"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 pa.s.sage 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 ign.o.ble 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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.
"n.o.body must know of this,"--said she very solemnly, standing up and looking into his face with eager eyes. "n.o.body 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 pa.s.sed 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 rest.i.tution, 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 rect.i.tude of mind and purpose forced him to p.r.o.nounce.
"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 aggrandis.e.m.e.nt 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 rest.i.tution 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 a.s.sist 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 a.s.sistance 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."