I CALL IT AWFUL.
"Oh indeed!" Those had been the words with which Mr. Furnival had
received the announcement made by Sir Peregrine as to his proposed
nuptials. And as he uttered them the lawyer drew himself up stiffly
in his chair, looking much more like a lawyer and much less like an
old family friend than he had done the moment before.
Whereupon Sir Peregrine drew himself up also. "Yes," he said. "I
should be intrusive if I were to trouble you with my motives, and
therefore I need only say further as regards the lady, that I trust
that my support, standing as I shall do in the position of her
husband, will be more serviceable to her than it could otherwise have
been in this trial which she will, I presume, be forced to undergo."
"No doubt; no doubt," said Mr. Furnival; and then the interview
had ended. The lawyer had been anxious to see his client, and had
intended to ask permission to do so; but he had felt on hearing Sir
Peregrine's tidings that it would be useless now to make any attempt
to see her alone, and that he could speak to her with no freedom
in Sir Peregrine's presence. So he left The Cleeve, having merely
intimated to the baronet the fact of his having engaged the services
of Mr. Chaffanbrass and Mr. Solomon Aram. "You will not see Lady
Mason?" Sir Peregrine had asked. "Thank you; I do not know that
I need trouble her," Mr. Furnival had answered. "You of course
will explain to her how the case at present stands. I fear she
must reconcile herself to the fact of a trial. You are aware, Sir
Peregrine, that the offence imputed is one for which bail will be
taken. I should propose yourself and her son. Of course I should be
happy to lend my own name, but as I shall be on the trial, perhaps it
may be as well that this should be avoided."
Bail will be taken! These words were dreadful in the ears of the
expectant bridegroom. Had it come to this; that there was a question
whether or no she should be locked up in a prison, like a felon? But
nevertheless his heart did not misgive him. Seeing how terribly she
was injured by others, he felt himself bound by the stronger law to
cling to her himself. Such was the special chivalry of the man.
Mr. Furnival on his return to London thought almost more of Sir
Peregrine than he did either of Lady Mason or of himself. Was it not
a pity? Was it not a thousand pities that that aged noble gentleman
should be sacrificed? He had felt angry with Sir Peregrine when the
tidings were first communicated to him; but now, as he journeyed up
to London this feeling of anger was transferred to his own client.
This must be her doing, and such doing on her part, while she was in
her present circumstances, was very wicked. And then he remembered
her guilt,--her probable guilt, and his brow became very black. Her
supposed guilt had not been horrible to him while he had regarded it
as affecting herself alone, and in point of property affecting Joseph
Mason and her son Lucius. He could look forward, sometimes almost
triumphantly, to the idea of washing her--so far as this world's
washing goes--from that guilt, and setting her up again clear before
the world, even though in doing so he should lend a hand in robbing
Joseph Mason of his estate. But this dragging down of another--and
such another--head into the vortex of ruin and misery was horrible to
him. He was not straitlaced, or mealy-mouthed, or overburthened with
scruples. In the way of his profession he could do many a thing at
which--I express a single opinion with much anxious deference--at
which an honest man might be scandalized if it came beneath his
judgment unprofessionally. But this he could not stand. Something
must be done in the matter. The marriage must be stayed till after
the trial,--or else he must himself retire from the defence and
explain both to Lady Mason and to Sir Peregrine why he did so.
And then he thought of the woman herself, and his spirit within him
became very bitter. Had any one told him that he was jealous of the
preference shown by his client to Sir Peregrine, he would have fumed
with anger, and thought that he was fuming justly. But such was in
truth the case. Though he believed her to have been guilty of this
thing, though he believed her to be now guilty of the worse offence
of dragging the baronet to his ruin, still he was jealous of her
regard. Had she been content to lean upon him, to trust to him as her
great and only necessary friend, he could have forgiven all else, and
placed at her service the full force of his professional power,--even
though by doing so he might have lowered himself in men's minds. And
what reward did he expect? None. He had formed no idea that the woman
would become his mistress. All that was as obscure before his mind's
eye, as though she had been nineteen and he five-and-twenty.
He was to dine at home on this day, that being the first occasion of
his doing so for--as Mrs. Furnival declared--the last six months. In
truth, however, the interval had been long, though not so long as
that. He had a hope that having announced his intention, he might
find the coast clear and hear Martha Biggs spoken of as a dear
one lately gone. But when he arrived at home Martha Biggs was
still there. Under circumstances as they now existed Mrs. Furnival
had determined to keep Martha Biggs by her, unless any special
edict for her banishment should come forth. Then, in case of such
special edict, Martha Biggs should go, and thence should arise the
new casus belli. Mrs. Furnival had made up her mind that war was
expedient,--nay, absolutely necessary. She had an idea, formed no
doubt from the reading of history, that some allies require a smart
brush now and again to blow away the clouds of distrust which become
engendered by time between them; and that they may become better
allies than ever afterwards. If the appropriate time for such a brush
might ever come, it had come now. All the world,--so she said to
herself,--was talking of Mr. Furnival and Lady Mason. All the world
knew of her injuries.
Martha Biggs was second cousin to Mr. Crook's brother's wife--I speak
of that Mr. Crook who had been professionally known for the last
thirty years as the partner of Mr. Round. It had been whispered in
the office in Bedford Row--such whisper I fear originating with old
Round--that Mr. Furnival admired his fair client. Hence light had
fallen upon the eyes of Martha Biggs, and the secret of her friend
was known to her. Need I trace the course of the tale with closer
accuracy?
"Oh, Kitty," she had said to her friend with tears that evening--"I
cannot bear to keep it to myself any more! I cannot when I see you
suffering so. It's awful."
"Cannot bear to keep what, Martha?"
"Oh, I know. Indeed all the town knows it now."
"Knows what? You know how I hate that kind of thing. If you have
anything to say, speak out."
This was not kind to such a faithful friend as Martha Biggs; but
Martha knew what sacrifices friendship such as hers demanded, and she
did not resent it.
"Well then;--if I am to speak out, it's--Lady Mason. And I do say
that it's shameful, quite shameful;--and awful; I call it awful."
Mrs. Furnival had not said much at the time to encourage the fidelity
of her friend, but she was thus justified in declaring to herself
that her husband's goings on had become the talk of all the
world;--and his goings on especially in that quarter in which she
had long regarded them with so much dismay. She was not therefore
prepared to welcome him on this occasion of his coming home to dinner
by such tokens of friendly feeling as the dismissal of her friend to
Red Lion Square. When the moment for absolute war should come Martha
Biggs should be made to depart.
Mr. Furnival when he arrived at his own house was in a thoughtful
mood, and disposed for quiet and domestic meditation. Had Miss Biggs
not been there he could have found it in his heart to tell everything
about Lady Mason to his wife, asking her counsel as to what he should
do with reference to that marriage. Could he have done so, all would
have been well; but this was not possible while that red-faced lump
of a woman from Red Lion Square sat in his drawing-room, making
everything uncomfortable.
The three sat down to dinner together, and very little was said
between them. Mr. Furnival did try to be civil to his wife, but wives
sometimes have a mode of declining such civilities without committing
themselves to overt acts of war. To Miss Biggs Mr. Furnival could not
bring himself to say anything civil, seeing that he hated her; but
such words as he did speak to her she received with grim griffin-like
austerity, as though she were ever meditating on the awfulness of his
conduct. And so in truth she was. Why his conduct was more awful in
her estimation since she had heard Lady Mason's name mentioned, than
when her mind had been simply filled with general ideas of vague
conjugal infidelity, I cannot say; but such was the case. "I call it
awful," were the first words she again spoke when she found herself
once more alone with Mrs. Furnival in the drawing-room. And then
she sat down over the fire, thinking neither of her novel nor her
knitting, with her mind deliciously filled with the anticipation of
coming catastrophes.
"If I sit up after half-past ten would you mind going to bed?" said
Mrs. Furnival, when they had been in the drawing-room about ten
minutes.
"Oh no, not in the least," said Miss Biggs. "I'll be sure to go."
But she thought it very unkind, and she felt as a child does who is
deceived in a matter of being taken to the play. If no one goes the
child can bear it. But to see others go, and to be left behind, is
too much for the feelings of any child,--or of Martha Biggs.
Mr. Furnival had no inclination for sitting alone over his wine on
this occasion. Had it been possible for him he would have preferred
to have gone quickly up stairs, and to have taken his cup of coffee
from his wife's hand with some appreciation of domestic comfort. But
there could be no such comfort to him while Martha Biggs was there,
so he sat down stairs, sipping his port according to his custom, and
looking into the fire for a solution of his difficulties about Lady
Mason. He began to wish that he had never seen Lady Mason, and to
reflect that the intimate friendship of pretty women often brings
with it much trouble. He was resolved on one thing. He would not go
down into court and fight that battle for Lady Orme. Were he to do so
the matter would have taken quite a different phase,--one that he had
not at all anticipated. In case that his present client should then
have become Lady Orme, Mr. Chaffanbrass and Mr. Solomon Aram might
carry on the battle between them, with such assistance as they might
be able to get from Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile. He became angry as
he drank his port, and in his anger he swore that it should be so.
And then as his anger became hot at the close of his libations, he
remembered that Martha Biggs was up stairs, and became more angry
still. And thus when he did go into the drawing-room at some time in
the evening not much before ten, he was not in a frame of mind likely
to bring about domestic comfort.
He walked across the drawing-room, sat down in an arm-chair by the
table, and took up the last number of a review, without speaking to
either of them. Whereupon Mrs. Furnival began to ply her needle which
had been lying idly enough upon her work, and Martha Biggs fixed
her eyes intently upon her book. So they sat twenty minutes without
a word being spoken, and then Mrs. Furnival inquired of her lord
whether he chose to have tea.
"Of course I shall,--when you have it," said he.
"Don't mind us," said Mrs. Furnival.
"Pray don't mind me," said Martha Biggs. "Don't let me be in the
way."
"No, I won't," said Mr. Furnival. Whereupon Miss Biggs again jumped
up in her chair as though she had been electrified. It may be
remembered that on a former occasion Mr. Furnival had sworn at
her--or at least in her presence.
"You need not be rude to a lady in your own house, because she is my
friend," said Mrs. Furnival.
"Bother," said Mr. Furnival. "And now if we are going to have any
tea, let us have it."
"I don't think I'll mind about tea to-night, Mrs. Furnival," said
Miss Biggs, having received a notice from her friend's eye that it
might be well for her to depart. "My head aches dreadful, and I shall
be better in bed. Good-night, Mrs. Furnival." And then she took her
candle and went away.
For the next five minutes there was not a word said. No tea had been
ordered, although it had been mentioned. Mrs. Furnival had forgotten
it among the hot thoughts that were running through her mind, and Mr.
Furnival was indifferent upon the subject. He knew that something was
coming, and he resolved that he would have the upper hand let that
something be what it might. He was being ill used,--so he said to
himself--and would not put up with it.
At last the battle began. He was not looking, but he heard her first
movement as she prepared herself. "Tom!" she said, and then the voice
of the war goddess was again silent. He did not choose to answer her
at the instant, and then the war goddess rose from her seat and again
spoke. "Tom!" she said, standing over him and looking at him.
"What is it you mean?" said he, allowing his eyes to rise to her face
over the top of his book.
"Tom!" she said for the third time.
"I'll have no nonsense, Kitty," said he. "If you have anything to
say, say it."
Even then she had intended to be affectionate,--had so intended at
the first commencement of her address. She had no wish to be a war
goddess. But he had assisted her attempt at love by no gentle word,
by no gentle look, by no gentle motion. "I have this to say," she
replied; "you are disgracing both yourself and me, and I will not
remain in this house to be a witness to it."
"Then you may go out of the house." These words, be it remembered,
were uttered not by the man himself, but by the spirit of port wine
within the man.
"Tom, do you say that;--after all?"
"By heavens I do say it! I'll not be told in my own drawing-room,
even by you, that I am disgracing myself."
"Then why do you go after that woman down to Hamworth? All the world
is talking of you. At your age too! You ought to be ashamed of
yourself."
"I can't stand this," said he, getting up and throwing the book from
him right across the drawing-room floor; "and, by heavens! I won't
stand it."
"Then why do you do it, sir?"
"Kitty, I believe the devil must have entered into you to drive you
mad."
"Oh, oh, oh! very well, sir. The devil in the shape of drink
and lust has entered into you. But you may understand this;
I--will--not--consent to live with you while such deeds as these are
being done." And then without waiting for another word, she stormed
out of the room.
VOLUME II.