WHAT REBEKAH DID FOR HER SON.
Every day Mrs. Orme went up to Orley Farm and sat for two hours
with Lady Mason. We may say that there was now no longer any secret
between them, and that she whose life had been so innocent, so pure,
and so good, could look into the inmost heart and soul of that other
woman whose career had been supported by the proceeds of one terrible
life-long iniquity. And now, by degrees, Lady Mason would begin to
plead for herself, or rather, to put in a plea for the deed she had
done, acknowledging, however, that she, the doer of it, had fallen
almost below forgiveness through the crime. "Was he not his son as
much as that other one; and had I not deserved of him that he should
do this thing for me?" And again "Never once did I ask of him any
favour for myself from the day that I gave myself to him, because he
had been good to my father and mother. Up to the very hour of his
death I never asked him to spend a shilling on my own account. But I
asked him to do this thing for his child; and when at last he refused
me, I told him that I myself would cause it to be done."
"You told him so?"
"I did; and I think that he believed me. He knew that I was one who
would act up to my word. I told him that Orley Farm should belong to
our babe."
"And what did he say?"
"He bade me beware of my soul. My answer was very terrible, and I
will not shock you with it. Ah me! it is easy to talk of repentance,
but repentance will not come with a word."
In these days Mrs. Orme became gradually aware that hitherto she had
comprehended but little of Lady Mason's character. There was a power
of endurance about her, and a courage that was almost awful to the
mind of the weaker, softer, and better woman. Lady Mason, during
her sojourn at The Cleeve, had seemed almost to sink under her
misfortune; nor had there been any hypocrisy, any pretence in her
apparent misery. She had been very wretched;--as wretched a human
creature, we may say, as any crawling God's earth at that time. But
she had borne her load, and, bearing it, had gone about her work,
still striving with desperate courage as the ground on which she trod
continued to give way beneath her feet, inch by inch. They had known
and pitied her misery; they had loved her for misery--as it is in
the nature of such people to do;--but they had little known how great
had been the cause for it. They had sympathised with the female
weakness which had succumbed when there was hardly any necessity for
succumbing. Had they then known all, they would have wondered at the
strength which made a struggle possible under such circumstances.
Even now she would not yield. I have said that there had been no
hypocrisy in her misery during those weeks last past; and I have said
so truly. But there had perhaps been some pretences, some acting of a
part, some almost necessary pretence as to her weakness. Was she not
bound to account to those around her for her great sorrow? And was it
not above all things needful that she should enlist their sympathy
and obtain their aid? She had been obliged to cry to them for help,
though obliged also to confess that there was little reason for such
crying. "I am a woman, and weak," she had said, "and therefore cannot
walk alone, now that the way is stony." But what had been the truth
with her? How would she have cried, had it been possible for her to
utter the sharp cry of her heart? The waters had been closing over
her head, and she had clutched at a hand to save her; but the owner
of that hand might not know how imminent, how close was the danger.
But in these days, as she sat in her own room with Mrs. Orme, the
owner of that hand might know everything. The secret had been told,
and there was no longer need for pretence. As she could now expose
to view the whole load of her wretchedness, so also could she make
known the strength that was still left for endurance. And these two
women who had become endeared to each other under such terrible
circumstances, came together at these meetings with more of the
equality of friendship than had ever existed at The Cleeve. It may
seem strange that it should be so--strange that the acknowledged
forger of her husband's will should be able to maintain a better
claim for equal friendship than the lady who was believed to be
innocent and true! But it was so. Now she stood on true ground;--now,
as she sat there with Mrs. Orme, she could speak from her heart,
pouring forth the real workings of her mind. From Mrs. Orme she had
no longer aught to fear; nor from Sir Peregrine. Everything was known
to them, and she could now tell of every incident of her crime with
an outspoken boldness that in itself was incompatible with the humble
bearing of an inferior in the presence of one above her.
And she did still hope. The one point to be gained was this; that
her son, her only son, the child on whose behalf this crime had been
committed, should never know her shame, or live to be disgraced by
her guilt. If she could be punished, she would say, and he left in
ignorance of her punishment, she would not care what indignities
they might heap upon her. She had heard of penal servitude, of years,
terribly long, passed in all the misery of vile companionship; of
solitary confinement, and the dull madness which it engenders; of
all the terrors of a life spent under circumstances bearable only by
the uneducated, the rude, and the vile. But all this was as nothing
to her compared with the loss of honour to her son. "I should live,"
she would say; "but he would die. You cannot ask me to become his
murderer!"
It was on this point that they differed always. Mrs. Orme would
have had her confess everything to Lucius, and strove to make her
understand that if he were so told, the blow would fall less heavily
than it would do if the knowledge came to him from her conviction at
the trial. But the mother would not bring herself to believe that it
was absolutely necessary that he should ever know it. "There was the
property! Yes; but let the trial come, and if she were acquitted,
then let some arrangement be made about that. The lawyers might find
out some cause why it should be surrendered." But Mrs. Orme feared
that if the trial were over, and the criminal saved from justice,
the property would not be surrendered. And then how would that wish
of repentance be possible? After all was not that the one thing
necessary?
I will not say that Mrs. Orme in these days ever regretted that her
sympathy and friendship had been thus bestowed, but she frequently
acknowledged to herself that the position was too difficult for her.
There was no one whose assistance she could ask; for she felt that
she could not in this matter ask counsel from Sir Peregrine. She
herself was good, and pure, and straightminded, and simple in her
perception of right and wrong; but Lady Mason was greater than she in
force of character,--a stronger woman in every way, endowed with more
force of will, with more power of mind, with greater energy, and
a swifter flow of words. Sometimes she almost thought it would be
better that she should stay away from Orley Farm; but then she
had promised to be true to her wretched friend, and the mother's
solicitude for her son still softened the mother's heart.
In these days, till the evening came, Lucius Mason never made his way
into his mother's sitting-room, which indeed was the drawing-room of
the house,--and he and Mrs. Orme, as a rule, hardly ever met each
other. If he saw her as she entered or left the place, he would lift
his hat to her and pass by without speaking. He was not admitted to
those councils of his mother's, and would not submit to ask after
his mother's welfare or to inquire as to her affairs from a stranger.
On no other subject was it possible that he should now speak to the
daily visitor and the only visitor at Orley Farm. All this Mrs. Orme
understood, and saw that the young man was alone and comfortless. He
passed his hours below, in his own room, and twice a day his mother
found him in the parlour, and then they sat through their silent,
miserable meals. She would then leave him, always saying some soft
words of motherly love, and putting her hand either upon his shoulder
or his arm. On such occasions he was never rough to her, but he would
never respond to her caress. She had ill-treated him, preferring in
her trouble the assistance of a stranger to his assistance. She would
ask him neither for his money nor his counsel, and as she had thus
chosen to stand aloof from him, he also would stand aloof from her.
Not for always,--as he said to himself over and over again; for his
heart misgave him when he saw the lines of care so plainly written
on his mother's brow. Not for always should it be so. The day of the
trial would soon be present, and the day of the trial would soon be
over; then again would they be friends. Poor young man! Unfortunate
young man!
Mrs. Orme saw all this, and to her it was very terrible. What would
be the world to her, if her boy should frown at her, and look black
when she caressed him? And she thought that it was the fault of
the mother rather than of the son; as indeed was not all that
wretchedness the mother's fault? But then again, there was the one
great difficulty. How could any step be taken in the right direction
till the whole truth had been confessed to him?
The two women were sitting together in that up stairs room; and the
day of the trial was now not a full week distant from them, when Mrs.
Orme again tried to persuade the mother to intrust her son with the
burden of all her misery. On the preceding day Mr. Solomon Aram had
been down at Orley Farm, and had been with Lady Mason for an hour.
"He knows the truth!" Lady Mason had said to her friend. "I am sure
of that."
"But did he ask you?"
"Oh, no, he did not ask me that. He asked of little things that
happened at the time; but from his manner I am sure he knows it all.
He says--that I shall escape."
"Did he say escape?"
"No; not that word, but it was the same thing. He spoke to Lucius,
for I saw them on the lawn together."
"You do not know what he said to him?"
"No; for Lucius would not speak to me, and I could not ask him." And
then they both were silent, for Mrs. Orme was thinking how she could
bring about that matter that was so near her heart. Lady Mason was
seated in a large old-fashioned arm-chair, in which she now passed
nearly all her time. The table was by her side, but she rarely turned
herself to it. She sat leaning with her elbow on her arm, supporting
her face with her hand; and opposite to her, so close that she might
look into her face and watch every movement of her eyes, sat Mrs.
Orme,--intent upon that one thing, that the woman before her should
be brought to repent the evil she had done.
"And you have not spoken to Lucius?"
"No," she answered. "No more than I have told you. What could I say
to him about the man?"
"Not about Mr. Aram. It might not be necessary to speak of him. He
has his work to do; and I suppose that he must do it in his own way?"
"Yes; he must do it, in his own way. Lucius would not understand."
"Unless you told him everything, of course he could not understand."
"That is impossible."
"No, Lady Mason, it is not impossible. Dear Lady Mason, do not turn
from me in that way. It is for your sake,--because I love you, that I
press you to do this. If he knew it all--"
"Could you tell your son such a tale?" said Lady Mason, turning upon
her sharply, and speaking almost with an air of anger.
Mrs. Orme was for a moment silenced, for she could not at once bring
herself to conceive it possible that she could be so circumstanced.
But at last she answered. "Yes," she said, "I think I could, if--."
And then she paused.
"If you had done such a deed! Ah, you do not know, for the doing of
it would be impossible to you. You can never understand what was my
childhood, and how my young years were passed. I never loved anything
but him;--that is, till I knew you, and--and--." But instead of
finishing her sentence she pointed down towards The Cleeve. "How,
then, can I tell him? Mrs. Orme, I would let them pull me to pieces,
bit by bit, if in that way I could save him."
"Not in that way," said Mrs. Orme; "not in that way."
But Lady Mason went on pouring forth the pent-up feelings of her
bosom, not regarding the faint words of her companion. "Till he lay
in my arms I had loved nothing. From my earliest years I had been
taught to love money, wealth, and property; but as to myself the
teachings had never come home to me. When they bade me marry the old
man because he was rich, I obeyed them,--not caring for his riches,
but knowing that it behoved me to relieve them of the burden of my
support. He was kinder to me than they had been, and I did for him
the best I could. But his money and his wealth were little to me. He
told me over and over again that when he died I should have the means
to live, and that was enough. I would not pretend to him that I cared
for the grandeur of his children who despised me. But then came my
baby, and the world was all altered for me. What could I do for the
only thing that I had ever called my own? Money and riches they had
told me were everything."
"But they had told you wrong," said Mrs. Orme, as she wiped the tears
from her eyes.
"They had told me falsely. I had heard nothing but falsehoods from my
youth upwards," she answered fiercely. "For myself I had not cared
for these things; but why should not he have money and riches and
land? His father had them to give over and above what had already
made those sons and daughters so rich and proud. Why should not this
other child also be his father's heir? Was he not as well born as
they? was he not as fair a child? What did Rebekah do, Mrs. Orme? Did
she not do worse; and did it not all go well with her? Why should my
boy be an Ishmael? Why should I be treated as the bondwoman, and see
my little one perish of thirst in this world's wilderness?"
"No Saviour had lived and died for the world in those days," said
Mrs. Orme.
"And no Saviour had lived and died for me," said the wretched woman,
almost shrieking in her despair. The lines of her face were terrible
to be seen as she thus spoke, and an agony of anguish loaded her brow
upon which Mrs. Orme was frightened to look. She fell on her knees
before the wretched woman, and taking her by both her hands strove
all she could to find some comfort for her.
"Ah, do not say so. Do not say that. Whatever may come, that
misery--that worst of miseries need not oppress you. If that indeed
were true!"
"It was true;--and how should it be otherwise?"
"But now,--now. It need not be true now. Lady Mason, for your soul's
sake say that it is so now."
"Mrs. Orme," she said, speaking with a singular quiescence of tone
after the violence of her last words, "it seems to me that I care
more for his soul than for my own. For myself I can bear even that.
But if he were a castaway--!"
I will not attempt to report the words that passed between them for
the next half-hour, for they concerned a matter which I may not dare
to handle too closely in such pages as these. But Mrs. Orme still
knelt there at her feet, pressing Lady Mason's hands, pressing
against her knees, as with all the eagerness of true affection she
endeavoured to bring her to a frame of mind that would admit of some
comfort. But it all ended in this:--Let everything be told to Lucius,
so that the first step back to honesty might be taken,--and then let
them trust to Him whose mercy can ever temper the wind to the shorn
lamb.
But, as Lady Mason had once said to herself, repentance will not come
with a word. "I cannot tell him," she said at last. "It is a thing
impossible. I should die at his feet before the words were spoken."
"I will do it for you," said Mrs. Orme, offering from pure charity
to take upon herself a task perhaps as heavy as any that a human
creature could perform. "I will tell him."
"No, no," screamed Lady Mason, taking Mrs. Orme by both her arms as
she spoke. "You will not do so: say that you will not. Remember your
promise to me. Remember why it is that you know it all yourself."
"I will not, surely, unless you bid me," said Mrs. Orme.
"No, no; I do not bid you. Mind, I do not bid you. I will not have it
done. Better anything than that, while it may yet be avoided. I have
your promise; have I not?"
"Oh, yes; of course I should not do it unless you told me." And then,
after some further short stay, during which but little was said, Mrs.
Orme got up to go.
"You will come to me to-morrow," said Lady Mason.
"Yes, certainly," said Mrs. Orme.
"Because I feared that I had offended you."
"Oh, no; I will take no offence from you."
"You should not, for you know what I have to bear. You know, and no
one else knows. Sir Peregrine does not know. He cannot understand.
But you know and understand it all. And, Mrs. Orme, what you do now
will be counted to you for great treasure,--for very great treasure.
You are better than the Samaritan, for he went on his way. But you
will stay till the last. Yes; I know you will stay." And the poor
creature kissed her only friend;--kissed her hands and her forehead
and her breast. Then Mrs. Orme went without speaking, for her heart
was full, and the words would not come to her; but as she went she
said to herself that she would stay till the last.
Standing alone on the steps before the front door she found Lucius
Mason all alone, and some feeling moved her to speak a word to him as
she passed. "I hope all this does not trouble you much, Mr. Mason,"
she said, offering her hand to him. She felt that her words were
hypocritical as she was speaking them; but under such circumstances
what else could she say to him?
"Well, Mrs. Orme, such an episode in one's family history does give
one some trouble. I am unhappy,--very unhappy; but not too much
so to thank you for your most unusual kindness to my poor mother."
And then, having been so far encouraged by her speaking to him, he
accompanied her round the house on to the lawn, from whence a path
led away through a shrubbery on to the road which would take her by
the village of Coldharbour to The Cleeve.
"Mr. Mason," she said, as they walked for a few steps together before
the house, "do not suppose that I presume to interfere between you
and your mother."
"You have a right to interfere now," he said.
"But I think you might comfort her if you would be more with her.
Would it not be better if you could talk freely together about all
this?"
"It would be better," he said; "but I fear that that is no longer
possible. When this trial is over, and the world knows that she is
innocent; when people shall see how cruelly she has been used--"
Mrs. Orme might not tell the truth to him, but she could with
difficulty bear to hear him dwell thus confidently on hopes which
were so false. "The future is in the hands of God, Mr. Mason; but for
the present--"
"The present and the future are both in His hands, Mrs. Orme. I know
my mother's innocence, and would have done a son's part towards
establishing it;--but she would not allow me. All this will soon be
over now, and then, I trust, she and I will once again understand
each other. Till then I doubt whether I shall be wise to interfere.
Good morning, Mrs. Orme; and pray believe that I appreciate at its
full worth all that you are doing for her." Then he again lifted his
hat and left her.
Lady Mason from her window saw them as they walked together, and her
heart for a moment misgave her. Could it be that her friend was
treacherous to her? Was it possible that even now she was telling
everything that she had sworn that she would not tell? Why were they
two together, seeing that they passed each other day by day without
intercourse? And so she watched with anxious eyes till they parted,
and then she saw that Lucius stood idly on the terrace swinging his
stick as he looked down the hill towards the orchard below him. He
would not have stood thus calmly had he already heard his mother's
shame. This she knew, and having laid aside her immediate fears she
retreated back to her chair. No; she would not tell him: at any rate
till the trial should be over.