"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 grat.i.tude 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 circ.u.mstances, 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.
[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 a.s.sertion 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 hara.s.s 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 p.r.o.ne 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 hara.s.s 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."