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
cripple 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.