"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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sive. "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 att.i.tude and countenance she had borne as she stood in the witness-box at that other trial, now so many years since,--that att.i.tude 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 compa.s.s 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 a.s.sistance from Solomon Aram and Chaffanbra.s.s. 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed down the dark pa.s.sage 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 ident.i.ty. Lady Mason in her trouble pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sembled, 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 pa.s.sed, 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.
Circ.u.mstances 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 circ.u.mstances as far as outward appearance went.