to either
party if it be played cautiously and with some skill. As regards
Augustus at the present moment, I have to say--with some regret--that
he abandoned all idea of caution, and that he showed very little
skill.

"Then," said he, "I must beg you to lay aside an affectation which is
so very injurious both to my honour and to my hopes of happiness."

"Your honour, Mr. Staveley, is quite safe, I am certain."

"I wish that my happiness were equally so," said he. "But at any rate
you will let me have an answer. Sophia--"

And now he stood up, looking at her with something really like love
in his eyes, and Miss Furnival began to understand that if she so
chose it the prize was really within her reach. But then was it a
prize? Was not the other thing the better prize? The other thing was
the better prize;--if only that affair about the Orley Farm were
settled. Augustus Staveley was a good-looking handsome fellow, but
then there was that in the manner and gait of Lucius Mason which
better suited her taste. There are ladies who prefer Worcester ware
to real china; and, moreover, the order for the Worcester ware had
already been given.

"Sophia, let a man be ever so light-hearted, there will come to him
moments of absolute and almost terrible earnestness."

"Even to you, Mr. Staveley."

"I have at any rate done nothing to deserve your scorn."

"Fie, now; you to talk of my scorn! You come here with soft words
which run easily from your tongue, feeling sure that I shall be proud
in heart when I hear them whispered into my ears; and now you pretend
to be angry because I do not show you that I am elated. Do you think
it probable that I should treat with scorn anything of this sort that
you might say to me seriously?"

"I think you are doing so."

"Have you generally found yourself treated with scorn when you have
been out on this pursuit?"

"By heavens! you have no right to speak to me so. In what way shall I
put my words to make them sound seriously to you? Do you want me to
kneel at your feet, as our grandfathers used to do?"

"Oh, certainly not. Our grandmothers were very stupid in desiring
that."

"If I put my hand on my heart will you believe me better?"

"Not in the least."

"Then through what formula shall I go?"

"Go through no formula, Mr. Staveley. In such affairs as these very
little, as I take it, depends on the words that are uttered. When
heart has spoken to heart, or even head to head, very little other
speaking is absolutely necessary."

"And my heart has not spoken to yours?"

"Well;--no;--not with that downright plain open language which a
heart in earnest always knows how to use. I suppose you think you
like me?"

"Sophia, I love you well enough to make you my wife to-morrow."

"Yes; and to be tired of your bargain on the next day. Has it ever
occurred to you that giving and taking in marriage is a very serious
thing?"

"A very serious thing; but I do not think that on that account it
should be avoided."

"No; but it seems to me that you are always inclined to play at
marriage. Do not be angry with me, but for the life of me I can never
think you are in earnest."

"But I shall be angry--very angry--if I do not get from you some
answer to what I have ventured to say."

"What, now; to-day;--this morning? If you insist upon that, the
answer can only be of one sort. If I am driven to decide this morning
on the question that you have asked me, great as the honour is--and
coming from you, Mr. Staveley, it is very great--I must decline it. I
am not able, at any rate at the present moment, to trust my happiness
altogether in your hands." When we think of the half-written letter
which at this moment Miss Furnival had within her desk, this was not
wonderful.

And then, without having said anything more that was of note,
Augustus Staveley went his way. As he walked up Harley Street, he
hardly knew whether or no he was to consider himself as bound to Miss
Furnival; nor did he feel quite sure whether or no he wished to be so
bound. She was handsome, and clever, and an heiress; but yet he was
not certain that she possessed all those womanly charms which are
desirable in a wife. He could not but reflect that she had never yet
said a soft word to him.




CHAPTER LXVII.

MR. MOULDER BACKS HIS OPINION.


As the day of the trial drew nigh, the perturbation of poor John
Kenneby's mind became very great. Moulder had not intended to
frighten him, but had thought it well to put him up to what he
believed to be the truth. No doubt he would be badgered and bullied.
"And," as Moulder said to his wife afterwards, "wasn't it better that
he should know what was in store for him?" The consequence was, that
had it been by any means possible, Kenneby would have run away on the
day before the trial.

But it was by no means possible, for Dockwrath had hardly left him
alone for an instant. Dockwrath at this time had crept into a sort of
employment in the case from which Matthew Round had striven in vain
to exclude him. Mr. Round had declared once or twice that if Mr.
Mason encouraged Dockwrath in interfering, he, Round, would throw
the matter up. But professional men cannot very well throw up their
business, and Round went on, although Dockwrath did interfere, and
although Mr. Mason did encourage him. On the eve of the trial he went
down to Alston with Kenneby and Bolster; and Mr. Moulder, at the
express instance of Kenneby, accompanied them.

"What can I do? I can't stop the fellow's gab," Moulder had said. But
Kenneby pleaded hard that some friend might be near him in the day of
his trouble, and Moulder at last consented.

"I wish it was me," Mrs. Smiley had said, when they talked the matter
over in Great St. Helens; "I'd let the barrister know what was what
when he came to knock me about." Kenneby wished it also, with all his
heart.

Mr. Mason went down by the same train, but he travelled by the first
class. Dockwrath, who was now holding his head up, would have gone
with him, had he not thought it better to remain with Kenneby. "He
might jump out of the carriage and destroy himself," he said to Mr.
Mason.

"If he had any of the feelings of an Englishman within his breast,"
said Mason, "he would be anxious to give assistance towards the
punishment of such a criminal as that."

"He has only the feelings of a tomtit," said Dockwrath.

Lodgings had been taken for the two chief witnesses together, and
Moulder and Dockwrath shared the accommodation with them. As they sat
down to tea together, these two gentlemen doubtless felt that Bridget
Bolster was not exactly fitting company for them. But the necessities
of an assize week, and of such a trial as this, level much of these
distinctions, and they were both prepared to condescend and become
affable.

"Well, Mrs. Bolster, and how do you find yourself?" asked Dockwrath.

Bridget was a solid, square-looking woman, somewhat given to flesh,
and now not very quick in her movements. But the nature of her past
life had given to her a certain amount of readiness, and an absence
of that dread of her fellow-creatures, which so terribly afflicted
poor Kenneby. And then also she was naturally not a stupid woman, or
one inclined to be muddle-headed. Perhaps it would be too much to say
that she was generally intelligent, but what she did understand, she
understood thoroughly.

"Pretty well, I thank you, Mr. Dockwrath. I sha'n't be sorry to have
a bit of something to my tea."

Bridget Bolster perfectly understood that she was to be well fed
when thus brought out for work in her country's service. To have
everything that she wanted to eat and drink at places of public
entertainment, and then to have the bills paid for her behind her
back, was to Bridget Bolster the summit of transitory human bliss.

"And you shall have something to your tea," said Dockwrath. "What's
it to be?"

"A steak's as good as anything at these places," suggested Moulder.

"Or some ham and eggs," suggested Dockwrath.

"Kidneys is nice," said Bridget.

"What do you say, Kenneby?" asked Dockwrath.

"It is nothing to me," said Kenneby; "I have no appetite. I think
I'll take a little brandy-and-water."

Mr. Moulder possessed the most commanding spirit, and the steak was
ordered. They then made themselves as comfortable as circumstances
would admit, and gradually fell into a general conversation about
the trial. It had been understood among them since they first came
together, that as a matter of etiquette the witnesses were not to
be asked what they had to say. Kenneby was not to divulge his facts
in plain language, nor Bridget Bolster those which belonged to her;
but it was open to them all to take a general view of the matter,
and natural that at the present moment they should hardly be able
to speak of anything else. And there was a very divided opinion on
the subject in dispute; Dockwrath, of course, expressing a strong
conviction in favour of a verdict of guilty, and Moulder being as
certain of an acquittal. At first Moulder had been very unwilling
to associate with Dockwrath; for he was a man who maintained his
animosities long within his breast; but Dockwrath on this occasion
was a great man, and there was some slight reflection of greatness
on the associates of Dockwrath; it was only by the assistance of
Dockwrath that a place could be obtained within the court, and, upon
the whole, it became evident to Moulder that during such a crisis as
this the society of Dockwrath must be endured.

"They can't do anything to one if one do one's best?" said Kenneby,
who was sitting apart from the table while the others were eating.

"Of course they can't," said Dockwrath, who wished to inspirit the
witnesses on his own side.

"It ain't what they do, but what they say," said Moulder; "and then
everybody is looking at you. I remember a case when I was young on
the road; it was at Nottingham. There had been some sugars delivered,
and the rats had got at it. I'm blessed if they didn't ask me
backwards and forwards so often that I forgot whether they was
seconds or thirds, though I'd sold the goods myself. And then the
lawyer said he'd have me prosecuted for perjury. Well, I was that
frightened, I could not stand in the box. I ain't so green now by a
good deal."

"I'm sure you're not, Mr. Moulder," said Bridget, who well understood
the class to which Moulder belonged.

"After that I met that lawyer in the street, and was ashamed to look
him in the face. I'm blessed if he didn't come up and shake hands
with me, and tell me that he knew all along that his client hadn't a
leg to stand on. Now I call that beautiful."

"Beautiful!" said Kenneby.

"Yes, I do. He fought that battle just as if he was sure of winning,
though he knew he was going to lose. Give me the man that can fight a
losing battle. Anybody can play whist with four by honours in his own
hands."

"I don't object to four by honours either," said Dockwrath; "and
that's the game we are going to play to-morrow."

"And lose the rubber after all," said Moulder.

"No, I'm blessed if we do, Mr. Moulder. If I know anything of my own
profession--"

"Humph!" ejaculated Moulder.

"And I shouldn't be here in such a case as this if I didn't;--but if
I do, Lady Mason has no more chance of escape than--than--than that
bit of muffin has." And as he spoke the savoury morsel in question
disappeared from the fingers of the commercial traveller.

For a moment or two Moulder could not answer him. The portion of food
in question was the last on his plate; it had been considerable in
size, and required attention in mastication. Then the remaining gravy
had to be picked up on the blade of the knife, and the particles of
pickles collected and disposed of by the same process. But when all
this had been well done, Moulder replied--

"That may be your opinion, Mr. Dockwrath, and I dare say you may know
what you're about."

"Well; I rather think I do, Mr. Moulder."

"Mine's different. Now when one gentleman thinks one thing and
another thinks another, there's nothing for it in my mind but for
each gentleman to back his own. That's about the ticket in this
country, I believe."

"That's just as a gentleman may feel disposed," said Dockwrath.

"No it ain't. What's the use of a man having an opinion if he won't
back it? He's bound to back it, or else he should give way, and
confess he ain't so sure about it as he said he was. There's no
coming to an end if you don't do that. Now there's a ten-pound note,"
and Moulder produced that amount of the root of all evil; "I'll put
that in John Kenneby's hands, and do you cover it." And then he
looked as though there were no possible escape from the proposition
which he had made.

"I decline to have anything to do with it," said Kenneby.

"Gammon," said Moulder; "two ten-pound notes won't burn a hole in
your pocket."

"Suppose I should be asked a question about it to-morrow; where
should I be then?"

"Don't trouble yourself, Mr. Kenneby," said Dockwrath; "I'm not going
to bet."

"You ain't, ain't you?" said Moulder.

"Certainly not, Mr. Moulder. If you understood professional matters
a little better, you'd know that a professional gentleman couldn't
make a bet as to a case partly in his own hands without very great
impropriety." And Dockwrath gathered himself up, endeavouring to
impress a sense of his importance on the two witnesses, even should
he fail of doing so upon Mr. Moulder.

Moulder repocketed his ten-pound note, and laughed with a long, low
chuckle. According to his idea of things, he had altogether got the
better of the attorney upon that subject. As he himself put it so
plainly, what criterion is there by which a man can test the validity
of his own opinion if he be not willing to support it by a bet? A man
is bound to do so, or else to give way and apologise. For many years
he had insisted upon this in commercial rooms as a fundamental law in
the character and conduct of gentlemen, and never yet had anything
been said to him to show that in such a theory he was mistaken.

During all this Bridget Bolster sat there much delighted. It was not
necessary to her pleasure that she should say much herself. There she
was seated in the society of gentlemen and of men of the world, with
a cup of tea beside her, and the expectation of a little drop of
something warm afterwards. What more could the world offer to her, or
what more had the world to offer to anybody? As far as her feelings
went she did not care if Lady Mason were tried every month in the
year! Not that her feelings towards Lady Mason were cruel. It was
nothing to her whether Lady Mason should be convicted or acquitted.
But it was much to her to sit quietly on her chair and have nothing
to do, to eat and drink of the best, and be made much of; and it was
very much to her to hear the conversation of her betters.

On the following morning Dockwrath breakfasted by appointment with
Mr. Mason,--promising, however, that he would return to his friends
whom he left behind him, and introduce them into the court in proper
time. As I have before hinted, Mr. Mason's confidence in Dockwrath
had gone on increasing day by day since they had first met each other
at Groby Park, till he now wished that he had altogether taken the
advice of the Hamworth attorney and put this matter entirely into
his hands. By degrees Joseph Mason had learned to understand and
thoroughly to appreciate the strong points in his own case; and
now he was so fully convinced of the truth of those surmises which
Dockwrath had been the first to make, that no amount of contrary
evidence could have shaken him. And why had not Round and Crook
found this out when the matter was before investigated? Why had they
prevented him from appealing to the Lord Chancellor when, through
their own carelessness, the matter had gone against him in the
inferior court? And why did they now, even in these latter days,
when they were driven to reopen the case by the clearness of the
evidence submitted to them,--why did they even now wound his ears,
irritate his temper, and oppose the warmest feelings of his heart by
expressing pity for this wicked criminal, whom it was their bounden
duty to prosecute to the very utmost? Was it not by their fault that
Orley Farm had been lost to him for the last twenty years? And yet
young Round had told him, with the utmost composure, that it would
be useless for him to look for any of those moneys which should have
accrued to him during all those years! After what had passed, young
Round should have been anxious to grind Lucius Mason into powder, and
make money of his very bones! Must he not think, when he considered
all these things, that Round and Crook had been wilfully dishonest
to him, and that their interest had been on the side of Lady Mason?
He did so think at last, under the beneficent tutelage of his new
adviser, and had it been possible would have taken the case out of
the hands of Round and Crook even during the week before the trial.

"We mustn't do it now," Dockwrath had said, in his triumph. "If we
did, the whole thing would be delayed. But they shall be so watched
that they shall not be able to throw the thing over. I've got them in
a vice, Mr. Mason; and I'll hold them so tight that they must convict
her whether they will or no."

And the nature and extent of Mr. Dockwrath's reward had been already
settled. When Lucius Mason should be expelled from Orley Farm with
ignominy, he, Dockwrath, should become the tenant. The very rent was
settled with the understanding that it should be remitted for the
first year. It would be pleasant to him to have back his two fields
in this way;--his two fields, and something else beyond! It may be
remembered that Lucius Mason had once gone to his office insulting
him. It would now be his turn to visit Lucius Mason at his domicile.
He was disposed to think that such visit would be made by him with
more effect than had attended that other.

"Well, sir, we're all right," he said, as he shook hands with Mr.
Mason of Groby; "there's no screw loose that I can find."

"And will that man be able to speak?" Mr. Mason was alluding to John
Kenneby.

"I think he will, as corroborating the woman Bolster. That's all we
shall want. We shall put up the woman first; that is, after I have
done. I don't think they'll make much of her, Mr. Mason."

"They can't make her say that she signed two deeds if she is willing
to tell the truth. There's no danger, you think, that she's been
tampered with,--that she has taken money."

"No, no; there's been nothing of that."

"They'd do anything, you know," said Mr. Mason. "Think of such a man
as Solomon Aram! He's been used to it all his life, you know."

"They could not do it, Mr. Mason; I've been too sharp on them. And
I tell you what,--they know it now. There isn't one of them that
doesn't know we shall get a verdict." And then for a few minutes
there was silence between the two friends.

"I'll tell you what, Dockwrath," said Mr. Mason, after a while; "I've
so set my heart upon this--upon getting justice at last--that I do
think it would kill me if I were to be beaten. I do, indeed. I've
known this, you know, all my life; and think what I've felt! For
twenty-two years, Dockwrath! By ----! in all that I have read I don't
think I ever heard of such a hardship! That she should have robbed
me for two-and-twenty years!--And now they say that she will be
imprisoned for twelve months!"

"She'll get more than that, Mr. Mason."

"I know what would have been done to her thirty years ago, when
the country was in earnest about such matters. What did they do to
Fauntleroy?"

"Things are changed since then, ain't they?" said Dockwrath, with
a laugh. And then he went to look up his flock, and take them into
court. "I'll meet you in the hall, Mr. Mason, in twenty minutes from
this time."

And so the play was beginning on each side.




CHAPTER LXVIII.

THE FIRST DAY OF THE TRIAL.


And now the judge was there on the bench, the barristers and the
attorneys were collected, the prisoner was seated in their presence,
and the trial was begun. As is usual in cases of much public moment,
when a person of mark is put upon his purgation, or the offence is
one which has attracted notice, a considerable amount of time was
spent in preliminaries. But we, who are not bound by the necessities
under which the court laboured, will pass over these somewhat
rapidly. The prisoner was arraigned on the charge of perjury, and
pleaded "not guilty" in a voice which, though low, was audible to all
the court. At that moment the hum of voices had stayed itself, and
the two small words, spoken in a clear, silver tone, reached the ears
of all that then were there assembled. Some had surmised it to be
possible that she would at the last moment plead guilty, but such
persons had not known Lady Mason. And then by slow degrees a jury was
sworn, a considerable number of jurors having been set aside at the
instance of Lady Mason's counsel. Mr. Aram had learned to what part
of the county each man belonged, and upon his instructions those who
came from the neighbourhood of Hamworth were passed over.

The comparative lightness of the offence divested the commencement
of the trial of much of that importance and apparent dignity which
attach themselves to most celebrated criminal cases. The prisoner was
not bidden to look upon the juror, nor the juror to look upon the
prisoner, as though a battle for life and death were to be fought
between them. A true bill of perjury had come down to the court from
the grand jury, but the court officials could not bring themselves
on such an occasion to open the case with all that solemnity and
deference to the prisoner which they would have exhibited had she
been charged with murdering her old husband. Nor was it even the same
as though she had been accused of forgery. Though forgery be not now
a capital crime, it was so within our memories, and there is still
a certain grandeur in the name. But perjury sounds small and petty,
and it was not therefore till the trial had advanced a stage or two
that it assumed that importance which it afterwards never lost. That
this should be so cut Mr. Mason of Groby to the very soul. Even Mr.
Dockwrath had been unable to make him understand that his chance
of regaining the property was under the present circumstances much
greater than it would have been had Lady Mason been arraigned for
forgery. He would not believe that the act of forgery might possibly
not have been proved. Could she have been first whipped through the
street for the misdemeanour, and then hung for the felony, his spirit
would not have been more than sufficiently appeased.

The case was opened by one Mr. Steelyard, the junior counsel for
the prosecution; but his work on this occasion was hardly more than
formal. He merely stated the nature of the accusation against Lady
Mason, and the issue which the jury were called upon to try. Then got
up Sir Richard Leatherham, the solicitor-general, and at great length
and with wonderful perspicuity explained all the circumstances of
the case, beginning with the undoubted will left by Sir Joseph Mason,
the will independently of the codicil, and coming down gradually to
the discovery of that document in Mr. Dockwrath's office, which led
to the surmise that the signature of those two witnesses had been
obtained, not to a codicil to a will, but to a deed of another
character. In doing this Sir Richard did not seem to lean very
heavily upon Lady Mason, nor did he say much as to the wrongs
suffered by Mr. Mason of Groby. When he alluded to Mr. Dockwrath and
his part in these transactions, he paid no compliment to the Hamworth
attorney; but in referring to his learned friend on the other side
he protested his conviction that the defence of Lady Mason would be
conducted not only with zeal, but in that spirit of justice and truth
for which the gentlemen opposite to him were so conspicuous in their
profession. All this was wormwood to Joseph Mason; but nevertheless,
though Sir Richard was so moderate as to his own side, and so
courteous to that opposed to him, he made it very clear before he sat
down that if those witnesses were prepared to swear that which he was
instructed they would swear, either they must be utterly unworthy of
credit--a fact which his learned friends opposite were as able to
elicit as any gentlemen who had ever graced the English bar--or else
the prisoner now on her trial must have been guilty of the crime of
perjury now imputed to her.

Of all those in court now attending to the proceedings, none listened
with greater care to the statement made by Sir Richard than Joseph
Mason, Lady Mason herself, and Felix Graham. To Joseph Mason it
appeared that his counsel was betraying him. Sir Richard and Round
were in a boat together and were determined to throw him over
yet once again. Had it been possible he would have stopped the
proceedings, and in this spirit he spoke to Dockwrath. To Joseph
Mason it would have seemed right that Sir Richard should begin by
holding up Lady Mason to the scorn and indignation of the twelve
honest jurymen before him. Mr. Dockwrath, whose intelligence was
keener in such matters, endeavoured to make his patron understand
that he was wrong; but in this he did not succeed. "If he lets her
escape me," said Mason, "I think it will be the death of me."

To Lady Mason it appeared as though the man who was now showing to
all the crowd there assembled the chief scenes of her past life, had
been present and seen everything that she had ever done. He told the
jury of all who had been present in the room when that true deed had
been signed; he described how old Usbech had sat there incapable of
action; how that affair of the partnership had been brought to a
close; how those two witnesses had thereupon appended their name to a
deed; how those witnesses had been deceived, or partially deceived,
as to their own signatures when called upon to give their testimony
at a former trial; and he told them also that a comparison of
the signatures on the codicil with those signatures which were
undoubtedly true would lead an expert and professional judge of
writing to tell them that the one set of signatures or the other must
be forgeries. Then he went on to describe how the pretended codicil
must in truth have been executed--speaking of the solitary room in
which the bad work had been done, of the midnight care and terrible
solicitude for secrecy. And then, with apparent mercy, he attempted
to mitigate the iniquity of the deed by telling the jury that it had
not been done by that lady with any view to self-aggrandisement, but
had been brought about by a lamentable, infatuated, mad idea that she
might in this way do that justice to her child which that child's
father had refused to do at her instance. He also, when he told of
this, spoke of Rebekah and her son; and Mrs. Orme when she heard him
did not dare to raise her eyes from the table. Lucius Mason, when he
had listened to this, lifted his clenched hand on high, and brought
it down with loud violence on the raised desk in front of him. "I
know the merits of that young man," said Sir Richard, looking at
him; "I am told that he is a gentleman, good, industrious, and high
spirited. I wish he were not here; I wish with all my heart he were
not here." And then a tear, an absolute and true drop of briny
moisture, stood in the eye of that old experienced lawyer. Lucius,
when he heard this, for a moment covered his face. It was but for a
moment, and then he looked up again, turning his eyes slowly round
the entire court, and as he did so grasping his mother by the arm.
"He'll look in a different sort of fashion by to-morrow evening, I
guess," said Dockwrath into his neighbour's ear. During all this time
no change came over Lady Mason's face. When she felt her son's hand
upon her arm her muscles had moved involuntarily; but she recovered
herself at the moment, and then went on enduring it all with absolute
composure. Nevertheless it seemed to her as though that man who stood
before her, telling his tale so calmly, had read the secrets of her
very soul. What chance could there be for her when everything was
thus known?

To every word that was spoken Felix Graham gave all his mind. While
Mr. Chaffanbrass sat fidgeting, or reading, or dreaming, caring
nothing for all that his learned brother might say, Graham listened
to every fact that was stated, and to every surmise that was
propounded. To him the absolute truth in this affair was matter of
great moment, but yet he felt that he dreaded to know the truth.
Would it not be better for him that he should not know it? But yet he
listened, and his active mind, intent on the various points as they
were evolved, would not restrain itself from forming opinions. With
all his ears he listened, and as he did so Mr. Chaffanbrass, amidst
his dreaming, reading, and fidgeting, kept an attentive eye upon him.
To him it was a matter of course that Lady Mason should be guilty.
Had she not been guilty, he, Mr. Chaffanbrass, would not have been
required. Mr. Chaffanbrass well understood that the defence of
injured innocence was no part of his mission.

Then at last Sir Richard Leatherham brought to a close his long tale,
and the examination of the witnesses was commenced. By this time
it was past two o'clock, and the judge went out of court for a few
minutes to refresh himself with a glass of wine and a sandwich. And
now young Peregrine Orme, in spite of all obstacles, made his way up
to his mother and led her also out of court. He took his mother's
arm, and Lady Mason followed with her son, and so they made their way
into the small outer room which they had first entered. Not a word
was said between them on the subject which was filling the minds of
all of them. Lucius stood silent and absorbed while Peregrine offered
refreshment to both the ladies. Lady Mason, doing as she was bid,
essayed to eat and to drink. What was it to her whether she ate and
drank or was a-hungered? To maintain by her demeanour the idea in
men's minds that she might still possibly be innocent--that was her
work. And therefore, in order that those two young men might still
think so, she ate and drank as she was bidden.

On their return to court Mr. Steelyard got up to examine Dockwrath,
who was put into the box as the first witness. The attorney produced
certain documents supposed to be of relevancy, which he had found
among his father-in-law's papers, and then described how he had found
that special document which gave him to understand that Bolster and
Kenneby had been used as witnesses to a certain signature on that
14th of July. He had known all the circumstances of the old trial,
and hence his suspicions had been aroused. Acting upon this he had
gone immediately down to Mr. Mason in Yorkshire, and the present
trial was the result of his care and intelligence. This was in effect
the purport of his direct evidence, and then he was handed over to
the tender mercies of the other side.

On the other side Mr. Chaffanbrass rose to begin the battle. Mr.
Furnival had already been engaged in sundry of those preliminary
skirmishes which had been found necessary before the fight had been
commenced in earnest, and therefore the turn had now come for Mr.
Chaffanbrass. All this, however, had been arranged beforehand, and
it had been agreed that if possible Dockwrath should be made to fall
into the clutches of the Old Bailey barrister. It was pretty to see
the meek way in which Mr. Chaffanbrass rose to his work; how gently
he smiled, how he fidgeted about a few of the papers as though he
were not at first quite master of his situation, and how he arranged
his old wig in a modest, becoming manner, bringing it well forward
over his forehead. His voice also was low and soft;--so low that
it was hardly heard through the whole court, and persons who had
come far to listen to him began to feel themselves disappointed.
And it was pretty also to see how Dockwrath armed himself for the
encounter,--how he sharpened his teeth, as it were, and felt the
points of his own claws. The little devices of Mr. Chaffanbrass did
not deceive him. He knew what he had to expect; but his pluck was
good, as is the pluck of a terrier when a mastiff prepares to attack
him. Let Mr. Chaffanbrass do his worst; that would all be over in an
hour or so. But when Mr. Chaffanbrass had done his worst, Orley Farm
would still remain.

"I believe you were a tenant of Lady Mason's at one time, Mr.
Dockwrath?" asked the barrister.

"I was; and she turned me out. If you will allow me I will tell
you how all that happened, and how I was angered by the usage I
received." Mr. Dockwrath was determined to make a clean breast of it,
and rather go before his tormentor in telling all that there was to
be told, than lag behind as an unwilling witness.

"Do," said Mr. Chaffanbrass. "That will be very kind of you. When I
have learned all that, and one other little circumstance of the same
nature, I do not think I shall want to trouble you any more." And
then Mr. Dockwrath did tell it all;--how he had lost the two fields,
how he had thus become very angry, how this anger had induced him at
once to do that which he had long thought of doing,--search, namely,
among the papers of old Mr. Usbech, with the view of ascertaining
what might be the real truth as regarded that doubtful codicil.

"And you found what you searched for, Mr. Dockwrath?"

"I did," said Dockwrath.

"Without very much delay, apparently?"

"I was two or three days over the work."

"But you found exactly what you wanted?"

"I found what I expected to find."

"And that, although all those papers had been subjected to the
scrutiny of Messrs. Round and Crook at the time of that other trial
twenty years ago?"

"I was sharper than them, Mr. Chaffanbrass,--a deal sharper."

"So I perceive," said Chaffanbrass, and now he had pushed back his
wig a little, and his eyes had begun to glare with an ugly red light.
"Yes," he said, "it will be long, I think, before my old friends
Round and Crook are as sharp as you are, Mr. Dockwrath."

"Upon my word I agree with you, Mr. Chaffanbrass."

"Yes; Round and Crook are babies to you, Mr. Dockwrath;" and now Mr.
Chaffanbrass began to pick at his chin with his finger, as he was
accustomed to do when he warmed to his subject. "Babies to you! You
have had a good deal to do with them, I should say, in getting up
this case."

"I have had something to do with them."

"And very much they must have enjoyed your society, Mr. Dockwrath!
And what wrinkles they must have learned from you! What a pleasant
oasis it must have been in the generally somewhat dull course of
their monotonous though profitable business! I quite envy Round and
Crook having you alongside of them in their inner council-chamber."

"I know nothing about that, sir."

"No; I dare say you don't;--but they'll remember it. Well, when you'd
turned over your father-in-law's papers for three days you found what
you looked for?"

"Yes, I did."

"You had been tolerably sure that you would find it before you began,
eh?"

"Well, I had expected that something would turn up."

"I have no doubt you did,--and something has turned up. That
gentleman sitting next to you there,--who is he?"

"Joseph Mason, Esquire, of Groby Park," said Dockwrath.

"So I thought. It is he that is to have Orley Farm, if Lady Mason and
her son should lose it?"

"In that case he would be the heir."

"Exactly. He would be the heir. How pleasant it must be to you to
find yourself on such affectionate terms with--the heir! And when
he comes into his inheritance, who is to be tenant? Can you tell us
that?"

Dockwrath here paused for a moment. Not that he hesitated as to
telling the whole truth. He had fully made up his mind to do so,
and to brazen the matter out, declaring that of course he was to be
considered worthy of his reward. But there was that in the manner and
eye of Chaffanbrass which stopped him for a moment, and his enemy
immediately took advantage of this hesitation. "Come sir," said he,
"out with it. If I don't get it from you, I shall from somebody else.
You've been very plain-spoken hitherto. Don't let the jury think that
your heart is failing you at last."

"There is no reason why my heart should fail me," said Dockwrath, in
an angry tone.

"Is there not? I must differ from you there, Mr. Dockwrath. The heart
of any man placed in such a position as that you now hold must, I
think, fail him. But never mind that. Who is to be the tenant of
Orley Farm when my client has been deprived of it?"

"I am."

"Just so. You were turned out from those two fields when young Mason
came home from Germany?"

"I was."

"You immediately went to work and discovered this document?"

"I did."

"You put up Joseph Mason to this trial?"

"I told him my opinion."

"Exactly. And if the result be successful, you are to be put in
possession of the land."

"I shall become Mr. Mason's tenant at Orley Farm."

"Yes, you will become Mr. Mason's tenant at Orley Farm. Upon my word,
Mr. Dockwrath, you have made my work to-day uncommonly easy for
me,--uncommonly easy. I don't know that I have anything else to ask
you." And then Mr. Chaffanbrass, as he sat down, looked up to the
jury with an expression of countenance which was in itself worth any
fee that could be paid to him for that day's work. His face spoke as
plain as a face could speak, and what his face said was this: "After
that, gentlemen of the jury, very little more can be necessary. You
now see the motives of our opponents, and the way in which those
motives have been allowed to act. We, who are altogether upon the
square in what we are doing, desire nothing more than that." All
which Mr. Chaffanbrass said by his look, his shrug, and his gesture,
much more eloquently than he could have done by the use of any words.

Mr. Dockwrath, as he left the box and went back to his seat--in
doing which he had to cross the table in the middle of the
court--endeavoured to look and move as though all were right with
him. He knew that the eyes of the court were on him, and especially
the eyes of the judge and jury. He knew also how men's minds are
unconsciously swayed by small appearances. He endeavoured therefore
to seem indifferent; but in doing so he swaggered, and was conscious
that he swaggered; and he felt as he gained his seat that Mr.
Chaffanbrass had been too much for him.

Then one Mr. Torrington from London was examined by Sir Richard
Leatherham, and he proved, apparently beyond all doubt, that a
certain deed which he produced was genuine. That deed bore the same
date as the codicil which was now questioned, had been executed at
Orley Farm by old Sir Joseph, and bore the signatures of John Kenneby
and Bridget Bolster as witnesses. Sir Richard, holding the deeds in
his hands, explained to the jury that he did not at the present stage
of the proceedings ask them to take it as proved that those names
were the true signatures of the two persons indicated. ("I should
think not," said Mr. Furnival, in a loud voice.) But he asked them to
satisfy themselves that the document as now existing purported to
bear those two signatures. It would be for them to judge, when the
evidence brought before them should be complete, whether or no that
deed were a true document. And then the deed was handed up into the
jury-box, and the twelve jurymen all examined it. The statement made
by this Mr. Torrington was very simple. It had become his business
to know the circumstances of the late partnership between Mason and
Martock, and these circumstances he explained. Then Sir Richard
handed him over to be cross-examined.

It was now Graham's turn to begin his work; but as he rose to do so
his mind misgave him. Not a syllable that this Torrington had said
appeared to him to be unworthy of belief. The man had not uttered a
word, of the truth of which Graham did not feel himself positively
assured; and, more than that,--the man had clearly told all that was
within him to tell, all that it was well that the jury should hear
in order that they might thereby be assisted in coming to a true
decision. It had been hinted in his hearing, both by Chaffanbrass and
Aram, that this man was probably in league with Dockwrath, and Aram
had declared with a sneer that he was a puzzle-pated old fellow. He
might be puzzle-pated, and had already shown that he was bashful and
unhappy in his present position; but he had shown also, as Graham
thought, that he was anxious to tell the truth.

And, moreover, Graham had listened with all his mind to the
cross-examination of Dockwrath, and he was filled with disgust--with
disgust, not so much at the part played by the attorney as at that
played by the barrister. As Graham regarded the matter, what had the
iniquities and greed of Dockwrath to do with it? Had reason been
shown why the statement made by Dockwrath was in itself unworthy of
belief,--that that statement was in its own essence weak,--then the
character of the man making it might fairly affect its credibility.
But presuming that statement to be wrong,--presuming that it was
corroborated by other evidence, how could it be affected by any
amount of villainy on the part of Dockwrath? All that Chaffanbrass
had done or attempted was to prove that Dockwrath had had his own
end to serve. Who had ever doubted it? But not a word had been said,
not a spark of evidence elicited, to show that the man had used a
falsehood to further those views of his. Of all this the mind of
Felix Graham had been full; and now, as he rose to take his own share
of the work, his wit was at work rather in opposition to Lady Mason
than on her behalf.

This Torrington was a little old man, and Graham had watched how his
hands had trembled when Sir Richard first addressed him. But Sir
Richard had been very kind,--as was natural to his own witness, and
the old man had gradually regained his courage. But now as he turned
his face round to the side where he knew that he might expect to
find an enemy, that tremor again came upon him, and the stick which
he held in his hand was heard as it tapped gently against the side
of the witness-box. Graham, as he rose to his work, saw that Mr.
Chaffanbrass had fixed his eye upon him, and his courage rose the
higher within him as he felt the gaze of the man whom he so much
disliked. Was it within the compass of his heart to bully an old man
because such a one as Chaffanbrass desired it of him? By heaven, no!

He first asked Mr. Torrington his age, and having been told that he
was over seventy, Graham went on to assure him that nothing which
could be avoided should be said to disturb his comfort. "And now, Mr.
Torrington," he asked, "will you tell me whether you are a friend of
Mr. Dockwrath's, or have had any acquaintance with him previous to
the affairs of this trial?" This question he repeated in various
forms, but always in a mild voice, and without the appearance of any
disbelief in the answers which were given to him. All these questions
Torrington answered by a plain negative. He had never seen Dockwrath
till the attorney had come to him on the matter of that partnership
deed. He had never eaten or drunk with him, nor had there ever been
between them any conversation of a confidential nature. "That will
do, Mr. Torrington," said Graham; and as he sat down, he again turned
round and looked Mr. Chaffanbrass full in the face.

After that nothing further of interest was done that day. A few
unimportant witnesses were examined on legal points, and then the
court was adjourned.




CHAPTER LXIX.

THE TWO JUDGES.


Felix Graham as he left the Alston court-house on the close of the
first day of the trial was not in a happy state of mind. He did not
actually accuse himself of having omitted any duty which he owed to
his client; but he did accuse himself of having undertaken a duty for
which he felt himself to be manifestly unfit. Would it not have been
better, as he said to himself, for that poor lady to have had any
other possible advocate than himself? Then as he passed out in the
company of Mr. Furnival and Mr. Chaffanbrass, the latter looked at
him with a scorn which he did not know how to return. In his heart he
could do so; and should words be spoken between them on the subject,
he would be well able and willing enough to defend himself. But had
he attempted to bandy looks with Mr. Chaffanbrass, it would have
seemed even to himself that he was proclaiming his resolution to put
himself in opposition to his colleagues.

He felt as though he were engaged to fight a battle in which truth
and justice, nay heaven itself must be against him. How can a man
put his heart to the proof of an assertion in the truth of which he
himself has no belief? That though guilty this lady should be treated
with the utmost mercy compatible with the law;--for so much, had her
guilt stood forward as acknowledged, he could have pleaded with all
the eloquence that was in him. He could still pity her, sympathise
with her, fight for her on such ground as that; but was it possible
that he, believing her to be false, should stand up before the crowd
assembled in that court, and use such intellect as God had given him
in making others think that the false and the guilty one was true and
innocent, and that those accusers were false and guilty whom he knew
to be true and innocent?

It had been arranged that Baron Maltby should stay that night at
Noningsby. The brother-judges therefore occupied the Noningsby
carriage together, and Graham was driven back in a dog-cart by
Augustus Staveley.

"Well, old boy," said Augustus, "you did not soil your conscience
much by bullying that fellow."

"No, I did not," said Graham; and then he was silent.

"Chaffanbrass made an uncommonly ugly show of the Hamworth attorney,"
said Augustus, after a pause; but to this Graham at first made no
answer.

"If I were on the jury," continued the other, "I would not believe a
single word that came from that fellow's mouth, unless it were fully
supported by other testimony. Nor will the jury believe him."

"I tell you what, Staveley," said Graham, "you will oblige me greatly
in this matter if you will not speak to me of the trial till it is
over."

"I beg your pardon."

"No; don't do that. Nothing can be more natural than that you and
I should discuss it together in all its bearings. But there are
reasons, which I will explain to you afterwards, why I would rather
not do so."

"All right," said Augustus. "I'll not say another word."

"And for my part, I will get through the work as well as I may." And
then they both sat silent in the gig till they came to the corner of
Noningsby wall.

"And is that other subject tabooed also?" said Augustus.

"What other subject?"

"That as to which we said something when you were last
here,--touching my sister Madeline."

Graham felt that his face was on fire, but he did not know how to
answer. "In that it is for you to decide whether or no there should
be silence between us," he said at last.

"I certainly do not wish that there should be any secret between us,"
said Augustus.

"Then there shall be none. It is my intention to make an offer to
her before I leave Noningsby. I can assure you for your satisfaction,
that my hopes do not run very high."

"For my satisfaction, Felix! I don't know why you should suppose me
to be anxious that you should fail." And as he so spoke he stopped
his horse at the hall-door, and there was no time for further speech.

"Papa has been home a quarter of an hour," said Madeline, meeting
them in the hall.

"Yes, he had the pull of us by having his carriage ready," said her
brother. "We had to wait for the ostler."

"He says that if you are not ready in ten minutes he will go to
dinner without you. Mamma and I are dressed." And as she spoke she
turned round with a smile to Felix, making him feel that both she and
her father were treating him as though he were one of the family.

"Ten minutes will be quite enough for me," said he.

"If the governor only would sit down," said Augustus, "it would be
all right. But that's just what he won't do. Mad, do send somebody to
help me to unpack." And then they all bustled away, so that the pair
of judges might not be kept waiting for their food.

Felix Graham hurried up stairs, three steps at a time, as though all
his future success at Noningsby depended on his being down in the
drawing-room within the period of minutes stipulated by the judge.
As he dressed himself with the utmost rapidity, thinking perhaps not
so much as he should have done of his appearance in the eyes of his
lady-love, he endeavoured to come to some resolve as to the task
which was before him. How was he to find an opportunity of speaking
his mind to Madeline, if, during the short period of his sojourn at
Noningsby, he left the house every morning directly after breakfast,
and returned to it in the evening only just in time for dinner?

When he entered the drawing-room both the judges were there, as was
also Lady Staveley and Madeline. Augustus alone was wanting. "Ring
the bell, Graham," the judge said, as Felix took his place on the
corner of the rug. "Augustus will be down about supper-time." And
then the bell was rung and the dinner ordered.

"Papa ought to remember," said Madeline, "that he got his carriage
first at Alston."

"I heard the wheels of the gig," said the judge. "They were just two
minutes after us."

"I don't think Augustus takes longer than other young men," said Lady
Staveley.

"Look at Graham there. He can't be supposed to have the use of all
his limbs, for he broke half a dozen of them a month ago; and yet
he's ready. Brother Maltby, give your arm to Lady Staveley. Graham,
if you'll take Madeline, I'll follow alone." He did not call her Miss
Staveley, as Felix specially remarked, and so remarking, pressed the
little hand somewhat closer to his side. It was the first sign of
love he had ever given her, and he feared that some mark of anger
might follow it. There was no return to his pressure;--not the
slightest answer was made with those sweet finger points; but there
was no anger. "Is your arm quite strong again?" she asked him as they
sat down, as soon as the judge's short grace had been uttered.

"Fifteen minutes to the second," said Augustus, bustling into the
room, "and I think that an unfair advantage has been taken of me. But
what can a juvenile barrister expect in the presence of two judges?"
And then the dinner went on, and a very pleasant little dinner-party
it was.

Not a word was said, either then or during the evening, or on the
following morning, on that subject which was engrossing so much of
the mind of all of them. Not a word was spoken as to that trial which
was now pending, nor was the name of Lady Mason mentioned. It was
understood even by Madeline that no allusion could with propriety be
made to it in the presence of the judge before whom the cause was now
pending, and the ground was considered too sacred for feet to tread
upon it. Were it not that this feeling is so general an English judge
and English counsellors would almost be forced to subject themselves
in such cases to the close custody which jurymen are called upon to
endure. But, as a rule, good taste and good feeling are as potent as
locks and walls.

"Do you know, Mr. Graham," said Madeline, in that sort of whisper
which a dinner-table allows, "that Mrs. Baker says you have cut her
since you got well."

"I! I cut one of my very best friends! How can she say anything so
untrue? If I knew where she lived I'd go and pay her a visit after
dinner."

"I don't think you need do that,--though she has a very snug little
room of her own. You were in it on Christmas-day when we had the
snapdragon,--when you and Marion carried away the dishes."

"I remember. And she is base enough to say that I have cut her? I did
see her for a moment yesterday, and then I spoke to her."

"Ah, but you should have had a long chat with her. She expects you
to go back over all the old ground, how you were brought in helpless,
how the doctor came to you, and how you took all the messes she
prepared for you like a good boy. I'm afraid, Mr. Graham, you don't
understand old women."

"Nor young ones either," it was on his tongue to say, but he did not
say it.

"When I was a young man," said the baron, carrying on some
conversation which had been general at the table, "I never had an
opportunity of breaking my ribs out hunting."

"Perhaps if you had," said Augustus, "you might have used it with
more effect than my friend here, and have deprived the age of one
of its brightest lights, and the bench of one of its most splendid
ornaments."

"Hear, hear, hear!" said his father.

"Augustus is coming out in a new character," said his mother.

"I am heartily obliged to him," said the baron. "But, as I was saying
before, these sort of things never came in my way. If I remember
right, my father would have thought I was mad had I talked of going
out hunting. Did you hunt, Staveley?"

When the ladies were gone the four lawyers talked about law, though
they kept quite clear of that special trial which was going on at
Alston. Judge Staveley, as we know, had been at the Birmingham
congress; but not so his brother the baron. Baron Maltby, indeed,
thought but little of the Birmingham doings, and was inclined to be a
little hard upon his brother in that he had taken a part in it.

"I think that the matter is one open to discussion," said the host.

"Well, I hope so," said Graham. "At any rate I have heard no
arguments which ought to make us feel that our mouths are closed."

"Arguments on such a matter are worth nothing at all," said the
baron. "A man with what is called a logical turn of mind may prove
anything or disprove anything; but he never convinces anybody. On any
matter that is near to a man's heart, he is convinced by the tenour
of his own thoughts as he goes on living, not by the arguments of a
logician, or even by the eloquence of an orator. Talkers are apt to
think that if their listener cannot answer them they are bound to
give way; but non-talkers generally take a very different view of the
subject."

"But does that go to show that a question should not be ventilated?"
asked Felix.

"I don't mean to be uncivil," said the baron, "but of all words in
the language there is none which I dislike so much as that word
ventilation. A man given to ventilating subjects is worse than a man
who has a mission."

"Bores of that sort, however," said Graham, "will show themselves
from time to time and are not easily put down. Some one will have a
mission to reform our courts of law, and will do it too."

"I only hope it may not be in my time," said the baron.

"I can't go quite so far as that," said the other judge. "But no
doubt we all have the same feeling more or less. I know pretty well
what my friend Graham is driving at."

"And in your heart you agree with me," said Graham.

"If you would carry men's heads with you they would do you more good
than their hearts," said the judge. And then as the wine bottles
were stationary, the subject was cut short and they went into the
drawing-room.

Graham had no opportunity that evening of telling his tale to
Madeline Staveley. The party was too large for such tale-telling or
else not large enough. And then the evening in the drawing-room was
over before it had seemed to begin; and while he was yet hoping that
there might be some turn in his favour, Lady Staveley wished him
good-night, and Madeline of course did the same. As he again pressed
her hand he could not but think how little he had said to her since
he had been in the house, and yet it seemed to him as though that
little had made him more intimate with her than he had ever found
himself before. He had made an attempt to separate himself from
the company by proposing to go and call on Mrs. Baker in her own
quarters; but Madeline had declared it to be too late for such an
expedition, explaining that when Mrs. Baker had no patient on hand
she was accustomed to go early to her bed. In the present instance,
however, she had been wrong, for when Felix reached the door of his
own room, Mrs. Baker was coming out of it.

"I was just looking if everything was right," said she. "It seems
natural to me to come and look after you, you know."

"And it is quite as natural to me to be looked after."

"Is it though? But the worst of you gentlemen when you get well is
that one has done with you. You go away, and then there's no more
about it. I always begrudge to see you get well for that reason."

"When you have a man in your power you like to keep him there."

"That's always the way with the women you know. I hope we shall see
one of them tying you by the leg altogether before long."

"I don't know anything about that," said Felix, sheepishly.

"Don't you? Well, if you don't I suppose nobody don't. But
nevertheless I did hear a little bird say--eh! Mr. Graham."

"Those little birds are the biggest liars in the world."

"Are they now? Well perhaps they are. And how do you think our Miss
Madeline is looking? She wasn't just well for one short time after
you went away."

"Has she been ill?"

"Well, not ill; not so that she came into my hands. She's looking
herself again now, isn't she?"

"She is looking, as she always does, uncommonly well."

"Do you remember how she used to come and say a word to you standing
at the door? Dear heart! I'll be bound now I care more for her than
you do."

"Do you?" said Graham.

"Of course I do. And then how angry her ladyship was with me,--as
though it were my fault. I didn't do it. Did I, Mr. Graham? But,
Lord love you, what's the use of being angry? My lady ought to have
remembered her own young days, for it was just the same thing with
her. She had her own way, and so will Miss Madeline." And then with
some further inquiries as to his fire, his towels, and his sheets,
Mrs. Baker took herself off.

Felix Graham had felt a repugnance to taking the gossiping old woman
openly into his confidence, and yet he had almost asked her whether
he might in truth count upon Madeline's love. Such at any rate had
been the tenour of his gossiping; but nevertheless he was by no means
certified. He had the judge's assurance in allowing him to be there;
he had the assurance given to him by Augustus in the few words spoken
to him at the door that evening; and he ought to have known that he
had received sufficient assurance from Madeline herself. But in truth
he knew nothing of the kind. There are men who are much too forward
in believing that they are regarded with favour; but there are others
of whom it may be said that they are as much too backward. The world
hears most of the former, and talks of them the most, but I doubt
whether the latter are not the more numerous.

The next morning of course there was a hurry and fuss at breakfast in
order that they might get off in time for the courts. The judges were
to take their seats at ten, and therefore it was necessary that they
should sit down to breakfast some time before nine. The achievement
does not seem to be one of great difficulty, but nevertheless it left
no time for lovemaking.

But for one instant Felix was able to catch Madeline alone in the
breakfast-parlour. "Miss Staveley," said he, "will it be possible
that I should speak to you alone this evening;--for five minutes?"

"Speak to me alone?" she said, repeating his words; and as she did
so she was conscious that her whole face had become suffused with
colour.

"Is it too much to ask?"

"Oh, no!"

"Then if I leave the dining-room soon after you have done so--"

"Mamma will be there, you know," she said. Then others came into the
room and he was able to make no further stipulation for the evening.

Madeline, when she was left alone that morning, was by no means
satisfied with her own behaviour, and accused herself of having been
unnecessarily cold to him. She knew the permission which had been
accorded to him, and she knew also--knew well--what answer would
be given to his request. In her mind the matter was now fixed. She
had confessed to herself that she loved him, and she could not now
doubt of his love to her. Why then should she have answered him with
coldness and doubt? She hated the missishness of young ladies, and
had resolved that when he asked her a plain question she would give
him a plain answer. It was true that the question had not been asked
as yet; but why should she have left him in doubt as to her kindly
feeling?

"It shall be but for this one day," she said to herself as she sat
alone in her room.




CHAPTER LXX.

HOW AM I TO BEAR IT?


When the first day's work was over in the court, Lady Mason and
Mrs. Orme kept their seats till the greater part of the crowd
had dispersed, and the two young men, Lucius Mason and Peregrine,
remained with them. Mr. Aram also remained, giving them sundry little
instructions in a low voice as to the manner in which they should go
home and return the next morning,--telling them the hour at which
they must start, and promising that he would meet them at the door
of the court. To all this Mrs. Orme endeavoured to give her best
attention, as though it were of the last importance; but Lady Mason
was apparently much the more collected of the two, and seemed to take
all Mr. Aram's courtesies as though they were a matter of course.
There she sat, still with her veil up, and though all those who had
been assembled there during the day turned their eyes upon her as
they passed out, she bore it all without quailing. It was not that
she returned their gaze, or affected an effrontery in her conduct;
but she was able to endure it without showing that she suffered as
she did so.

"The carriage is there now," said Mr. Aram, who had left the court
for a minute; "and I think you may get into it quietly." This
accordingly they did, making their way through an avenue of idlers
who still remained that they might look upon the lady who was accused
of having forged her husband's will.

[Illustration: Lady Mason leaving the Court.]

"I will stay with her to-night," whispered Mrs. Orme to her son as
they passed through the court.

"Do you mean that you will not come to The Cleeve at all?"

"Not to-night; not till the trial be over. Do you remain with your
grandfather."

"I shall be here to-morrow of course to see how you go on."

"But do not leave your grandfather this evening. Give him my love,
and say that I think it best that I should remain at Orley Farm till
the trial be over. And, Peregrine, if I were you I would not talk to
him much about the trial."

"But why not?"

"I will tell you when it is over. But it would only harass him at
the present moment." And then Peregrine handed his mother into the
carriage and took his own way back to The Cleeve.

As he returned he was bewildered in his mind by what he had heard,
and he also began to feel something like a doubt as to Lady Mason's
innocence. Hitherto his belief in it had been as fixed and assured as
that of her own son. Indeed it had never occurred to him as possible
that she could have done the thing with which she was charged. He
had hated Joseph Mason for suspecting her, and had hated Dockwrath
for his presumed falsehood in pretending to suspect her. But
what was he to think of this question now, after hearing the
clear and dispassionate statement of all the circumstances by the
solicitor-general? Hitherto he had understood none of the particulars
of the case; but now the nature of the accusation had been made
plain, and it was evident to him that at any rate that far-sighted
lawyer believed in the truth of his own statement. Could it be
possible that Lady Mason had forged the will,--that this deed had
been done by his mother's friend, by the woman who had so nearly
become Lady Orme of The Cleeve? The idea was terrible to him as he
rode home, but yet he could not rid himself of it. And if this were
so, was it also possible that his grandfather suspected it? Had that
marriage been stopped by any such suspicion as this? Was it this that
had broken the old man down and robbed him of all his spirit? That
his mother could not have any such suspicion seemed to him to be made
clear by the fact that she still treated Lady Mason as her friend.
And then why had he been specially enjoined not to speak to his
grandfather as to the details of the trial?

But it was impossible for him to meet Sir Peregrine without speaking
of the trial. When he entered the house, which he did by some back
entrance from the stables, he found his grandfather standing at his
own room door. He had heard the sounds of the horse, and was unable
to restrain his anxiety to learn.

"Well," said Sir Peregrine, "what has happened?"

"It is not over as yet. It will last, they say, for three days."

"But come in, Peregrine;" and he shut the door, anxious rather that
the servants should not witness his own anxiety than that they should
not hear tidings which must now be common to all the world. "They
have begun it?"

"Oh, yes! they have begun it."

"Well, how far has it gone?"

"Sir Richard Leatherham told us the accusation they make against her,
and then they examined Dockwrath and one or two others. They have not
got further than that."

"And the--Lady Mason--how does she bear it?"

"Very well I should say. She does not seem to be nearly as nervous
now, as she was while staying with us."

"Ah! indeed. She is a wonderful woman,--a very wonderful woman. So
she bears up? And your mother, Peregrine?"

"I don't think she likes it."

"Likes it! Who could like such a task as that?"

"But she will go through with it."

"I am sure she will. She will go through with anything that she
undertakes. And--and--the judge said nothing--I suppose?"

"Very little, sir."

And Sir Peregrine again sat down in his arm-chair as though the work
of conversation were too much for him. But neither did he dare to
speak openly on the subject; and yet there was so much that he was
anxious to know. Do you think she will escape? That was the question
which he longed to ask but did not dare to utter.

And then, after a while, they dined together. And Peregrine
determined to talk of other things; but it was in vain. While the
servants were in the room nothing was said. The meat was carved and
the plates were handed round, and young Orme ate his dinner; but
there was a constraint upon them both which they were quite unable to
dispel, and at last they gave it up and sat in silence till they were
alone.

When the door was closed, and they were opposite to each other over
the fire, in the way which was their custom when they two only were
there, Sir Peregrine could restrain his desire no longer. It must be
that his grandson, who had heard all that had passed in court that
day, should have formed some opinion of what was going on,--should
have some idea as to the chance of that battle which was being
fought. He, Sir Peregrine, could not have gone into the court
himself. It would have been impossible for him to show himself there.
But there had been his heart all the day. How had it gone with that
woman whom a few weeks ago he had loved so well that he had regarded
her as his wife?

"Was your mother very tired?" he said, again endeavouring to draw
near the subject.

"She did looked fagged while sitting in court."

"It was a dreadful task for her,--very dreadful."

"Nothing could have turned her from it," said Peregrine.

"No,--you are right there. Nothing would have turned her from it. She
thought it to be her duty to that poor lady. But she--Lady Mason--she
bore it better, you say?"

"I think she bears it very well,--considering what her position is."

"Yes, yes. It is very dreadful. The solicitor-general when he
opened,--was he very severe upon her?"

"I do not think he wished to be severe."

"But he made it very strong against her."

"The story, as he told it, was very strong against her;--that is, you
know, it would be if we were to believe all that he stated."

"Yes, yes, of course. He only stated what he has been told by others.
You could not see how the jury took it?"

"I did not look at them. I was thinking more of her and of Lucius."

"Lucius was there?"

"Yes; he sat next to her. And Sir Richard said, while he was telling
the story, that he wished her son were not there to hear it. Upon my
word, sir, I almost wished so too."

"Poor fellow,--poor fellow! It would have been better for him to stay
away."

"And yet had it been my mother--"

"Your mother, Perry! It could not have been your mother. She could
not have been so placed."

"If it be Lady Mason's misfortune, and not her fault--"

"Ah, well; we will not talk about that. And there will be two days
more you say?"

"So said Aram, the attorney."

"God help her;--may God help her! It would be very dreadful for a
man, but for a woman the burden is insupportable."

Then they both sat silent for a while, during which Peregrine was
engrossed in thinking how he could turn his grandfather from the
conversation.

"And you heard no one express any opinion?" asked Sir Peregrine,
after a pause.

"You mean about Lady Mason?" And Peregrine began to perceive that his
mother was right, and that it would have been well if possible to
avoid any words about the trial.

"Do they think that she will--will be acquitted? Of course the people
there were talking about it?"

"Yes, sir, they were talking about it. But I really don't know as to
any opinion. You see, the chief witnesses have not been examined."

"And you, Perry, what do you think?"

"I, sir! Well, I was altogether on her side till I heard Sir Richard
Leatherham."

"And then--?"

"Then I did not know what to think. I suppose it's all right; but one
never can understand what those lawyers are at. When Mr. Chaffanbrass
got up to examine Dockwrath, he seemed to be just as confident on his
side as the other fellow had been on the other side. I don't think
I'll have any more wine, sir, thank you."

But Sir Peregrine did not move. He sat in his old accustomed way,
nursing one leg over the knee of the other, and thinking of the
manner in which she had fallen at his feet, and confessed it all.
Had he married her, and gone with her proudly into the court,--as he
would have done,--and had he then heard a verdict of guilty given by
the jury;--nay, had he heard such proof of her guilt as would have
convinced himself, it would have killed him. He felt, as he sat
there, safe over his own fireside, that his safety was due to her
generosity. Had that other calamity fallen upon him, he could not
have survived it. His head would have fallen low before the eyes of
those who had known him since they had known anything, and would
never have been raised again. In his own spirit, in his inner life,
the blow had come to him; but it was due to her effort on his behalf
that he had not been stricken in public. When he had discussed the
matter with Mrs. Orme, he had seemed in a measure to forget this. It
had not at any rate been the thought which rested with the greatest
weight upon his mind. Then he had considered how she, whose life had
been stainless as driven snow, should bear herself in the presence of
such deep guilt. But now,--now as he sat alone, he thought only of
Lady Mason. Let her be ever so guilty,--and her guilt had been very
terrible,--she had behaved very nobly to him. From him at least she
had a right to sympathy.

And what chance was there that she should escape? Of absolute escape
there was no chance whatever. Even should the jury acquit her, she
must declare her guilt to the world,--must declare it to her son,
by taking steps for the restoration of the property. As to that Sir
Peregrine felt no doubt whatever. That Joseph Mason of Groby would
recover his right to Orley Farm was to him a certainty. But how
terrible would be the path over which she must walk before this
deed of retribution could be done! "Ah, me! ah, me!" he said, as
he thought of all this,--speaking to himself, as though he were
unconscious of his grandson's presence. "Poor woman! poor woman!"
Then Peregrine felt sure that she had been guilty, and was sure also
that his grandfather was aware of it.

"Will you come into the other room, sir?" he said.

"Yes, yes; if you like it." And then the one leg fell from the other,
and he rose to do his grandson's bidding. To him now and henceforward
one room was much the same as another.

In the mean time the party bound for Orley Farm had reached that
place, and to them also came the necessity of wearing through that
tedious evening. On the mind of Lucius Mason not even yet had a
shadow of suspicion fallen. To him, in spite of it all, his mother
was still pure. But yet he was stern to her, and his manner was very
harsh. It may be that had such suspicion crossed his mind he would
have been less stern, and his manner more tender. As it was he could
understand nothing that was going on, and almost felt that he was
kept in the dark at his mother's instance. Why was it that a man
respected by all the world, such as Sir Richard Leatherham, should
rise in court and tell such a tale as that against his mother; and
that the power of answering that tale on his mother's behalf should
be left to such another man as Mr. Chaffanbrass? Sir Richard had told
his story plainly, but with terrible force; whereas Chaffanbrass had
contented himself with brow-beating another lawyer with the lowest
quirks of his cunning. Why had not some one been in court able to use
the language of passionate truth and ready to thrust the lie down the
throats of those who told it?

Tea and supper had been prepared for them, and they sat down
together; but the nature of the meal may be imagined. Lady Mason had
striven with terrible effort to support herself during the day, and
even yet she did not give way. It was quite as necessary that she
should restrain herself before her son as before all those others
who had gazed at her in court. And she did sustain herself. She took
a knife and fork in her hand and ate a few morsels. She drank her
cup of tea, and remembering that there in that house she was still
hostess, she made some slight effort to welcome her guest. "Surely
after such a day of trouble you will eat something," she said to her
friend. To Mrs. Orme it was marvellous that the woman should even
be alive,--let alone that she should speak and perform the ordinary
functions of her daily life. "And now," she said--Lady Mason said--as
soon as that ceremony was over, "now as we are so tired I think we
will go up stairs. Will you light our candles for us, Lucius?" And so
the candles were lit, and the two ladies went up stairs.

A second bed had been prepared in Lady Mason's room, and into this
chamber they both went at once. Mrs. Orme, as soon as she had
entered, turned round and held out both her hands in order that she
might comfort Lady Mason by taking hers; but Lady Mason, when she had
closed the door, stood for a moment with her face towards the wall,
not knowing how to bear herself. It was but for a moment, and then
slowly moving round, with her two hands clasped together, she sank on
her knees at Mrs. Orme's feet, and hid her face in the skirt of Mrs.
Orme's dress.

"My friend--my friend!" said Lady Mason.

"Yes, I am your friend--indeed I am. But, dear Lady Mason--" And she
endeavoured to think of words by which she might implore her to rise
and compose herself.

"How is it you can bear with such a one as I am? How is it that you
do not hate me for my guilt?"

"He does not hate us when we are guilty."

"I do not know. Sometimes I think that all will hate me,--here and
hereafter--except you. Lucius will hate me, and how shall I bear
that? Oh, Mrs. Orme, I wish he knew it!"

"I wish he did. He shall know it now,--to-night, if you will allow me
to tell him."

"No. It would kill me to bear his looks. I wish he knew it, and was
away, so that he might never look at me again."

"He too would forgive you if he knew it all."

"Forgive! How can he forgive?" And as she spoke she rose again to her
feet, and her old manner came upon her. "Do you think what it is that
I have done for him? I,--his mother,--for my only child? And after
that, is it possible that he should forgive me?"

"You meant him no harm."

"But I have ruined him before all the world. He is as proud as
your boy; and could he bear to think that his whole life would be
disgraced by his mother's crime?"

"Had I been so unfortunate he would have forgiven me."

"We are speaking of what is impossible. It could not have been so.
Your youth was different from mine."

"God has been very good to me, and not placed temptation in my
way;--temptation, I mean, to great faults. But little faults require
repentance as much as great ones."

"But then repentance is easy; at any rate it is possible."

"Oh, Lady Mason, is it not possible for you?"

"But I will not talk of that now. I will not hear you compare
yourself with such a one as I am. Do you know I was thinking to-day
that my mind would fail me, and that I should be mad before this is
over? How can I bear it? how can I bear it?" And rising from her
seat, she walked rapidly through the room, holding back her hair from
her brows with both her hands.

[Illustration: "How can I bear it?"]

And how was she to bear it? The load on her back was too much for her
shoulders. The burden with which she had laden herself was too heavy
to be borne. Her power of endurance was very great. Her strength in
supporting the extreme bitterness of intense sorrow was wonderful.
But now she was taxed beyond her power. "How am I to bear it?" she
said again, as still holding her hair between her fingers, she drew
her hands back over her head.

"You do not know. You have not tried it. It is impossible," she said
in her wildness, as Mrs. Orme endeavoured to teach her the only
source from whence consolation might be had. "I do not believe in
the thief on the cross, unless it was that he had prepared himself
for that day by years of contrition. I know I shock you," she added,
after a while. "I know that what I say will be dreadful to you. But
innocence will always be shocked by guilt. Go, go and leave me. It
has gone so far now that all is of no use." Then she threw herself on
the bed, and burst into a convulsive passion of tears.

Once again Mrs. Orme endeavoured to obtain permission from her to
undertake that embassy to her son. Had Lady Mason acceded, or been
near acceding, Mrs. Orme's courage would probably have been greatly
checked. As it was she pressed it as though the task were one to be
performed without difficulty. Mrs. Orme was very anxious that Lucius
should not sit in the court throughout the trial. She felt that if he
did so the shock,--the shock which was inevitable,--must fall upon
him there; and than that she could conceive nothing more terrible.
And then also she believed that if the secret were once made known
to Lucius, and if he were for a time removed from his mother's side,
the poor woman might be brought to a calmer perception of her true
position. The strain would be lessened, and she would no longer feel
the necessity of exerting so terrible a control over her feelings.

"You have acknowledged that he must know it sooner or later," pleaded
Mrs. Orme.

"But this is not the time,--not now, during the trial. Had he known
it before--"

"It would keep him away from the court."

"Yes, and I should never see him again! What will he do when he hears
it? Perhaps it would be better that he should go without seeing me."

"He would not do that."

"It would be better. If they take me to the prison, I will never see
him again. His eyes would kill me. Do you ever watch him and see the
pride that there is in his eye? He has never yet known what disgrace
means; and now I, his mother, have brought him to this!"

It was all in vain as far as that night was concerned. Lady Mason
would give no such permission. But Mrs. Orme did exact from her a
kind of promise that Lucius should be told on the next evening, if it
then appeared, from what Mr. Aram should say, that the result of the
trial was likely to be against them.

Lucius Mason spent his evening alone; and though he had as yet heard
none of the truth, his mind was not at ease, nor was he happy at
heart. Though he had no idea of his mother's guilt, he did conceive
that after this trial it would be impossible that they should remain
at Orley Farm. His mother's intended marriage with Sir Peregrine, and
then the manner in which that engagement had been broken off; the
course of the trial, and its celebrity; the enmity of Dockwrath; and
lastly, his own inability to place himself on terms of friendship
with those people who were still his mother's nearest friends, made
him feel that in any event it would be well for them to change their
residence. What could life do for him there at Orley Farm, after all
that had passed? He had gone to Liverpool and bought guano, and now
the sacks were lying in his barn unopened. He had begun to drain, and
the ugly unfinished lines of earth were lying across his fields. He
had no further interest in it, and felt that he could no longer go to
work on that ground as though he were in truth its master.

But then, as he thought of his future hopes, his place of residence
and coming life, there was one other beyond himself and his mother
to whom his mind reverted. What would Sophia wish that he should
do?--his own Sophia,--she who had promised him that her heart should
be with his through all the troubles of this trial? Before he went
to bed that night he wrote to Sophia, and told her what were his
troubles and what his hopes. "This will be over in two days more,"
he said, "and then I will come to you. You will see me, I trust, the
day after this letter reaches you; but nevertheless I cannot debar
myself from the satisfaction of writing. I am not happy, for I am
dissatisfied with what they are doing for my mother; and it is only
when I think of you, and the assurance of your love, that I can feel
anything like content. It is not a pleasant thing to sit by and
hear one's mother charged with the foulest frauds that practised
villains can conceive! Yet I have had to bear it, and have heard
no denial of the charge in true honest language. To-day, when the
solicitor-general was heaping falsehoods on her name, I could hardly
refrain myself from rushing at his throat. Let me have a line of
comfort from you, and then I will be with you on Friday."

That line of comfort never came, nor did Lucius on the Friday make
his intended visit. Miss Furnival had determined, some day or two
before this, that she would not write to Lucius again till this
trial was over; and even then it might be a question whether a
correspondence with the heir of Noningsby would not be more to her
taste.




CHAPTER LXXI.

SHOWING HOW JOHN KENNEBY AND BRIDGET BOLSTER
BORE THEMSELVES IN COURT.


On the next morning they were all in their places at ten o'clock,
and the crowd had been gathered outside the doors of the court from
a much earlier hour. As the trial progressed the interest in it
increased, and as people began to believe that Lady Mason had in
truth forged a will, so did they the more regard her in the light of
a heroine. Had she murdered her husband after forging his will, men
would have paid half a crown apiece to have touched her garments, or
a guinea for the privilege of shaking hands with her. Lady Mason had
again taken her seat with her veil raised, with Mrs. Orme on one side
of her and her son on the other. The counsel were again ranged on the
seats behind, Mr. Furnival sitting the nearest to the judge, and Mr.
Aram again occupied the intermediate bench, so placing himself that
he could communicate either with his client or with the barristers.
These were now their established places, and great as was the crowd,
they found no difficulty in reaching them. An easy way is always made
for the chief performers in a play.

This was to be the great day as regarded the evidence. "It is a
case that depends altogether on evidence," one young lawyer said to
another. "If the counsel know how to handle the witnesses, I should
say she is safe." The importance of this handling was felt by every
one, and therefore it was understood that the real game would
be played out on this middle day. It had been all very well for
Chaffanbrass to bully Dockwrath and make the wretched attorney
miserable for an hour or so, but that would have but little bearing
on the verdict. There were two persons there who were prepared to
swear that on a certain day they had only signed one deed. So much
the solicitor-general had told them, and nobody doubted that it
would be so. The question now was this, would Mr. Furnival and Mr.
Chaffanbrass succeed in making them contradict themselves when they
had so sworn? Could they be made to say that they had signed two
deeds, or that they might have done so?

It was again the duty of Mr. Furnival to come first upon the
stage,--that is to say, he was to do so as soon as Sir Richard had
performed his very second-rate part of eliciting the evidence in
chief. Poor John Kenneby was to be the first victim, and he was
placed in the box before them all very soon after the judge had
taken his seat. Why had he not emigrated to Australia, and escaped
all this,--escaped all this, and Mrs. Smiley also? That was John
Kenneby's reflection as he slowly mounted the two steps up into
the place of his torture. Near to the same spot, and near also to
Dockwrath who had taken these two witnesses under his special charge,
sat Bridget Bolster. She had made herself very comfortable that
morning with buttered toast and sausages; and when at Dockwrath's
instance Kenneby had submitted to a slight infusion of Dutch
courage,--a bottle of brandy would not have sufficed for the
purpose,--Bridget also had not refused the generous glass. "Not that
I wants it," said she, meaning thereby to express an opinion that she
could hold her own, even against the great Chaffanbrass, without any
such extraneous aid. She now sat quite quiet, with her hands crossed
on her knees before her, and her eyes immovably fixed on the table
which stood in the centre of the court. In that position she remained
till her turn came; and one may say that there was no need for fear
on account of Bridget Bolster.

And then Sir Richard began. What would be the nature of Kenneby's
direct evidence the reader pretty well knows. Sir Richard took a long
time in extracting it, for he was aware that it would be necessary
to give his witness some confidence before he came to his main
questions. Even to do this was difficult, for Kenneby would speak in
a voice so low that nobody could hear him; and on the second occasion
of the judge enjoining him to speak out, he nearly fainted. It is odd
that it never occurs to judges that a witness who is naturally timid
will be made more so by being scolded. When I hear a judge thus use
his authority, I always wish that I had the power of forcing him to
some very uncongenial employment,--jumping in a sack, let us say; and
then when he jumped poorly, as he certainly would, I would crack my
whip and bid him go higher and higher. The more I so bade him, the
more he would limp; and the world looking on, would pity him and
execrate me. It is much the same thing when a witness is sternly told
to speak louder.

But John Kenneby at last told his plain story. He remembered the day
on which he had met old Usbech and Bridget Bolster and Lady Mason
in Sir Joseph's chamber. He had then witnessed a signature by Sir
Joseph, and had only witnessed one on that day;--of that he was
perfectly certain. He did not think that old Usbech had signed the
deed in question, but on that matter he declined to swear positively.
He remembered the former trial. He had not then been able to swear
positively whether Usbech had or had not signed the deed. As far as
he could remember, that was the point to which his cross-examination
on that occasion had chiefly been directed. So much John Kenneby did
at last say in language that was sufficiently plain.

And then Mr. Furnival arose. The reader is acquainted with the state
of his mind on the subject of this trial. The enthusiasm on behalf of
Lady Mason, which had been aroused by his belief in her innocence, by
his old friendship, by his ancient adherence to her cause, and by his
admiration for her beauty, had now greatly faded. It had faded much
when he found himself obliged to call in such fellow-labourers as
Chaffanbrass and Aram, and had all but perished when he learned from
contact with them to regard her guilt as certain. But, nevertheless,
now that he was there, the old fire returned to him. He had wished
twenty times that he had been able to shake the matter from him and
leave his old client in the hands of her new advisers. It would be
better for her, he had said to himself. But on this day--on these
three days--seeing that he had not shaken the matter off, he rose to
his work as though he still loved her, as though all his mind was
still intent on preserving that ill-gotten inheritance for her son.
It may almost be doubted whether at moments during these three days
he did not again persuade himself that she was an injured woman.
Aram, as may be remembered, had felt misgivings as to Mr. Furnival's
powers for such cross-examination; but Chaffanbrass had never doubted
it. He knew that Mr. Furnival could do as much as himself in that
way; the difference being this,--that Mr. Furnival could do something
else besides.

"And now, Mr. Kenneby, I'll ask you a few questions," he said; and
Kenneby turned round to him. The barrister spoke in a mild low voice,
but his eye transfixed the poor fellow at once; and though Kenneby
was told a dozen times to look at the jury and speak to the jury, he
never was able to take his gaze away from Mr. Furnival's face.

"You remember the old trial," he said; and as he spoke he held in his
hand what was known to be an account of that transaction. Then there
arose a debate between him and Sir Richard, in which Chaffanbrass,
and Graham, and Mr. Steelyard all took part, as to whether Kenneby
might be examined as to his former examination; and on this point
Graham pleaded very volubly, bringing up precedents without
number,--striving to do his duty to his client on a point with which
his own conscience did not interfere. And at last it was ruled by the
judge that this examination might go on;--whereupon both Sir Richard
and Mr. Steelyard sat down as though they were perfectly satisfied.
Kenneby, on being again asked, said that he did remember the old
trial.

"It is necessary, you know, that the jury should hear you, and if you
look at them and speak to them, they would stand a better chance."
Kenneby for a moment allowed his eye to travel up to the jury box,
but it instantly fell again, and fixed itself on the lawyer's face.
"You do remember that trial?"

"Yes, sir, I remember it," whispered Kenneby.

"Do you remember my asking you then whether you had been in the habit
of witnessing Sir Joseph Mason's signature?"

"Did you ask me that, sir?"

"That is the question which I put to you. Do you remember my doing
so?"

"I dare say you did, sir."

"I did, and I will now read your answer. We shall give to the jury a
copy of the proceedings of that trial, my lord, when we have proved
it,--as of course we intend to do."

And then there was another little battle between the barristers. But
as Lady Mason was now being tried for perjury, alleged to have been
committed at that other trial, it was of course indispensable that
all the proceedings of that trial should be made known to the jury.

"You said on that occasion," continued Furnival, "that you were sure
you had witnessed three signatures of Sir Joseph's that summer,--that
you had probably witnessed three in July, that you were quite sure
you had witnessed three in one week in July, that you were nearly
sure you had witnessed three in one day, that you could not tell what
day that might have been, and that you had been used as a witness so
often that you really did not remember anything about it. Can you say
whether that was the purport of the evidence you gave then?"

"If it's down there--" said John Kenneby, and then he stopped
himself.

"It is down here; I have read it."

"I suppose it's all right," said Kenneby.

"I must trouble you to speak out," said the judge; "I cannot hear
you, and it is impossible that the jury should do so." The judge's
words were not uncivil, but his voice was harsh, and the only
perceptible consequence of the remonstrance was to be seen in the
thick drops of perspiration standing on John Kenneby's brow.

"That is the evidence which you gave on the former trial? May the
jury presume that you then spoke the truth to the best of your
knowledge?"

"I tried to speak the truth, sir."

"You tried to speak the truth? But do you mean to say that you
failed?"

"No, I don't think I failed."

"When, therefore, you told the jury that you were nearly sure that
you had witnessed three signatures of Sir Joseph's in one day, that
was truth?"

"I don't think I ever did."

"Ever did what?"

"Witness three papers in one day."

"You don't think you ever did?"

"I might have done, to be sure."

"But then, at that trial, about twelve months after the man's death,
you were nearly sure you had done so."

"Was I?"

"So you told the jury."

"Then I did, sir."

"Then you did what?"

"Did witness all those papers."

"You think then now that it is probable you witnessed three
signatures on the same day?"

"No, I don't think that."

"Then what do you think?"

"It is so long ago, sir, that I really don't know."

"Exactly. It is so long ago that you cannot depend on your memory."

"I suppose I can't, sir."

"But you just now told the gentleman who examined you on the other
side, that you were quite sure you did not witness two deeds on the
day he named,--the 14th of July. Now, seeing that you doubt your own
memory, going back over so long a time, do you wish to correct that
statement?"

"I suppose I do."

"What correction do you wish to make?"

"I don't think I did."

"Don't think you did what?"

"I don't think I signed two--"

"I really cannot hear the witness," said the judge

"You must speak out louder," said Mr. Furnival, himself speaking very
loudly.

"I mean to do it as well as I can," said Kenneby.

"I believe you do," said Furnival; "but in so meaning you must be
very careful to state nothing as a certainty, of the certainty of
which you are not sure. Are you certain that on that day you did not
witness two deeds?"

"I think so."

"And yet you were not certain twenty years ago, when the fact was so
much nearer to you?"

"I don't remember."

"You don't remember whether you were certain twelve months after the
occurrence, but you think you are certain now."

"I mean, I don't think I signed two."

"It is, then, only a matter of thinking?"

"No;--only a matter of thinking."

"And you might have signed the two?"

"I certainly might have done so."

"What you mean to tell the jury is this: that you have no remembrance
of signing twice on that special day, although you know that you have
acted as witness on behalf of Sir Joseph Mason more than twice on the
same day?"

"Yes."

"That is the intended purport of your evidence?"

"Yes, sir."

And then Mr. Furnival travelled off to that other point of Mr.
Usbech's presence and alleged handwriting. On that matter Kenneby
had not made any positive assertion, though he had expressed a very
strong opinion. Mr. Furnival was not satisfied with this, but wished
to show that Kenneby had not on that matter even a strong opinion. He
again reverted to the evidence on the former trial, and read various
questions with their answers; and the answers as given at that time
certainly did not, when so taken, express a clear opinion on the part
of the person who gave them; although an impartial person on reading
the whole evidence would have found that a very clear opinion was
expressed. When first asked, Kenneby had said that he was nearly sure
that Mr. Usbech had not signed the document. But his very anxiety to
be true had brought him into trouble. Mr. Furnival on that occasion
had taken advantage of the word "nearly," and had at last succeeded
in making him say that he was not sure at all. Evidence by means
of torture,--thumbscrew and suchlike,--we have for many years past
abandoned as barbarous, and have acknowledged that it is of its very
nature useless in the search after truth. How long will it be before
we shall recognise that the other kind of torture is equally opposed
both to truth and civilization?

"But Mr. Usbech was certainly in the room on that day?" continued Mr.
Furnival.

"Yes, he was there."

"And knew what you were all doing, I suppose?"

"Yes, I suppose he knew."

"I presume it was he who explained to you the nature of the deed you
were to witness?"

"I dare say he did."

"As he was the lawyer, that would be natural."

"I suppose it would."

"And you don't remember the nature of that special deed, as explained
to you on the day when Bridget Bolster was in the room?"

"No, I don't."

"It might have been a will?"

"Yes, it might. I did sign one or two wills for Sir Joseph, I think."

"And as to this individual document, Mr. Usbech might have signed it
in your presence, for anything you know to the contrary?"

"He might have done so."

"Now, on your oath, Kenneby, is your memory strong enough to enable
you to give the jury any information on this subject upon which they
may firmly rely in convicting that unfortunate lady of the terrible
crime laid to her charge." Then for a moment Kenneby glanced round
and fixed his eyes upon Lady Mason's face. "Think a moment before
you answer; and deal with her as you would wish another should deal
with you if you were so situated. Can you say that you remember that
Usbech did not sign it?"

"Well, sir, I don't think he did."

"But he might have done so?"

"Oh, yes; he might."

"You do not remember that he did do so?"

"Certainly not."

"And that is about the extent of what you mean to say?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let me understand," said the judge--and then the perspiration became
more visible on poor Kenneby's face;--"do you mean to say that you
have no memory on the matter whatever?--that you simply do not
remember whether Usbech did or did not sign it?"

"I don't think he signed it."

"But why do you think he did not, seeing that his name is there?"

"I didn't see him."

"Do you mean," continued the judge, "that you didn't see him, or that
you don't remember that you saw him?"

"I don't remember that I saw him."

"But you may have done so? He may have signed, and you may have seen
him do so, only you don't remember it?"

"Yes, my lord."

And then Kenneby was allowed to go down. As he did so, Joseph Mason,
who sat near to him, turned upon him a look black as thunder. Mr.
Mason gave him no credit for his timidity, but believed that he had
been bought over by the other side. Dockwrath, however, knew better.
"They did not quite beat him about his own signature," said he; "but
I knew all along that we must depend chiefly upon Bolster."

Then Bridget Bolster was put into the box, and she was examined by
Mr. Steelyard. She had heard Kenneby instructed to look up, and she
therefore fixed her eyes upon the canopy over the judge's seat. There
she fixed them, and there she kept them till her examination was
over, merely turning them for a moment on to Mr. Chaffanbrass, when
that gentleman became particularly severe in his treatment of her.
What she said in answer to Mr. Steelyard, was very simple. She had
never witnessed but one signature in her life, and that she had done
in Sir Joseph's room. The nature of the document had been explained
to her. "But," as she said, "she was young and giddy then, and what
went in at one ear went out at another." She didn't remember Mr.
Usbech signing, but he might have done so. She thought he did not. As
to the two signatures purporting to be hers, she could not say which
was hers and which was not. But this she would swear positively,
that they were not both hers. To this she adhered firmly, and Mr.
Steelyard handed her over to Mr. Chaffanbrass.

[Illustration: Bridget Bolster in Court.]

Then Mr. Chaffanbrass rose from his seat, and every one knew that his
work was cut out for him. Mr. Furnival had triumphed. It may be said
that he had demolished his witness; but his triumph had been very
easy. It was now necessary to demolish Bridget Bolster, and the
opinion was general that if anybody could do it Mr. Chaffanbrass
was the man. But there was a doggedness about Bridget Bolster which
induced many to doubt whether even Chaffanbrass would be successful.
Mr. Aram trusted greatly; but the bar would have preferred to stake
their money on Bridget.

Chaffanbrass as he rose pushed back his small ugly wig from his
forehead, thrusting it rather on one side as he did so, and then,
with his chin thrown forward, and a wicked, ill-meaning smile upon
his mouth, he looked at Bridget for some moments before he spoke to
her. She glanced at him, and instantly fixed her eyes back upon the
canopy. She then folded her hands one on the other upon the rail
before her, compressed her lips, and waited patiently.

"I think you say you're--a chambermaid?" That was the first question
which Chaffanbrass asked, and Bridget Bolster gave a little start as
she heard his sharp, angry, disagreeable voice.

"Yes, I am, sir, at Palmer's Imperial Hotel, Plymouth, Devonshire;
and have been for nineteen years, upper and under."

"Upper and under! What do upper and under mean?"

"When I was under, I had another above me; and now, as I'm upper, why
there's others under me." So she explained her position at the hotel,
but she never took her eyes from the canopy.

"You hadn't begun being--chambermaid, when you signed these
documents?"

"I didn't sign only one of 'em."

"Well, one of them. You hadn't begun being chambermaid then?"

"No, I hadn't; I was housemaid at Orley Farm."

"Were you upper or under there?"

"Well, I believe I was both; that is, the cook was upper in the
house."

"Oh, the cook was upper. Why wasn't she called to sign her name?"

"That I can't say. She was a very decent woman,--that I can say,--and
her name was Martha Mullens."

So far Mr. Chaffanbrass had not done much; but that was only the
preliminary skirmish, as fencers play with their foils before they
begin.

"And now, Bridget Bolster, if I understand you," he said, "you
have sworn that on the 14th of July you only signed one of these
documents."

"I only signed once, sir. I didn't say nothing about the 14th of
July, because I don't remember."

"But when you signed the one deed, you did not sign any other?"

"Neither then nor never."

"Do you know the offence for which that lady is being tried--Lady
Mason?"

"Well, I ain't sure; it's for doing something about the will."

"No, woman, it is not." And then, as Mr. Chaffanbrass raised his
voice, and spoke with savage earnestness, Bridget again started, and
gave a little leap up from the floor. But she soon settled herself
back in her old position. "No one has dared to accuse her of that,"
continued Mr. Chaffanbrass, looking over at the lawyers on the other
side. "The charge they have brought forward against her is that of
perjury--of having given false evidence twenty years ago in a court
of law. Now look here, Bridget Bolster; look at me, I say." She
did look at him for a moment, and then turned her eyes back to the
canopy. "As sure as you're a living woman, you shall be placed there
and tried for the same offence,--for perjury,--if you tell me a
falsehood respecting this matter."

"I won't say nothing but what's right," said Bridget.

"You had better not. Now look at these two signatures;" and he handed
to her two deeds, or rather made one of the servants of the court
hold them for him; "which of those signatures is the one which you
did not sign?"

"I can't say, sir."

"Did you write that further one,--that with your hand on it?"

"I can't say, sir."

"Look at it, woman, before you answer me."

Bridget looked at it, and then repeated the same words--

"I can't say, sir."

"And now look at the other." And she again looked down for a moment.
"Did you write that?"

"I can't say, sir."

"Will you swear that you wrote either?"

"I did write one once."

"Don't prevaricate with me, woman. Were either of those signatures
there written by you?"

"I suppose that one was."

"Will you swear that you wrote either the one or the other?"

"I'll swear I did write one, once."

"Will you swear you wrote one of those you have before you? You can
read, can't you?"

"Oh yes, I can read."

"Then look at them." Again she turned her eyes on them for half a
moment. "Will you swear that you wrote either of those?"

"Not if there's another anywhere else," said Bridget, at last.

"Another anywhere else," said Chaffanbrass, repeating her words;
"what do you mean by another?"

"If you've got another that anybody else has done, I won't say which
of the three is mine. But I did one, and I didn't do no more."

Mr. Chaffanbrass continued at it for a long time, but with very
indifferent success. That affair of the signatures, which was
indeed the only point on which evidence was worth anything, he then
abandoned, and tried to make her contradict herself about old Usbech.
But on this subject she could say nothing. That Usbech was present
she remembered well, but as to his signing the deed, or not signing
it, she would not pretend to say anything.

"I know he was cram full of gout," she said; "but I don't remember
nothing more."

But it may be explained that Mr. Chaffanbrass had altogether altered
his intention and the very plan of his campaign with reference to
this witness, as soon as he saw what was her nature and disposition.
He discovered very early in the affair that he could not force her
to contradict herself and reduce her own evidence to nothing, as
Furnival had done with the man. Nothing would flurry this woman,
or force her to utter words of which she herself did not know the
meaning. The more he might persevere in such an attempt, the more
dogged and steady she would become. He therefore soon gave that
up. He had already given it up when he threatened to accuse her of
perjury, and resolved that as he could not shake her he would shake
the confidence which the jury might place in her. He could not make a
fool of her, and therefore he would make her out to be a rogue. Her
evidence would stand alone, or nearly alone; and in this way he might
turn her firmness to his own purpose, and explain that her dogged
resolution to stick to one plain statement arose from her having been
specially instructed so to do, with the object of ruining his client.
For more than half an hour he persisted in asking her questions with
this object; hinting that she was on friendly terms with Dockwrath;
asking her what pay she had received for her evidence; making her
acknowledge that she was being kept at free quarters, and on the fat
of the land. He even produced from her a list of the good things
she had eaten that morning at breakfast, and at last succeeded
in obtaining information as to that small but indiscreet glass
of spirits. It was then, and then only, that poor Bridget became
discomposed. Beefsteaks, sausages, and pigs' fry, though they were
taken three times a day, were not disgraceful in her line of life;
but that little thimble of brandy, taken after much pressing and in
the openness of good fellowship, went sorely against the grain with
her. "When one has to be badgered like this, one wants a drop of
something more than ordinary," she said at last. And they were the
only words which she did say which proved any triumph on the part
of Mr. Chaffanbrass. But nevertheless Mr. Chaffanbrass was not
dissatisfied. Triumph, immediate triumph over a poor maid-servant
could hardly have been the object of a man who had been triumphant in
such matters for the last thirty years. Would it not be practicable
to make the jury doubt whether that woman could be believed? That was
the triumph he desired. As for himself, Mr. Chaffanbrass knew well
enough that she had spoken nothing but the truth. But had he so
managed that the truth might be made to look like falsehood,--or
at any rate to have a doubtful air? If he had done that, he had
succeeded in the occupation of his life, and was indifferent to his
own triumph.




CHAPTER LXXII.

MR. FURNIVAL'S SPEECH.


All this as may be supposed disturbed Felix Graham not a little. He
perceived that each of those two witnesses had made a great effort to
speak the truth;--an honest, painful effort to speak the truth, and
in no way to go beyond it. His gall had risen within him while he had
listened to Mr. Furnival, and witnessed his success in destroying the
presence of mind of that weak wretch who was endeavouring to do his
best in the cause of justice. And again, when Mr. Chaffanbrass had
seized hold of that poor dram, and used all his wit in deducing from
it a self-condemnation from the woman before him;--when the practised
barrister had striven to show that she was an habitual drunkard,
dishonest, unchaste, evil in all her habits, Graham had felt almost
tempted to get up and take her part. No doubt he had evinced this,
for Chaffanbrass had understood what was going on in his colleague's
mind, and had looked round at him from time to time with an air of
scorn that had been almost unendurable.

And then it had become the duty of the prosecutors to prove the
circumstances of the former trial. This was of course essentially
necessary, seeing that the offence for which Lady Mason was now on
her defence was perjury alleged to have been committed at that trial.
And when this had been done at considerable length by Sir Richard
Leatherham,--not without many interruptions from Mr. Furnival and
much assistance from Mr. Steelyard,--it fell upon Felix Graham to
show by cross-examination of Crook the attorney, what had been the
nature and effect of Lady Mason's testimony. As he arose to do this,
Mr. Chaffanbrass whispered into his ear, "If you feel yourself
unequal to it I'll take it up. I won't have her thrown over for any
etiquette,--nor yet for any squeamishness." To this Graham vouchsafed
no answer. He would not even reply by a look, but he got up and did
his work. At this point his conscience did not interfere with him,
for the questions which he asked referred to facts which had really
occurred. Lady Mason's testimony at that trial had been believed by
everybody. The gentleman who had cross-examined her on the part of
Joseph Mason, and who was now dead, had failed to shake her evidence.
The judge who tried the case had declared to the jury that it was
impossible to disbelieve her evidence. That judge was still living,
a poor old bedridden man, and in the course of this latter trial his
statement was given in evidence. There could be no doubt that at the
time Lady Mason's testimony was taken as worthy of all credit. She
had sworn that she had seen the three witnesses sign the codicil, and
no one had then thrown discredit on her. The upshot of all was this,
that the prosecuting side proved satisfactorily that such and such
things had been sworn by Lady Mason; and Felix Graham on the side of
the defence proved that, when she had so sworn, her word had been
considered worthy of credence by the judge and by the jury, and had
hardly been doubted even by the counsel opposed to her. All this
really had been so, and Felix Graham used his utmost ingenuity in
making clear to the court how high and unassailed had been the
position which his client then held.

All this occupied the court till nearly four o'clock, and then as
the case was over on the part of the prosecution, the question arose
whether or no Mr. Furnival should address the jury on that evening,
or wait till the following day. "If your lordship will sit till seven
o'clock," said Mr. Furnival, "I think I can undertake to finish
what remarks I shall have to make by that time." "I should not mind
sitting till nine for the pleasure of hearing Mr. Furnival," said the
judge, who was very anxious to escape from Alston on the day but one
following. And thus it was decided that Mr. Furnival should commence
his speech.

I have said that in spite of some previous hesitation his old fire
had returned to him when he began his work in court on behalf of
his client. If this had been so when that work consisted in the
cross-examination of a witness, it was much more so with him now when
he had to exhibit his own powers of forensic eloquence. When a man
knows that he can speak with ease and energy, and that he will be
listened to with attentive ears, it is all but impossible that he
should fail to be enthusiastic, even though his cause be a bad one.
It was so with him now. All his old fire came back upon him, and
before he had done he had almost brought himself again to believe
Lady Mason to be that victim of persecution as which he did not
hesitate to represent her to the jury.

"Gentlemen of the jury," he said, "I never rose to plead a client's
cause with more confidence than I now feel in pleading that of my
friend Lady Mason. Twenty years ago I was engaged in defending her
rights in this matter, and I then succeeded. I little thought at that
time that I should be called on after so long an interval to renew
my work. I little thought that the pertinacity of her opponent would
hold out for such a period. I compliment him on the firmness of his
character, on that equable temperament which has enabled him to sit
through all this trial, and to look without dismay on the unfortunate
lady whom he has considered it to be his duty to accuse of perjury. I
did not think that I should live to fight this battle again. But so
it is; and as I had but little doubt of victory then,--so have I none
now. Gentlemen of the jury, I must occupy some of your time and of
the time of the court in going through the evidence which has been
adduced by my learned friend against my client; but I almost feel
that I shall be detaining you unnecessarily, so sure I am that the
circumstances, as they have been already explained to you, could not
justify you in giving a verdict against her."

As Mr. Furnival's speech occupied fully three hours, I will not
trouble my readers with the whole of it. He began by describing the
former trial, and giving his own recollections as to Lady Mason's
conduct on that occasion. In doing this, he fully acknowledged on her
behalf that she did give as evidence that special statement which her
opponents now endeavoured to prove to have been false. "If it were
the case," he said, "that that codicil--or that pretended codicil,
was not executed by old Sir Joseph Mason, and was not witnessed by
Usbech, Kenneby, and Bridget Bolster,--then, in that case, Lady
Mason has been guilty of perjury." Mr. Furnival, as he made this
acknowledgement, studiously avoided the face of Lady Mason. But as
he made this assertion, almost everybody in the court except her own
counsel did look at her. Joseph Mason opposite and Dockwrath fixed
their gaze closely upon her. Sir Richard Leatherham and Mr. Steelyard
turned their eyes towards her, probably without meaning to do so.
The judge looked over his spectacles at her. Even Mr. Aram glanced
round at her surreptitiously; and Lucius turned his face upon his
mother's, almost with an air of triumph. But she bore it all without
flinching;--bore it all without flinching, though the state of her
mind at that moment must have been pitiable. And Mrs. Orme, who held
her hand all the while, knew that it was so. The hand which rested in
hers was twitched as it were convulsively, but the culprit gave no
outward sign of her guilt.

Mr. Furnival then read much of the evidence given at the former
trial, and especially showed how the witnesses had then failed to
prove that Usbech had not been required to write his name. It was
quite true, he said, that they had been equally unable to prove that
he had done so; but that amounted to nothing; the "onus probandi" lay
with the accusing side. There was the signature, and it was for them
to prove that it was not that which it pretended to be. Lady Mason
had proved that it was so; and because that had then been held to
be sufficient, they now, after twenty years, took this means of
invalidating her testimony. From that he went to the evidence given
at the present trial, beginning with the malice and interested
motives of Dockwrath. Against three of them only was it needful that
he should allege anything, seeing that the statements made by the
others were in no way injurious to Lady Mason,--if the statements
made by those three were not credible. Torrington, for instance, had
proved that other deed; but what of that, if on the fatal 14th of
July Sir Joseph Mason had executed two deeds? As to Dockwrath,--that
his conduct had been interested and malicious there could be no
doubt; and he submitted to the jury that he had shown himself to be a
man unworthy of credit. As to Kenneby,--that poor weak creature, as
Mr. Furnival in his mercy called him,--he, Mr. Furnival, could not
charge his conscience with saying that he believed him to have been
guilty of any falsehood. On the contrary, he conceived that Kenneby
had endeavoured to tell the truth. But he was one of those men whose
minds were so inconsequential that they literally did not know truth
from falsehood. He had not intended to lie when he told the jury
that he was not quite sure he had never witnessed two signatures by
Sir Joseph Mason on the same day, nor did he lie when he told them
again that he had witnessed three. He had meant to declare the truth;
but he was, unfortunately, a man whose evidence could not be of
much service in any case of importance, and could be of no service
whatever in a criminal charge tried, as was done in this instance,
more than twenty years after the alleged commission of the offence.
With regard to Bridget Bolster, he had no hesitation whatever in
telling the jury that she was a woman unworthy of belief,--unworthy
of that credit which the jury must place in her before they could
convict any one on her unaided testimony. It must have been clear to
them all that she had come into court drilled and instructed to make
one point-blank statement, and to stick to that. She had refused to
give any evidence as to her own signature. She would not even look at
her own name as written by herself; but had contented herself with
repeating over and over again those few words which she had been
instructed so to say;--the statement namely, that she had never put
her hand to more than one deed.

Then he addressed himself, as he concluded his speech, to that part
of the subject which was more closely personal to Lady Mason herself.
"And now, gentlemen of the jury," he said, "before I can dismiss you
from your weary day's work, I must ask you to regard the position of
the lady who has been thus accused, and the amount of probability of
her guilt which you may assume from the nature of her life. I shall
call no witnesses as to her character, for I will not submit her
friends to the annoyance of those questions which the gentlemen
opposite might feel it their duty to put to them. Circumstances
have occurred--so much I will tell you, and so much no doubt
you all personally know, though it is not in evidence before
you;--circumstances have occurred which would make it cruel on my
part to place her old friend Sir Peregrine Orme in that box. The
story, could I tell it to you, is one full of romance, but full also
of truth and affection. But though Sir Peregrine Orme is not here,
there sits his daughter by Lady Mason's side,--there she has sat
through this tedious trial, giving comfort to the woman that she
loves,--and there she will sit till your verdict shall have made
her further presence here unnecessary. His lordship and my learned
friend there will tell you that you cannot take that as evidence of
character. They will be justified in so telling you; but I, on the
other hand, defy you not to take it as such evidence. Let us make
what laws we will, they cannot take precedence of human nature. There
too sits my client's son. You will remember that at the beginning of
this trial the solicitor-general expressed a wish that he were not
here. I do not know whether you then responded to that wish, but I
believe I may take it for granted that you do not do so now. Had any
woman dear to either of you been so placed through the malice of an
enemy, would you have hesitated to sit by her in her hour of trial?
Had you doubted of her innocence you might have hesitated; for who
could endure to hear announced in a crowded court like this the guilt
of a mother or a wife? But he has no doubt. Nor, I believe, has any
living being in this court,--unless it be her kinsman opposite, whose
life for the last twenty years has been made wretched by a wicked
longing after the patrimony of his brother.

"Gentlemen of the jury, there sits my client with as loving a friend
on one side as ever woman had, and with her only child on the other.
During the incidents of this trial the nature of the life she has
led during the last twenty years,--since the period of that terrible
crime with which she is charged,--has been proved before you. I may
fearlessly ask you whether so fair a life is compatible with the
idea of guilt so foul? I have known her intimately during all those
years,--not as a lawyer, but as a friend,--and I confess that the
audacity of this man Dockwrath, in assailing such a character
with such an accusation, strikes me almost with admiration. What!
Forgery!--for that, gentlemen of the jury, is the crime with which
she is substantially charged. Look at her, as she sits there! That
she, at the age of twenty, or not much more,--she who had so well
performed the duties of her young life, that she should have forged
a will,--have traced one signature after another in such a manner as
to have deceived all those lawyers who were on her track immediately
after her husband's death! For, mark you, if this be true, with
her own hand she must have done it! There was no accomplice there.
Look at her! Was she a forger? Was she a woman to deceive the sharp
bloodhounds of the law? Could she, with that young baby on her bosom,
have wrested from such as him"--and as he spoke he pointed with his
finger, but with a look of unutterable scorn, to Joseph Mason, who
was sitting opposite to him--"that fragment of his old father's
property which he coveted so sorely? Where had she learned such
skilled artifice? Gentlemen, such ingenuity in crime as that has
never yet been proved in a court of law, even against those who have
spent a life of wretchedness in acquiring such skill; and now you are
asked to believe that such a deed was done by a young wife, of whom
all that you know is that her conduct in every other respect had been
beyond all praise! Gentlemen, I might have defied you to believe
this accusation had it even been supported by testimony of a high
character. Even in such case you would have felt that there was more
behind than had been brought to your knowledge. But now, having seen,
as you have, of what nature are the witnesses on whose testimony she
has been impeached, it is impossible that you should believe this
story. Had Lady Mason been a woman steeped in guilt from her infancy,
had she been noted for cunning and fraudulent ingenuity, had she been
known as an expert forger, you would not have convicted her on this
indictment, having had before you the malice and greed of Dockwrath,
the stupidity--I may almost call it idiocy, of Kenneby, and the
dogged resolution to conceal the truth evinced by the woman Bolster.
With strong evidence you could not have believed such a charge
against so excellent a lady. With such evidence as you have had
before you, you could not have believed the charge against a
previously convicted felon.

"And what has been the object of this terrible persecution,--of the
dreadful punishment which has been inflicted on this poor lady? For
remember, though you cannot pronounce her guilty, her sufferings have
been terribly severe. Think what it must have been for a woman with
habits such as hers, to have looked forward for long, long weeks
to such a martyrdom as this! Think what she must have suffered in
being dragged here and subjected to the gaze of all the county as a
suspected felon! Think what must have been her feelings when I told
her, not knowing how deep an ingenuity might be practised against
her, that I must counsel her to call to her aid the unequalled
talents of my friend Mr. Chaffanbrass"--"Unequalled no longer, but
far surpassed," whispered Chaffanbrass, in a voice that was audible
through all the centre of the court. "Her punishment has been
terrible," continued Mr. Furnival. "After what she has gone through,
it may well be doubted whether she can continue to reside at that
sweet spot which has aroused such a feeling of avarice in the bosom
of her kinsman. You have heard that Sir Joseph Mason had promised his
eldest son that Orley Farm should form a part of his inheritance. It
may be that the old man did make such a promise. If so, he thought
fit to break it. But is it not wonderful that a man wealthy as is Mr.
Mason--for his fortune is large; who has never wanted anything that
money can buy; a man for whom his father did so much,--that he should
be stirred up by disappointed avarice to carry in his bosom for
twenty years so bitter a feeling of rancour against those who are
nearest to him by blood and ties of family! Gentlemen, it has been
a fearful lesson; but it is one which neither you nor I will ever
forget!

"And now I shall leave my client's case in your hands. As to the
verdict which you will give, I have no apprehension. You know as well
as I do that she has not been guilty of this terrible crime. That
you will so pronounce I do not for a moment doubt. But I do hope
that that verdict will be accompanied by some expression on your
part which may show to the world at large how great has been the
wickedness displayed in the accusation."

And yet as he sat down he knew that she had been guilty! To his ear
her guilt had never been confessed; but yet he knew that it was so,
and, knowing that, he had been able to speak as though her innocence
were a thing of course. That those witnesses had spoken truth he also
knew, and yet he had been able to hold them up to the execration of
all around them as though they had committed the worst of crimes from
the foulest of motives! And more than this, stranger than this, worse
than this,--when the legal world knew--as the legal world soon did
know--that all this had been so, the legal world found no fault with
Mr. Furnival, conceiving that he had done his duty by his client in a
manner becoming an English barrister and an English gentleman.




CHAPTER LXXIII.

MRS. ORME TELLS THE STORY.


It was late when that second day's work was over, and when Mrs. Orme
and Lady Mason again found themselves in the Hamworth carriage. They
had sat in court from ten in the morning till past seven, with a
short interval of a few minutes in the middle of the day, and were
weary to the very soul when they left it. Lucius again led out his
mother, and as he did so he expressed to her in strong language his
approval of Mr. Furnival's speech. At last some one had spoken out on
his mother's behalf in that tone which should have been used from the
first. He had been very angry with Mr. Furnival, thinking that the
barrister had lost sight of his mother's honour, and that he was
playing with her happiness. But now he was inclined to forgive him.
Now at last the truth had been spoken in eloquent words, and the
persecutors of his mother had been addressed in language such as it
was fitting that they should hear. To him the last two hours had been
two hours of triumph, and as he passed through the hall of the court
he whispered in his mother's ear that now, at last, as he hoped, her
troubles were at an end.

And another whisper had been spoken as they passed through that hall.
Mrs. Orme went out leaning on the arm of her son, but on the other
side of her was Mr. Aram. He had remained in his seat till they had
begun to move, and then he followed them. Mrs. Orme was already half
way across the court when he made his way up to her side and very
gently touched her arm.

"Sir?" said she, looking round.

"Do not let her be too sure," he said. "Do not let her be over
confident. All that may go for nothing with a jury." Then he lifted
his hat and left her.

All that go for nothing with a jury! She hardly understood this, but
yet she felt that it all should go for nothing if right were done.
Her mind was not argumentative, nor yet perhaps was her sense of true
justice very acute. When Sir Peregrine had once hinted that it would
be well that the criminal should be pronounced guilty, because in
truth she had been guilty, Mrs. Orme by no means agreed with him. But
now, having heard how those wretched witnesses had been denounced,
knowing how true had been the words they had spoken, knowing how
false were those assurances of innocence with which Mr. Furnival had
been so fluent, she felt something of that spirit which had actuated
Sir Peregrine, and had almost thought that justice demanded a verdict
against her friend.

"Do not let her be over-confident," Mr. Aram had said. But in truth
Mrs. Orme, as she had listened to Mr. Furnival's speech, had become
almost confident that Lady Mason would be acquitted. It had seemed to
her impossible that any jury should pronounce her to be guilty after
that speech. The state of her mind as she listened to it had been
very painful. Lady Mason's hand had rested in her own during a great
portion of it; and it would have been natural that she should give
some encouragement to her companion by a touch, by a slight pressure,
as the warm words of praise fell from the lawyer's mouth. But how
could she do so, knowing that the praise was false? It was not
possible to her to show her friendship by congratulating her friend
on the success of a lie. Lady Mason also had, no doubt, felt this,
for after a while her hand had been withdrawn, and they had both
listened in silence, giving no signs to each other as to their
feelings on the subject.

But as they sat together in the carriage Lucius did give vent to his
feelings. "I cannot understand why all that should not have been said
before, and said in a manner to have been as convincing as it was
to-day."

"I suppose there was no opportunity before the trial," said Mrs.
Orme, feeling that she must say something, but feeling also how
impossible it was to speak on the subject with any truth in the
presence both of Lady Mason and her son.

"But an occasion should have been made," said Lucius. "It is
monstrous that my mother should have been subjected to this
accusation for months and that no one till now should have spoken out
to show how impossible it is that she should have been guilty."

"Ah! Lucius, you do not understand," said his mother.

"And I hope I never may," said he. "Why did not the jury get up in
their seats at once and pronounce their verdict when Mr. Furnival's
speech was over? Why should they wait there, giving another day of
prolonged trouble, knowing as they must do what their verdict will
be? To me all this is incomprehensible, seeing that no good can in
any way come from it."

And so he went on, striving to urge his companions to speak upon a
subject which to them did not admit of speech in his presence. It was
very painful to them, for in addressing Mrs. Orme he almost demanded
from her some expression of triumph. "You at least have believed in
her innocence," he said at last, "and have not been ashamed to show
that you did so."

"Lucius," said his mother, "we are very weary; do not speak to us
now. Let us rest till we are at home." Then they closed their eyes
and there was silence till the carriage drove up to the door of Orley
Farm House.

The two ladies immediately went up stairs, but Lucius, with more
cheerfulness about him than he had shown for months past, remained
below to give orders for their supper. It had been a joy to him to
hear Joseph Mason and Dockwrath exposed, and to listen to those words
which had so clearly told the truth as to his mother's history. All
that torrent of indignant eloquence had been to him an enumeration of
the simple facts,--of the facts as he knew them to be,--of the facts
as they would now be made plain to all the world. At last the day had
come when the cloud would be blown away. He, looking down from the
height of his superior intellect on the folly of those below him, had
been indignant at the great delay;--but that he would now forgive.

They had not been long in the house, perhaps about fifteen minutes,
when Mrs. Orme returned down stairs and gently entered the
dining-room. He was still there, standing with his back to the fire
and thinking over the work of the day.

"Your mother will not come down this evening, Mr. Mason."

"Not come down?"

"No; she is very tired,--very tired indeed. I fear you hardly know
how much she has gone through."

"Shall I go to her?" said Lucius.

"No, Mr. Mason, do not do that. I will return to her now.
And--but;--in a few minutes, Mr. Mason, I will come back to you
again, for I shall have something to say to you."

"You will have tea here?"

"I don't know. I think not. When I have spoken to you I will go back
to your mother. I came down now in order that you might not wait for
us." And then she left the room and again went up stairs. It annoyed
him that his mother should thus keep away from him, but still he
did not think that there was any special reason for it. Mrs. Orme's
manner had been strange; but then everything around them in these
days was strange, and it did not occur to him that Mrs. Orme would
have aught to say in her promised interview which would bring to him
any new cause for sorrow.

Lady Mason, when Mrs. Orme returned to her, was sitting exactly in
the position in which she had been left. Her bonnet was off and was
lying by her side, and she was seated in a large arm-chair, again
holding both her hands to the sides of her head. No attempt had been
made to smooth her hair or to remove the dust and soil which had
come from the day's long sitting in the court. She was a woman very
careful in her toilet, and scrupulously nice in all that touched her
person. But now all that had been neglected, and her whole appearance
was haggard and dishevelled.

"You have not told him?" she said.

"No; I have not told him yet; but I have bidden him expect me. He
knows that I am coming to him."

"And how did he look?"

"I did not see his face." And then there was silence between them
for a few minutes, during which Mrs. Orme stood at the back of Lady
Mason's chair with her hand on Lady Mason's shoulder. "Shall I go
now, dear?" said Mrs. Orme.

"No; stay a moment; not yet. Oh, Mrs. Orme!"

"You will find that you will be stronger and better able to bear it
when it has been done."

"Stronger! Why should I wish to be stronger? How will he bear it?"

"It will be a blow to him, of course."

"It will strike him to the ground, Mrs. Orme. I shall have murdered
him. I do not think that he will live when he knows that he is so
disgraced."

"He is a man, and will bear it as a man should do. Shall I do
anything for you before I go?"

"Stay a moment. Why must it be to-night?"

"He must not be in the court to-morrow. And what difference will one
day make? He must know it when the property is given up."

Then there was a knock at the door, and a girl entered with a
decanter, two wine-glasses, and a slice or two of bread and butter.
"You must drink that," said Mrs. Orme, pouring out a glass of wine.

"And you?"

"Yes, I will take some too. There. I shall be stronger now. Nay, Lady
Mason, you shall drink it. And now if you will take my advice you
will go to bed."

"You will come to me again?"

"Yes; directly it is over. Of course I shall come to you. Am I not to
stay here all night?"

"But him;--I will not see him. He is not to come."

"That will be as he pleases."

"No. You promised that. I cannot see him when he knows what I have
done for him."

"Not to hear him say that he forgives you?"

"He will not forgive me. You do not know him. Could you bear to look
at your boy if you had disgraced him for ever?"

"Whatever I might have done he would not desert me. Nor will Lucius
desert you. Shall I go now?"

"Ah, me! Would that I were in my grave!"

Then Mrs. Orme bent over her and kissed her, pressed both her hands,
then kissed her again, and silently creeping out of the room made her
way once more slowly down the stairs.

Mrs. Orme, as will have been seen, was sufficiently anxious to
perform the task which she had given herself, but yet her heart sank
within her as she descended to the parlour. It was indeed a terrible
commission, and her readiness to undertake it had come not from any
feeling on her own part that she was fit for the work and could do
it without difficulty, but from the eagerness with which she had
persuaded Lady Mason that the thing must be done by some one. And
now who else could do it? In Sir Peregrine's present state it would
have been a cruelty to ask him; and then his feelings towards Lucius
in the matter were not tender as were those of Mrs. Orme. She had
been obliged to promise that she herself would do it, or otherwise
she could not have urged the doing. And now the time had come.
Immediately on their return to the house Mrs. Orme had declared that
the story should be told at once; and then Lady Mason, sinking into
the chair from which she had not since risen, had at length agreed
that it should be so. The time had now come, and Mrs. Orme, whose
footsteps down the stairs had not been audible, stood for a moment
with the handle of the door in her hand.

Had it been possible she also would now have put it off till the
morrow,--would have put it off till any other time than that which
was then present. All manner of thoughts crowded on her during those
few seconds. In what way should she do it? What words should she use?
How should she begin? She was to tell this young man that his mother
had committed a crime of the very blackest dye, and now she felt that
she should have prepared herself and resolved in what fashion this
should be done. Might it not be well, she asked herself for one
moment, that she should take the night to think of it and then see
him in the morning? The idea, however, only lasted her for a moment,
and then, fearing lest she might allow herself to be seduced into
some weakness, she turned the handle and entered the room.

He was still standing with his back to the fire, leaning against
the mantelpiece, and thinking over the occurrences of the day that
was past. His strongest feeling now was one of hatred to Joseph
Mason,--of hatred mixed with thorough contempt. What must men say of
him after such a struggle on his part to ruin the fame of a lady and
to steal the patrimony of a brother! "Is she still determined not to
come down?" he said as soon as he saw Mrs. Orme.

"No; she will not come down to-night, Mr. Mason. I have something
that I must tell you."

"What! is she ill? Has it been too much for her?"

"Mr. Mason," she said, "I hardly know how to do what I have
undertaken." And he could see that she actually trembled as she spoke
to him.

"What is it, Mrs. Orme? Is it anything about the property? I think
you need hardly be afraid of me. I believe I may say I could bear
anything of that kind."

"Mr. Mason--" And then again she stopped herself.

How was she to speak this horrible word?

"Is it anything about the trial?" He was now beginning to be
frightened, feeling that something terrible was coming; but still of
the absolute truth he had no suspicion.

"Oh! Mr. Mason, if it were possible that I could spare you I would do
so. If there were any escape,--any way in which it might be avoided."

"What is it?" said he. And now his voice was hoarse and low, for a
feeling of fear had come upon him. "I am a man and can bear it,
whatever it is."

"You must be a man then, for it is very terrible. Mr. Mason, that
will, you know--"

"You mean the codicil?"

"The will that gave you the property--"

"Yes."

"It was not done by your father."

"Who says so?"

"It is too sure. It was not done by him,--nor by them,--those other
people who were in the court to-day."

"But who says so? How is it known? If my father did not sign it, it
is a forgery; and who forged it? Those wretches have bought over some
one and you have been deceived, Mrs. Orme. It is not of the property
I am thinking, but of my mother. If it were as you say, my mother
must have known it?"

"Ah! yes."

"And you mean that she did know it; that she knew it was a forgery?"

"Oh! Mr. Mason."

"Heaven and earth! Let me go to her. If she were to tell me so
herself I would not believe it of her. Ah! she has told you?"

"Yes; she has told me."

"Then she is mad. This has been too much for her, and her brain has
gone with it. Let me go to her, Mrs. Orme."

"No, no; you must not go to her." And Mrs. Orme put herself directly
before the door. "She is not mad,--not now. Then, at that time, we
must think she was so. It is not so now."

"I cannot understand you." And he put his left hand up to his
forehead as though to steady his thoughts. "I do not understand you.
If the will be a forgery, who did it?"

This question she could not answer at the moment. She was still
standing against the door, and her eyes fell to the ground. "Who did
it?" he repeated. "Whose hand wrote my father's name?"

"You must be merciful, Mr. Mason."

"Merciful;--to whom?"

"To your mother."

"Merciful to my mother! Mrs. Orme, speak out to me. If the will was
forged, who forged it? You cannot mean to tell me that she did it!"

She did not answer him at the moment in words, but coming close up to
him she took both his hands in hers, and then looked steadfastly up
into his eyes. His face had now become almost convulsed with emotion,
and his brow was very black. "Do you wish me to believe that my
mother forged the will herself?" Then again he paused, but she
said nothing. "Woman, it's a lie," he exclaimed; and then tearing
his hands from her, shaking her off, and striding away with quick
footsteps, he threw himself on a sofa that stood in the furthest part
of the room.

She paused for a moment and then followed him very gently. She
followed him and stood over him in silence for a moment, as he lay
with his face from her. "Mr. Mason," she said at last, "you told me
that you would bear this like a man."

But he made her no answer, and she went on. "Mr. Mason, it is, as I
tell you. Years and years ago, when you were a baby, and when she
thought that your father was unjust to you--for your sake,--to remedy
that injustice, she did this thing."

"What; forged his name! It must be a lie. Though an angel came to
tell me so, it would be a lie! What; my mother!" And now he turned
round and faced her, still however lying on the sofa.

"It is true, Mr. Mason. Oh, how I wish that it were not! But you
must forgive her. It is years ago, and she has repented of it, Sir
Peregrine has forgiven her,--and I have done so."

And then she told him the whole story. She told him why the marriage
had been broken off, and described to him the manner in which the
truth had been made known to Sir Peregrine. It need hardly be said,
that in doing so, she dealt as softly as was possible with his
mother's name; but yet she told him everything. "She wrote it
herself, in the night."

"What all; all the names herself?"

"Yes, all."

"Mrs. Orme, it cannot be so. I will not believe it. To me it is
impossible. That you believe it I do not doubt, but I cannot. Let
me go to her. I will go to her myself. But even should she say so
herself, I will not believe it."

But she would not let him go up stairs even though he attempted to
move her from the door, almost with violence. "No; not till you say
that you will forgive her and be gentle with her. And it must not be
to-night. We will be up early in the morning, and you can see her
before we go;--if you will be gentle to her."

He still persisted that he did not believe the story, but it became
clear to her, by degrees, that the meaning of it all had at last sunk
into his mind, and that he did believe it. Over and over again she
told him all that she knew, explaining to him what his mother had
suffered, making him perceive why she had removed herself out of his
hands, and had leant on others for advice. And she told him also that
though they still hoped that the jury might acquit her, the property
must be abandoned.

"I will leave the house this night if you wish it," he said.

"When it is all over, when she has been acquitted and shall have gone
away, then let it be done. Mr. Mason, you will go with her; will you
not?" and then again there was a pause.

"Mrs. Orme, it is impossible that I should say now what I may do. It
seems to me as though I could not live through it. I do not believe
it. I cannot believe it."

As soon as she had exacted a promise from him that he would not go
to his mother, at any rate without further notice, she herself went
up stairs and found Lady Mason lying on her bed. At first Mrs. Orme
thought that she was asleep, but no such comfort had come to the poor
woman. "Does he know it?" she asked.

Mrs. Orme's task for that night was by no means yet done. After
remaining for a while with Lady Mason she again returned to Lucius,
and was in this way a bearer of messages between them. There was at
last no question as to doubting the story. He did believe it. He
could not avoid the necessity for such belief. "Yes," he said, when
Mrs. Orme spoke again of his leaving the place, "I will go and hide
myself; and as for her--"

"But you will go with her,--if the jury do not say that she was
guilty--"

"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."

"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 to a woman.

When Mrs. Orme was gone, he stood for a while perfectly motionless
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.

[Illustration: Lucius Mason, as he leaned on the Gate
that was no longer his own.]

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 to her? What
word of comfort could he speak? It was not only that she had beggared
him! Nay; it was not that at all! But she 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 LXXIV.

YOUNG LOCHINVAR.


Judge Staveley, whose court had not been kept sitting 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
champagne--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.

"I 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?"

"In this house. But yet I cannot say that it is absolutely an
appointment. I am going to ask your sister what my fate is to be."

"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. I'll 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. Graham?" 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. I was 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."

"Certainly not, Miss Staveley."

"Because I have no secrets from mamma."

"Nor do I wish that anything should be secret. I hate all secrecies.
Miss Staveley, your father knows of my intention."

On this point Madeline did not feel it to be necessary to say
anything. 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 everything 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. I am 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
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--; 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 he 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."

"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 is
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
as a 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--"

"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 one 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 signifies,"
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 to
a 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 I? But I defy all the world to say a word of Miss
Madeline but what's good,--only I 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.

"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 cordially 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, I am 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."

"I am at 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 himself 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 LXXV.

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 comfortable 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 breakfast-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 a word, 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?"

"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 I 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?"

"I 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?"

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 been 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."

"Your words will kill me," she said. "I do 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 deceived 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."

"It 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 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!

"I 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. I have 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 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 absolutely
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 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, and as 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 sell. But we may give the same praise to the hired
bravo who goes through with truth and courage the task which he has
undertaken. 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 customers--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 dissecting 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
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 Dockwrath
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 purporting 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 herself 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 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, I do. I think 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 so, 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 I were you, I would keep
out of it for the future."

"I am 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 evening, and there, with them, remained Peregrine. Some sort of
refreshment was procured for them, but of the three days they passed
in the court, that, perhaps, was the most oppressive. 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."

"Eight and four!" said Peregrine.

"Eight 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 his dinner. 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 LXXVI.

I LOVE HER STILL.


It 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 convinced that you acted with the best judgment
   on her behalf. May I beg that you will add to your great
   kindness by inducing the gentlemen 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?

   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. I 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 L200 a year, subject to such deduction as the
   cost of the trial may make from it.

   I 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. I am, 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
   such a 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.


   DEAREST SOPHIA,

   I hardly know how to address you; or what I should tell
   you or what conceal. Were we together, and was that
   promise renewed 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 I am 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, I am now a beggar on the face of
   the world. I 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 whatever
   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 would 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.

"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 to
see 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
he 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."

"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 contentment. 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 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. These three days had been dreadful to Sir Peregrine. 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
exertion 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 information 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 acknowledged 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. "Remember 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? Nevertheless 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 Mason's last message was given 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 so you told
him. How did he bear it?"

"On the whole, well. At first he would not believe me."

"As for me, I could not have done it. 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."

"I am 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 Peregrine 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.
"I loved her well;--better 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!"

"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! It 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 LXXVII.

JOHN KENNEBY'S DOOM.


On the evening but one after the trial was over Mr. Moulder
entertained 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 punishment 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 throughout 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?"

"I ain't 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 with that, hoping that some 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 postpone his marriage for another space of ten years or so.
"Brick-fields!" he had said. "What can such a one as I have to do
with landed property? I am better as I am."

Mrs. Smiley, however, did not at all seem to think so, and welcomed
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
ain't 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.
Smiley was announced; and it was well that she made a diversion 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 ain't 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 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 satisfied 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 lap.

"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, considering 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.

"I'm 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."

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 innocence. 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 mitigating 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."

"I'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 ain't 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; because she is a woman,
and because her enemies is villains." And then again there was
silence while they waited for him.

"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, John?" said his sister.

"There's no knowing what may happen to me in this world," said
Kenneby, "but sometimes I almost think I ain't 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 ain't 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 an
independent woman as needn't be beholden to any man, and I should
never think of damages. Smiley left me comfortable before all 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 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,
I'll 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 engaged 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 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 upon by them lawyers, I'm not the woman to turn my back upon
him."

"That you're not," said Moulder.

"No I ain't, 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,
I'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. Moulder--"

"I can't pick my words for you, old fellow."

"But what were you going to tell us, Mr. Kantwise?" 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 succeeded 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."

He had surprised them all. "You don't say so," exclaimed Mrs.
Moulder.

"Confessed her guilt," said Mrs. Smiley. "But what guilt, Mr.
Kantwise?"

"She forged the will," said Kantwise.

"I knew that all along," said Bridget Bolster.

"I'm d---- if I believe it," said Moulder.

"You can do as you like about that," said Kantwise; "but she has.
And I'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 beyond that. If anybody tries she'll have
her action against 'em." That was the law as laid down by Snengkeld.

"I don't believe a word of it," said Moulder. "Dockwrath has told
him. I'll bet a hat that Kantwise got it from Dockwrath."

It turned 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 acknowledged 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; ain't it, John? I do wish now I'd gone down and
see'd her, I do indeed. Don't you, Mrs. Moulder?"

"If all this 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 papers," said
Mrs. Smiley.




CHAPTER LXXVIII.

THE LAST OF THE LAWYERS.


"I should 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
his little 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."

"I'll 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."

"I'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."

"I don't know where I shall go!" said the squire of Groby, not
content to be cross-questioned by the attorney from Hamworth.

"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. Mason, 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; I shall now know what to do. And I think you'll find--"

Here Mr. Dockwrath was interrupted by the lodging-house servant, 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 inconvenient 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.

   I am, sir,
   Your very obedient servant,

   THOMAS FURNIVAL.

   J. Mason, Esq., J.P.
   (of Groby Park).


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 conviction that
the property must be abandoned by his client.

"We need not talk about it, Mr. Furnival," Lucius had said. "It must
be so."

"You have discussed the matter with your mother?"

"No discussion is necessary, but she is quite aware of my intention.
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 restitution 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--"

"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 say
what may be the nature of the communication to be made; but if it be
anything touching the property, you will no doubt jeopardise 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 rate 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 Mr. 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 punishment 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. Furnival," 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 have 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.

"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 believe has
behaved throughout, in a manner becoming the very high position 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 realise.

"Mr. Furnival," he said, "what future 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 unreasonable as well
as angry, you would understand that the proposition 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 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 Furnival.

"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?"

"I shall answer no such question, Mr. Mason."

"Then by heavens I'll expose you. If I spend the whole value of the
estate in doing it I'll 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 all in vain. The
property was sweet, but that sweetness was tasteless 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.

"I'll try," said Mason. "You have been my attorney, and what you know
in the matter you are bound to tell. And I'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, complaining bitterly of the return
which had been made for her friendship. "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 now--"

"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 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 sure 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. I am sure I 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 herself 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, I am 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 receptacle.

"Papa," said she, that evening, "what will Mr. Lucius Mason do now?
will he remain at Orley Farm?"

"No, my dear. He will leave Orley 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:--


   Harley Street, March, 18--.

   MY DEAR 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. Wherever you may be I shall watch for tidings of
   you with anxiety, and always hear them with gratification.
   I need hardly bid you remember that you have no more
   affectionate friend

   Than yours always most sincerely,

   SOPHIA FURNIVAL.

   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
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 an ash; 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.

"I had no right to expect it would be otherwise," he said to himself.
But even to himself he spoke no word of reproach against Miss
Furnival. He had realised 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 immediately. 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.




CHAPTER LXXIX.

FAREWELL.


"That letter you got this morning, my dear, was it not from Lady
Mason?"

"It was from Lady Mason, father; they go on Thursday."

"On Thursday; so soon as that." And then Sir Peregrine, who 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. 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.

[Illustration: Farewell!]

"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.

"I 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."

"I 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.

"I 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 Perry."

"It would be 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. 'Twas 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. If I 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 I loved her;--yes, I loved
her, and I do love her. Though I am a feeble old man, tottering 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."

"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--"

"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 result, if, overcome by tenderness,
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 apologise 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 in regard to
his staying at home than to his 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, "I 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. I am an
old man, and it will probably be for ever."

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 his 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--I
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 which
he felt for her. "God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb," he said.

"Yes," she said, "for the shorn lamb--" And then she was silent
again. But could that bitter, biting wind be tempered for the
she-wolf who, in the dead of night, had broken into the fold, and
with 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 forgiven 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 so."

"No; for I am not alone. She who loves you so well, has told me so.
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 old 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 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 relief from my
sorrow. But to you--in return for your goodness--"

"For my love."

"In 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 so. Had
that dream been carried out, I should not have sworn falsely when I
gave you my 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. But I never loved him. But I am wrong to talk
of this, and I will 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 I
am 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.

[Illustration: Farewell!]

Lady Mason, as soon as she was alone, sat herself down, and her
thoughts ran back over the whole course of her life. Early in her
days, 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 been 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 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 drawing-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 morning 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
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 remaining in town over a month
he took the advice of the first of those new lawyers and allowed
that gentleman to put himself in 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 proposition to let him the land 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 Dockwrath 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 LXXX.

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 great 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
her own? Had 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 Easter."

"And I shall stay till after Whitsuntide unless I am turned out."

"Oh! 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."

"Is 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. I do 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 you
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 babies
are all dreadfully delicate. She lost two, you know. I do think the
Lord Chancellor ought to think about that. Reigate, or Maidstone, or
anywhere about Great Marlow would not be so bad." And in this way
they discussed the coming event and the happy future, while Felix
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 promises, 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 had been
the friend of her earliest years, listening to and trusting 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 trustworthy, 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 the
third or fourth day after the trial, one of the maids came to them
and told Madeline that a 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."

"I 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, I am 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
good nature promised to look after her, and patronise 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 interview 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 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 kill me. At any 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 you 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."

"Good-bye, Mr. Orme; and may God send that you may be happy."

"Good-bye, Madeline. I shall 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."

"I 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 grass 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.

"I am unhappy," he said, "and sore at heart. You must not mind what
words I spoke just now."

"No, no; I am sure you did not mean them," said Felix, putting his
hand on the horse's mane.

"I 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. 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 neighbourhood 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.



***