HOW CAN I SAVE HIM?
"I will not consent to live with you while such deeds as these are
being done." Such were the last words which Mrs. Furnival spoke as
she walked out of her own drawing-room, leaving her husband still
seated in his arm-chair.
What was he to do? Those who would hang by the letter of the law in
such matters may say that he should have rung the bell, sent for his
wife, explained to her that obedience was a necessary duty on her
part, and have finished by making her understand that she must and
would continue to live wherever he chose that she should live. There
be those who say that if a man be anything of a man, he can always
insure obedience in his own household. He has the power of the purse
and the power of the law; and if, having these, he goes to the wall,
it must be because he is a poor creature. Those who so say have
probably never tried the position.
Mr. Furnival did not wish to send for his wife, because by doing so
he would have laid bare his sore before his servants. He could not
follow her, because he knew that he should not find her alone in her
room. Nor did he wish for any further parley, because he knew that
she would speak loud, and probably sob--nay, very possibly proceed to
a fainting fit. And, moreover, he much doubted whether he would have
the power to keep her in the house if it should be her pleasure to
leave it. And then what should he do? The doing of something in such
a catastrophe was, he thought, indispensable.
Was ever a man so ill treated? Was ever jealousy so groundless? Here
was a woman, with whom he was on the point of quarrelling, who was
engaged to be married to another man, whom for months past he had
only seen as a client; and on her account he was to be told by his
wife that she would not consent to live with him! Yes; it was quite
indispensable that he should do something.
At last he went to bed, and slept upon it; not sharing the marital
couch, but occupying his own dressing-room. In the morning, however,
as he sat down to his solitary breakfast, he was as far as ever from
having made up his mind what that something should be. A message
was brought to him by an elderly female servant with a grave
face,--the elderly servant who had lived with them since their
poorer days,--saying that "Missus would not come down to breakfast
this morning." There was no love sent, no excuse as to illness, no
semblance of a peaceable reason, assumed even to deceive the servant.
It was clear to Mr. Furnival that the servant was intended to know
all about it. "And Miss Biggs says, sir, that if you please you're
not to wait for her."
"Very well, that'll do," said Mr. Furnival, who had not the slightest
intention of waiting for Miss Biggs; and then he sat himself down to
eat his bacon, and bethink himself what step he would take with this
recreant and troublesome spouse.
While he was thus employed the post came. The bulk of his letters as
a matter of course went to his chambers; but there were those among
his correspondents who wrote to him at Harley Street. To-day he
received three or four letters, but our concern will be with one
only. This one bore the Hamworth post-mark, and he opened it the
first, knowing that it came from Lady Mason. It was as follows:--
_Private_
THE CLEEVE, 23rd January, 18--.
MY DEAR MR. FURNIVAL,
I am so very sorry that I did not see you to-day! Indeed,
your leaving without seeing me has made me unhappy, for I
cannot but think that it shows that you are displeased.
Under these circumstances I must write to you and explain
to you how that came to pass which Sir Peregrine told you.
I have not let him know that I am writing to you, and I
think for his sake that I had better not. But he is so
good, and has shown to me such nobleness and affection,
that I can hardly bring myself to have any secret from
him.
You may conceive what was my surprise when I first
understood that he wished to make me his wife. It is
hardly six months since I thought that I was almost
exceeding my station in visiting at his house. Then by
degrees I began to be received as a friend, and at last I
found myself treated with the warmest love. But still I
had no thought of this, and I knew that it was because of
my great trouble that Sir Peregrine and Mrs. Orme were so
good to me.
When he sent for me into his library and told me what
he wished, I could not refuse him anything. I promised
obedience to him as though I were a child; and in this way
I found myself engaged to be his wife. When he told me
that he would have it so, how could I refuse him, knowing
as I do all that he has done for me, and thinking of it
as I do every minute? As for loving him, of course I love
him. Who that knows him does not love him? He is made to
be loved. No one is so good and so noble as he. But of
love of that sort I had never dreamed. Ah me, no!--a woman
burdened as I am does not think of love.
He told me that he would have it so, and I said that I
would obey him; and he tried to prove to me that in this
dreadful trial it would be better for me. But I would not
wish it on that account. He has done enough for me without
my causing him such injury. When I argued it with him,
trying to say that others would not like it, he declared
that Mrs. Orme would be well pleased, and, indeed, so she
told me afterwards herself. And thus I yielded to him,
and agreed that I would be his wife. But I was not happy,
thinking that I should injure him; and I promised only
because I could not deny him.
But the day before yesterday young Mr. Orme, his grandson,
came to me and told me that such a marriage would be very
wrong. And I do believe him. He said that old family
friends would look down upon his grandfather and ridicule
him if he were to make this marriage. And I can see that
it would be so. I would not have such injury come upon him
for the gain of all the world to myself. So I have made
up my mind to tell him that it cannot be, even though I
should anger him. And I fear that it will anger him, for
he loves to have his own way,--especially in doing good;
and he thinks that our marriage would rescue me altogether
from the danger of this trial.
So I have made up my mind to tell him, but I have not
found courage to do it yet; and I do wish, dear Mr.
Furnival, that I might see you first. I fear that I may
have lost your friendship by what has already been done.
If so, what will become of me? When I heard that you had
gone without asking for me, my heart sank within me. I
have two friends whom I so dearly love, and I would fain
do as both direct me, if that may be possible. And now I
propose to go up to London to-morrow, and to be at your
chambers about one o'clock. I have told Sir Peregrine and
Mrs. Orme that I am going; but he is too noble-minded
to ask questions now that he thinks I may feel myself
constrained to tell him. So I will call in Lincoln's Inn
at one o'clock, and I trust that if possible you will see
me. I am greatly in want of your advice, for in truth I
hardly know what to do.
Pray believe me to be always your attached friend,
MARY MASON.
There was hardly a word,--I believe not a word in that letter that
was not true. Her acceptance of Sir Peregrine had been given exactly
in the manner and for the reasons there explained; and since she had
accepted him she had been sorry for having done so, exactly in the
way now described. She was quite willing to give up her husband if it
was thought best,--but she was not willing to give up her friend. She
was not willing to give up either friend, and her great anxiety was
so to turn her conduct that she might keep them both.
Mr. Furnival was gratified as he read the letter--gratified in spite
of his present frame of mind. Of course he would see her;--and of
course, as he himself well knew, would take her again into favour.
But he must insist on her carrying out her purpose of abandoning the
marriage project. If, arising from this abandonment, there should
be any coolness on the part of Sir Peregrine, Mr. Furnival would
not regret it. Mr. Furnival did not feel quite sure whether in the
conduct of this case he was not somewhat hampered by the--energetic
zeal of Sir Peregrine's line of defence.
When he had finished the perusal of his letter and the consideration
which it required, he put it carefully into his breast coat pocket,
envelope and all. What might not happen if he left that envelope
about in that house? And then he took it out again, and observed upon
the cover the Hamworth post-mark, very clear. Post-marks now-a-days
are very clear, and everybody may know whence a letter comes. His
letters had been brought to him by the butler; but was it not
probable that that ancient female servant might have seen them first,
and have conveyed to her mistress intelligence as to this post-mark?
If so--; and Mr. Furnival almost felt himself to be guilty as he
thought of it.
While he was putting on his greatcoat in the hall, the butler
assisting him, the ancient female servant came to him again. There
was a look about her face which told of war, and declared her
to be, if not the chief lieutenant of his wife, at any rate her
colour-serjeant. Martha Biggs no doubt was chief lieutenant. "Missus
desires me to ask," said she, with her grim face and austere voice,
"whether you will be pleased to dine at home to-day?" And yet the
grim, austere woman could be affectionate and almost motherly in her
ministrations to him when things were going well, and had eaten his
salt and broken his bread for more than twenty years. All this was
very hard! "Because," continued the woman, "missus says she thinks
she shall be out this evening herself."
"Where is she going?"
"Missus didn't tell me, sir."
He almost determined to go up stairs and call upon her to tell him
what she was going to do, but he remembered that if he did it would
surely make a row in the house. Miss Biggs would put her head out
of some adjacent door and scream, "Oh laws!" and he would have to
descend his own stairs with the consciousness that all his household
were regarding him as a brute. So he gave up that project. "No," he
said, "I shall not dine at home;" and then he went his way.
"Missus is very aggravating," said the butler, as soon as the door
was closed.
"You don't know what cause she has, Spooner," said the housekeeper
very solemnly.
"Is it at his age? I believe it's all nonsense, I do;--feminine
fancies, and vagaries of the weaker sex."
"Yes, I dare say; that's what you men always say. But if he don't
look out he'll find missus'll be too much for him. What'd he do if
she were to go away from him?"
"Do?--why live twice as jolly. It would only be the first rumpus of
the thing."
I am afraid that there was some truth in what Spooner said. It is the
first rumpus of the thing, or rather the fear of that, which keeps
together many a couple.
At one o'clock there came a timid female rap at Mr. Furnival's
chamber door, and the juvenile clerk gave admittance to Lady Mason.
Crabwitz, since the affair of that mission down at Hamworth, had
so far carried a point of his, that a junior satellite was now
permanently installed; and for the future the indignity of opening
doors, and "just stepping out" into Chancery Lane, would not await
him. Lady Mason was dressed all in black,--but this was usual
with her when she left home. To-day, however, there was about her
something blacker and more sombre than usual. The veil which she wore
was thick, and completely hid her face; and her voice, as she asked
for Mr. Furnival, was low and plaintive. But, nevertheless, she had
by no means laid aside the charm of womanhood; or it might be more
just to say that the charm of womanhood had not laid aside her. There
was that in her figure, step, and gait of going which compelled men
to turn round and look at her. We all know that she had a son some
two or three and twenty years of age, and that she had not been quite
a girl when she married. But, notwithstanding this, she was yet
young; and though she made no effort--no apparent effort--to maintain
the power and influence which beauty gives, yet she did maintain it.
He came forward and took her by the hand with all his old
affectionate regard, and, muttering some words of ordinary
salutation, led her to a chair. It may be that she muttered something
also, but if so the sound was too low to reach his ears. She sat down
where he placed her, and as she put her hand on the table near her
arm, he saw that she was trembling.
"I got your letter this morning," he said, by way of beginning the
conversation.
"Yes," she said; and then, finding that it was not possible that he
should hear her through her veil, she raised it. She was very pale,
and there was a look of painful care, almost of agony, round her
mouth. He had never seen her look so pale,--but he said to himself at
the same time that he had never seen her look so beautiful.
"And to tell you the truth, Lady Mason, I was very glad to get it.
You and I had better speak openly to each other about this;--had we
not?"
"Oh, yes," she said. And then there was a struggle within her not to
tremble--a struggle that was only too evident. She was aware of this,
and took her hand off the table.
"I vexed you because I did not see you at The Cleeve the other day."
"Because I thought that you were angry with me."
"And I was so."
"Oh, Mr. Furnival!"
"Wait a moment, Lady Mason. I was angry;--or rather sorry and
vexed to hear of that which I did not approve. But your letter has
removed that feeling. I can now understand the manner in which
this engagement was forced upon you; and I understand also--do I
not?--that the engagement will not be carried out?"
She did not answer him immediately, and he began to fear that
she repented of her purpose. "Because," said he, "under no other
circumstances could I--"
"Stop, Mr. Furnival. Pray do not be severe with me." And she looked
at him with eyes which would almost have melted his wife,--and which
he was quite unable to withstand. Had it been her wish, she might
have made him promise to stand by her, even though she had persisted
in her engagement.
"No, no; I will not be severe."
"I do not wish to marry him," she went on to say. "I have resolved to
tell him so. That was what I said in my letter."
"Yes, yes."
"I do not wish to marry him. I would not bring his gray hairs with
sorrow to the grave--no, not to save myself from--" And then, as she
thought of that from which she desired to save herself, she trembled
again, and was silent.
"It would create in men's minds such a strong impression against you,
were you to marry him at this moment!"
"It is of him I am thinking;--of him and Lucius. Mr. Furnival, they
might do their worst with me, if it were not for that thought. My
boy!" And then she rose from her chair, and stood upright before him,
as though she were going to do or say some terrible thing. He still
kept his chair, for he was startled, and hardly knew what he would be
about. That last exclamation had come from her almost with a shriek,
and now her bosom was heaving as though her heart would burst with
the violence of her sobbing. "I will go," she said. "I had better
go." And she hurried away towards the door.
"No, no; do not go yet." And he rose to stop her, but she was quite
passive. "I do not know why you should be so much moved now." But
he did know. He did understand the very essence and core of her
feelings;--as probably may the reader also. But it was impossible
that he should allow her to leave him in her present state.
She sat down again, and leaning both her arms upon the table, hid
her face within her hands. He was now standing, and for the moment
did not speak to her. Indeed he could not bring himself to break the
silence, for he saw her tears, and could still hear the violence of
her sobs. And then she was the first to speak. "If it were not for
him," she said, raising her head, "I could bear it all. What will he
do? what will he do?"
"You mean," said Mr. Furnival, speaking very slowly, "if
the--verdict--should go against us."
"It will go against us," she said. "Will it not?--tell me the truth.
You are so clever, you must know. Tell me how it will go. Is there
anything I can do to save him?" And she took hold of his arm with
both her hands, and looked up eagerly--oh, with such terrible
eagerness!--into his face.
Would it not have been natural now that he should have asked her to
tell him the truth? And yet he did not dare to ask her. He thought
that he knew it. He felt sure,--almost sure, that he could look into
her very heart, and read there the whole of her secret. But still
there was a doubt,--enough of doubt to make him wish to ask the
question. Nevertheless he did not ask it.
"Mr. Furnival," she said; and as she spoke there was a hardness came
over the soft lines of her feminine face; a look of courage which
amounted almost to ferocity, a look which at the moment recalled
to his mind, as though it were but yesterday, the attitude and
countenance she had borne as she stood in the witness-box at that
other trial, now so many years since,--that attitude and countenance
which had impressed the whole court with so high an idea of her
courage. "Mr. Furnival, weak as I am, I could bear to die here on the
spot,--now--if I could only save him from this agony. It is not for
myself I suffer." And then the terrible idea occurred to him that she
might attempt to compass her escape by death. But he did not know
her. That would have been no escape for her son.
"And you too think that I must not marry him?" she said, putting up
her hands to her brows as though to collect her thoughts.
"No; certainly not, Lady Mason."
"No, no. It would be wrong. But, Mr. Furnival, I am so driven that I
know not how I should act. What if I should lose my mind?" And as she
looked at him there was that about her eyes which did tell him that
such an ending might be possible.
"Do not speak in such a way," he said.
"No, I will not. I know that it is wrong. I will go down there, and
tell him that it must not--must not be so. But I may stay at The
Cleeve;--may I not?"
"Oh, certainly--if he wishes it,--after your understanding with him."
"Ah; he may turn me out, may he not? And they are so kind to me,
so gentle and so good. And Lucius is so stern. But I will go back.
Sternness will perhaps be better for me now than love and kindness."
In spite of everything, in the teeth of his almost certain conviction
of her guilt, he would now, even now, have asked her to come to his
own house, and have begged her to remain there till the trial was
over,--if only he had had the power to do so. What would it be to him
what the world might say, if she should be proved guilty? Why should
not he have been mistaken as well as others? And he had an idea
that if he could get her into his own hands he might still bring
her through triumphantly,--with assistance from Solomon Aram and
Chaffanbrass. He was strongly convinced of her guilt, but by no means
strongly convinced that her guilt could be proved. But then he had no
house at the present moment that he could call his own. His Kitty,
the Kitty of whom he still sometimes thought with affection,--that
Kitty whose soft motherly heart would have melted at such a story
of a woman's sorrows, if only it had been rightly approached,--that
Kitty was now vehemently hostile, hostile both to him and to this
very woman for whom he would have asked her care.
"May God help me!" said the poor woman. "I do not know where else to
turn for aid. Well; I may go now then. And, indeed, why should I take
up your time further?"
But before she did go, Mr. Furnival gave her much counsel. He did not
ask as to her guilt, but he did give her that advice which he would
have thought most expedient had her guilt been declared and owned. He
told her that very much would depend on her maintaining her present
position and standing; that she was so to carry herself as not to
let people think that she was doubtful about the trial; and that
above all things she was to maintain a composed and steadfast manner
before her son. As to the Ormes, he bade her not to think of leaving
The Cleeve, unless she found that her remaining there would be
disagreeable to Sir Peregrine after her explanation with him. That
she was to decline the marriage engagement, he was very positive; on
that subject there was to be no doubt.
And then she went; and as she passed down the dark passage into the
new square by the old gate of the Chancellor's court, she met a stout
lady. The stout lady eyed her savagely, but was not quite sure as to
her identity. Lady Mason in her trouble passed the stout lady without
taking any notice of her.