LADY MASON RETURNS HOME.
Lady Mason remained at The Cleeve for something more than a week
after that day on which she made her confession, during which time
she was fully committed to take her trial at the next assizes at
Alston on an indictment for perjury. This was done in a manner that
astonished even herself by the absence of all publicity or outward
scandal. The matter was arranged between Mr. Matthew Round and Mr.
Solomon Aram, and was so arranged in accordance with Mr. Furnival's
wishes. Mr. Furnival wrote to say that at such a time he would call
at The Cleeve with a post-chaise. This he did, and took Lady Mason
with him before two magistrates for the county who were sitting at
Doddinghurst, a village five miles distant from Sir Peregrine's
house. Here by agreement they were met by Lucius Mason who was
to act as one of the bailsmen for his mother's appearance at the
trial. Sir Peregrine was the other, but it was brought about by
amicable management between the lawyers that his appearance before
the magistrates was not required. There were also there the two
attorneys, Bridget Bolster the witness, one Torrington from London
who brought with him the absolute deed executed on that 14th of
July with reference to the then dissolved partnership of Mason and
Martock; and there was Mr. Samuel Dockwrath. I must not forget to say
that there was also a reporter for the press, provided by the special
care of the latter-named gentleman.
[Illustration: Lady Mason going before the Magistrates.]
The arrival in the village of four different vehicles, and the sight
of such gentlemen as Mr. Furnival, Mr. Round, and Mr. Aram, of course
aroused some excitement there; but this feeling was kept down as much
as possible, and Lady Mason was very quickly allowed to return to the
carriage. Mr. Dockwrath made one or two attempts to get up a scene,
and to rouse a feeling of public anger against the lady who was to be
tried; but the magistrates put him down. They also seemed to be fully
impressed with a sense of Lady Mason's innocence in the teeth of the
evidence which was given against her. This was the general feeling
on the minds of all people,--except of those who knew most about her.
There was an idea that affairs had so been managed by Mr. Joseph
Mason and Mr. Dockwrath that another trial was necessary, but that
the unfortunate victim of Mr. Mason's cupidity and Mr. Dockwrath's
malice would be washed white as snow when the day of that trial came.
The chief performers on the present occasion were Round and Aram, and
a stranger to such proceedings would have said that they were acting
in concert. Mr. Round pressed for the indictment, and brought forward
in a very short way the evidence of Bolster and Torrington. Mr. Aram
said that his client was advised to reserve her defence, and was
prepared with bail to any amount. Mr. Round advised the magistrates
that reasonable bail should be taken, and then the matter was
settled. Mr. Furnival sat on a chair close to the elder of those two
gentlemen, and whispered a word to him now and then. Lady Mason was
provided with an arm-chair close to Mr. Furnival's right hand, and
close to her right hand stood her son. Her face was covered by a
deep veil, and she was not called upon during the whole proceeding
to utter one audible word. A single question was put to her by the
presiding magistrate before the committal was signed, and it was
understood that some answer was made to it; but this answer reached
the ears of those in the room by means of Mr. Furnival's voice.
It was observed by most of those there that during the whole of the
sitting Lady Mason held her son's hand; but it was observed also that
though Lucius permitted this he did not seem to return the pressure.
He stood there during the entire proceedings without motion or
speech, looking very stern. He signed the bail-bond, but even that
he did without saying a word. Mr. Dockwrath demanded that Lady Mason
should be kept in custody till the bond should also have been signed
by Sir Peregrine; but upon this Mr. Round remarked that he believed
Mr. Joseph Mason had intrusted to him the conduct of the case, and
the elder magistrate desired Mr. Dockwrath to abstain from further
interference. "All right," said he to a person standing close to
him. "But I'll be too many for them yet, as you will see when she is
brought before a judge and jury." And then Lady Mason stood committed
to take her trial at the next Alston assizes.
When Lucius had come forward to hand her from the post-chaise in
which she arrived Lady Mason had kissed him, but this was all
the intercourse that then passed between the mother and son. Mr.
Furnival, however, informed him that his mother would return to Orley
Farm on the next day but one.
"She thinks it better that she should be at home from this time to
the day of the trial," said Mr. Furnival; "and on the whole Sir
Peregrine is inclined to agree with her."
"I have thought so all through," said Lucius.
"But you are to understand that there is no disagreement between your
mother and the family at The Cleeve. The idea of the marriage has, as
I think very properly, been laid aside."
"Of course it was proper that it should be laid aside."
"Yes; but I must beg you to understand that there has been no
quarrel. Indeed you will, I have no doubt, perceive that, as Mrs.
Orme has assured me that she will see your mother constantly till the
time comes."
"She is very kind," said Lucius. But it was evident from the tone of
his voice that he would have preferred that all the Ormes should have
remained away. In his mind this time of suffering to his mother and
to him was a period of trial and probation,--a period, if not of
actual disgrace, yet of disgrace before the world; and he thought
that it would have best become his mother to have abstained from
all friendship out of her own family, and even from all expressed
sympathy, till she had vindicated her own purity and innocence. And
as he thought of this he declared to himself that he would have
sacrificed everything to her comfort and assistance if she would only
have permitted it. He would have loved her, and been tender to her,
receiving on his own shoulders all those blows which now fell so
hardly upon hers. Every word should have been a word of kindness;
every look should have been soft and full of affection. He would have
treated her not only with all the love which a son could show to a
mother, but with all the respect and sympathy which a gentleman could
feel for a lady in distress. But then, in order that such a state
of things as this should have existed, it would have been necessary
that she should have trusted him. She should have leaned upon him,
and,--though he did not exactly say so in talking over the matter
with himself, still he thought it,--on him and on him only. But
she had declined to lean upon him at all. She had gone away to
strangers,--she, who should hardly have spoken to a stranger during
these sad months! She would not have his care; and under those
circumstances he could only stand aloof, hold up his head, and look
sternly. As for her innocence, that was a matter of course. He knew
that she was innocent. He wanted no one to tell him that his own
mother was not a thief, a forger, a castaway among the world's worst
wretches. He thanked no one for such an assurance. Every honest man
must sympathise with a woman so injured. It would be a necessity
of his manhood and of his honesty! But he would have valued most a
sympathy which would have abstained from all expression till after
that trial should be over. It should have been for him to act and for
him to speak during this terrible period. But his mother who was a
free agent had willed it otherwise.
And there had been one other scene. Mr. Furnival had introduced Lady
Mason to Mr. Solomon Aram, having explained to her that it would be
indispensable that Mr. Aram should see her, probably once or twice
before the trial came on.
"But cannot it be done through you?" said Lady Mason. "Though of
course I should not expect that you can so sacrifice your valuable
time."
"Pray believe me that that is not the consideration," said Mr.
Furnival. "We have engaged the services of Mr. Aram because he is
supposed to understand difficulties of this sort better than any
other man in the profession, and his chance of rescuing you from
this trouble will be much better if you can bring yourself to have
confidence in him--full confidence." And Mr. Furnival looked into
her face as he spoke with an expression of countenance that was very
eloquent. "You must not suppose that I shall not do all in my power.
In my proper capacity I shall be acting for you with all the energy
that I can use; but the case has now assumed an aspect which requires
that it should be in an attorney's hands." And then Mr. Furnival
introduced her to Mr. Solomon Aram.
Mr. Solomon Aram was not, in outward appearance, such a man as Lady
Mason, Sir Peregrine Orme, or others quite ignorant in such matters
would have expected. He was not a dirty old Jew with a hooked
nose and an imperfect pronunciation of English consonants. Mr.
Chaffanbrass, the barrister, bore more resemblance to a Jew of that
ancient type. Mr. Solomon Aram was a good-looking man about forty,
perhaps rather over-dressed, but bearing about him no other sign of
vulgarity. Nor at first sight would it probably have been discerned
that he was of the Hebrew persuasion. He had black hair and a
well-formed face; but his eyes were closer than is common with most
of us, and his nose seemed to be somewhat swollen about the bridge.
When one knew that he was a Jew one saw that he was a Jew; but in the
absence of such previous knowledge he might have been taken for as
good a Christian as any other attorney.
Mr. Aram raised his hat and bowed as Mr. Furnival performed the
ceremony of introduction. This was done while she was still seated in
the carriage, and as Lucius was waiting at the door to hand her down
into the house where the magistrates were sitting. "I am delighted to
have the honour of making your acquaintance," said Mr. Aram.
Lady Mason essayed to mutter some word; but no word was audible, nor
was any necessary. "I have no doubt," continued the attorney, "that
we shall pull through this little difficulty without any ultimate
damage whatsoever. In the mean time it is of course disagreeable to
a lady of your distinction." And then he made another bow. "We are
peculiarly happy in having such a tower of strength as Mr. Furnival,"
and then he bowed to the barrister.
"And my old friend Mr. Chaffanbrass is another tower of strength. Eh,
Mr. Furnival?" And so the introduction was over.
Lady Mason had quite understood Mr. Furnival;--had understood both
his words and his face, when he told her how indispensable it was
that she should have full confidence in this attorney. He had meant
that she should tell him all. She must bring herself to confess
everything to this absolute stranger. And then--for the first
time--she felt sure that Mr. Furnival had guessed her secret. He also
knew it, but it would not suit him that any one should know that he
knew it! Alas, alas! would it not be better that all the world should
know it and that there might be an end? Had not her doom been told to
her? Even if the paraphernalia of justice,--the judge, and the jury,
and the lawyers, could be induced to declare her innocent before all
men, must she not confess her guilt to him,--to that one,--for whose
verdict alone she cared? If he knew her to be guilty what matter who
might think her innocent? And she had been told that all must be
declared to him. That property was his,--but his only through her
guilt; and that property must be restored to its owner! So much Sir
Peregrine Orme had declared to be indispensable,--Sir Peregrine Orme,
who in other matters concerning this case was now dark enough in his
judgment. On that point, however, there need be no darkness. Though
the heaven should fall on her devoted head, that tardy justice must
be done!
When this piece of business had been completed at Doddinghurst, Lady
Mason returned to The Cleeve, whither Mr. Furnival accompanied her.
He had offered his seat in the post-chaise to Lucius, but the young
man had declared that he was unwilling to go to The Cleeve, and
consequently there was no opportunity for conversation between Lady
Mason and her son. On her arrival she went at once to her room, and
there she continued to live as she had done for the last few days
till the morning of her departure came. To Mrs. Orme she told all
that had occurred, as Mr. Furnival did also to Sir Peregrine. On that
occasion Sir Peregrine said very little to the barrister, merely
bowing his head courteously as each different point was explained, in
intimation of his having heard and understood what was said to him.
Mr. Furnival could not but see that his manner was entirely altered.
There was no enthusiasm now, no violence of invective against
that wretch at Groby Park, no positive assurance that his guest's
innocence must come out at the trial bright as the day! He showed no
inclination to desert Lady Mason's cause, and indeed insisted on
hearing the particulars of all that had been done; but he said very
little, and those few words adverted to the terrible sadness of the
subject. He seemed too to be older than he had been, and less firm
in his gait. That terrible sadness had already told greatly upon
him. Those about him had observed that he had not once crossed the
threshold of his hall door since the morning on which Lady Mason had
taken to her own room.
"He has altered his mind," said the lawyer to himself as he was
driven back to the Hamworth station. "He also now believes her to be
guilty." As to his own belief, Mr. Furnival held no argument within
his own breast, but we may say that he was no longer perplexed by
much doubt upon the matter.
And then the morning came for Lady Mason's departure. Sir Peregrine
had not seen her since she had left him in the library after her
confession, although, as may be remembered, he had undertaken to do
so. But he had not then known how Mrs. Orme might act when she heard
the story. As matters had turned out Mrs. Orme had taken upon herself
the care of their guest, and all intercourse between Lady Mason and
Sir Peregrine had passed through his daughter-in-law. But now, on
this morning, he declared that he would go to her up stairs in Mrs.
Orme's room, and himself hand her down through the hall into the
carriage. Against this Lady Mason had expostulated, but in vain.
"It will be better so, dear," Mrs. Orme had said. "It will teach the
servants and people to think that he still respects and esteems you."
"But he does not!" said she, speaking almost sharply. "How would it
be possible? Ah, me--respect and esteem are gone from me for ever!"
"No, not for ever," replied Mrs. Orme. "You have much to bear, but no
evil lasts for ever."
"Will not sin last for ever;--sin such as mine?"
"Not if you repent;--repent and make such restitution as is possible.
Lady Mason, say that you have repented. Tell me that you have asked
Him to pardon you!" And then, as had been so often the case during
these last days, Lady Mason sat silent, with hard, fixed eyes, with
her hands clasped, and her lips compressed. Never as yet had Mrs.
Orme induced her to say that she had asked for pardon at the cost of
telling her son that the property which he called his own had been
procured for him by his mother's fraud. That punishment, and that
only, was too heavy for her neck to bear. Her acquittal in the law
court would be as nothing to her if it must be followed by an avowal
of her guilt to her own son!
Sir Peregrine did come up stairs and handed her down through the hall
as he had proposed. When he came into the room she did not look at
him, but stood leaning against the table, with her eyes fixed upon
the ground.
"I hope you find yourself better," he said, as he put out his hand to
her. She did not even attempt to make a reply, but allowed him just
to touch her fingers.
"Perhaps I had better not come down," said Mrs. Orme. "It will be
easier to say good-bye here."
"Good-bye," said Lady Mason, and her voice sounded in Sir Peregrine's
ears like a voice from the dead.
"God bless you and preserve you," said Mrs. Orme, "and restore you to
your son. God will bless you if you will ask Him. No; you shall not
go without a kiss." And she put out her arms that Lady Mason might
come to her.
The poor broken wretch stood for a moment as though trying to
determine what she would do; and then, almost with a shriek, she
threw herself on to the bosom of the other woman, and burst into a
flood of tears. She had intended to abstain from that embrace; she
had resolved that she would do so, declaring to herself that she was
not fit to be held against that pure heart; but the tenderness of the
offer had overcome her; and now she pressed her friend convulsively
in her arms, as though there might yet be comfort for her as long as
she could remain close to one who was so good to her.
"I shall come and see you very often," said Mrs. Orme,--"almost
daily."
"No, no, no," exclaimed the other, hardly knowing the meaning of her
own words.
"But I shall. My father is waiting now, dear, and you had better go."
Sir Peregrine had turned to the window, where he stood shading his
eyes with his hand. When he heard his daughter-in-law's last words he
again came forward, and offered Lady Mason his arm. "Edith is right,"
he said. "You had better go now. When you are at home you will be
more composed." And then he led her forth, and down the stairs,
and across the hall, and with infinite courtesy put her into the
carriage. It was a moment dreadful to Lady Mason; but to Sir
Peregrine, also, it was not pleasant. The servants were standing
round, officiously offering their aid,--those very servants who had
been told about ten days since that this lady was to become their
master's wife and their mistress. They had been told so with no
injunction as to secrecy, and the tidings had gone quickly through
the whole country. Now it was known that the match was broken off,
that the lady had been living up stairs secluded for the last week,
and that she was to leave the house this morning, having been
committed during the last day or two to stand her trial at the
assizes for some terrible offence! He succeeded in his task. He
handed her into the carriage, and then walked back through his own
servants to the library without betraying to them the depth of his
sorrow; but he knew that the last task had been too heavy for him.
When it was done he shut himself up and sat there for hours without
moving. He also declared to himself that the world was too hard for
him, and that it would be well for him that he should die. Never till
now had he come into close contact with crime, and now the criminal
was one whom as a woman he had learned to love, and whom he had
proposed to the world as his wife! The criminal was one who had
declared her crime in order to protect him, and whom therefore he was
still bound in honour to protect!
When Lady Mason arrived at Orley Farm her son was waiting at the door
to receive her. It should have been said that during the last two
days,--that is ever since the committal,--Mrs. Orme had urged upon
her very strongly that it would be well for her to tell everything to
her son. "What! now, at once?" the poor woman had said. "Yes, dear,
at once," Mrs. Orme had answered. "He will forgive you, for I know he
is good. He will forgive you, and then the worst of your sorrow will
be over." But towards doing this Lady Mason had made no progress even
in her mind. In the violence of her own resolution she had brought
herself to tell her guilt to Sir Peregrine. That effort had nearly
destroyed her, and now she knew that she could not frame the words
which should declare the truth to Lucius. What; tell him the tale;
whereas her whole life had been spent in an effort to conceal it from
him? No. She knew that she could not do it. But the idea of doing so
made her tremble at the prospect of meeting him.
"I am very glad you have come home, mother," said Lucius, as he
received her. "Believe me that for the present this will be the best
place for both of us," and then he led her into the house.
"Dear Lucius, it would always be best for me to be with you, if it
were possible."
He did not accuse her of hypocrisy in saying this; but he could not
but think that had she really thought and felt as she now spoke
nothing need have prevented her remaining with him. Had not his house
ever been open to her? Had he not been willing to make her defence
the first object of his life? Had he not longed to prove himself a
good son? But she had gone from him directly that troubles came upon
her, and now she said that she would fain be with him always--if it
were possible! Where had been the impediment? In what way had it been
not possible? He thought of this with bitterness as he followed her
into the house, but he said not a word of it. He had resolved that he
would be a pattern son, and even now he would not rebuke her.
She had lived in this house for some four-and-twenty years, but it
seemed to her in no way like her home. Was it not the property of her
enemy, Joseph Mason? and did she not know that it must go back into
that enemy's hands? How then could it be to her like a home? The room
in which her bed was laid was that very room in which her sin had
been committed. There in the silent hours of the night, while the
old man lay near his death in the adjoining chamber, had she with
infinite care and much slow preparation done that deed, to undo
which, were it possible, she would now give away her existence,--ay,
her very body and soul. And yet for years she had slept in that room,
if not happily at least tranquilly. It was matter of wonder to her
now, as she looked back at her past life, that her guilt had sat so
lightly on her shoulders. The black unwelcome guest, the spectre
of coming evil, had ever been present to her; but she had seen it
indistinctly, and now and then the power had been hers to close her
eyes. Never again could she close them. Nearer to her, and still
nearer, the spectre came; and now it sat upon her pillow, and put
its claw upon her plate; it pressed upon her bosom with its fiendish
strength, telling her that all was over for her in this world:--ay,
and telling her worse even than that. Her return to her old home
brought with it but little comfort.
And yet she was forced to make an effort at seeming glad that she had
come there,--a terrible effort! He, her son, was not gay or disposed
to receive from her a show of happiness; but he did think that she
should compose herself and be tranquil, and that she should resume
the ordinary duties of her life in her ordinarily quiet way. In
all this she was obliged to conform herself to his wishes,--or to
attempt so to conform herself, though her heart should break in the
struggle. If he did but know it all, then he would suffer her to be
quiet,--suffer her to lie motionless in her misery! Once or twice she
almost said to herself that she would make the effort; but when she
thought of him and his suffering, of his pride, of the respect which
he claimed from all the world as the honest son of an honest mother,
of his stubborn will and stiff neck, which would not bend, but would
break beneath the blow. She had done all for him,--to raise him in
the world; and now she could not bring herself to undo the work that
had cost her so dearly!
That evening she went through the ceremony of dinner with him, and he
was punctilious in waiting upon her as though bread and meat could
comfort her or wine could warm her heart. There was no warmth for her
in all the vintages of the south, no comfort though gods should bring
to her their banquets. She was heavy laden,--laden to the breaking of
her back, and did not know where to lay her burden down.
"Mother," he said to her that night, lifting his head from the books
over which he had been poring, "There must be a few words between us
about this affair. They might as well be spoken now."
"Yes, Lucius; of course--if you desire it."
"There can be no doubt now that this trial will take place."
"No doubt;" she said. "There can be no doubt."
"Is it your wish that I should take any part in it?"
She remained silent, for some moments before she answered him,
thinking,--striving to think, how best she might do him pleasure.
"What part?" she said at last.
"A man's part, and a son's part. Shall I see these lawyers and learn
from them what they are at? Have I your leave to tell them that you
want no subterfuge, no legal quibbles,--that you stand firmly on your
own clear innocence, and that you defy your enemies to sully it?
Mother, those who have sent you to such men as that cunning attorney
have sent you wrong,--have counselled you wrong."
"It cannot be changed now, Lucius."
"It can be changed, if you will tell me to change it."
And then again she paused. Ah, think of her anguish as she sought for
words to answer him! "No, Lucius," she said, "it cannot be changed
now."
"So be it, mother; I will not ask again," and then he moodily
returned to his books, while she returned to her thoughts. Ah, think
of her misery!