Orley Farm (Serial)/Chapter 70
CHAPTER XXX.
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.
'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.
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.