THE EVENING BEFORE THE TRIAL.
The eve of the trial had now come, and still there had been no
confidence between the mother and the son. No words of kindness had
been spoken with reference to that terrible event which was so near
at hand. Lucius had in his manner been courteous to his mother, but
he had at the same time been very stern. He had seemed to make no
allowance for her sorrows, never saying to her one of those soft
words which we all love to hear from those around us when we are
suffering. Why should she suffer thus? Had she chosen to lean upon
him, he would have borne on her behalf all this trouble and vexation.
As to her being guilty--as to her being found guilty by any twelve
jurymen in England,--no such idea ever entered his head. I have said
that many people had begun to suspect; but no such suspicions had
reached his ears. What man, unless it should be Dockwrath, would
whisper to the son the possibility of his mother's guilt? Dockwrath
had done more than whisper it; but the words of such a man could have
no avail with him against his mother's character.
On that day Mrs. Orme had been with Lady Mason for some hours, and
had used all her eloquence to induce the mother even then to divulge
her secret to her son. Mrs. Orme had suggested that Sir Peregrine
should tell him; she had offered to tell him herself; she had
proposed that Lady Mason should write to Lucius. But all had been of
no avail. Lady Mason had argued, and had argued with some truth, that
it was too late to tell him now, with the view of obtaining from him
support during the trial. If he were now told, he would not recover
from the first shock of the blow in time to appear in court without
showing on his brow the perturbation of his spirit. His terrible
grief would reveal the secret to every one. "When it is over,"--she
had whispered at last, as Mrs. Orme continued to press upon her the
absolute necessity that Lucius should give up the property,--"when it
is over, you shall do it."
With this Mrs. Orme was obliged to rest contented. She had not the
heart to remind Lady Mason how probable it was that the truth might
be told out to all the world during the next two or three days;--that
a verdict of Guilty might make any further telling unnecessary. And
indeed it was not needed that she should do so. In this respect Lady
Mason was fully aware of the nature of the ground on which she stood.
Mrs. Orme had sat with her the whole afternoon, only leaving herself
time to be ready for Sir Peregrine's dinner; and as she left her she
promised to be with her early on the following morning to go with her
down to the court. Mr. Aram was also to come to the Farm for her, and
a closed carriage had been ordered from the inn for the occasion.
"You won't let him prevent you?" were the last words she spoke, as
Mrs. Orme then left her.
"He will not wish to do so," said Mrs. Orme. "He has already given me
his permission. He never goes back from his word, you know."
This had been said in allusion to Sir Peregrine. When Mrs. Orme had
first proposed to accompany Lady Mason to the court and to sit by her
side during the whole trial, he had been much startled. He had been
startled, and for a time had been very unwilling to accede to such
a step. The place which she now proposed to fill was one which he
had intended to fill himself;--but he had intended to stand by an
innocent, injured lady, not a perpetrator of midnight forgery. He
had intended to support a spotless being, who would then be his
wife,--not a woman who for years had lived on the proceeds of fraud
and felony, committed by herself!
"Edith," he had said, "you know that I am unwilling to oppose you;
but I think that in this your feelings are carrying you too far."
"No, father," she answered, not giving way at all, or showing herself
minded to be turned from her purpose by anything he might say.
"Do not think so; think of her misery. How could she endure it by
herself?"
"Think of her guilt, Edith!"
"I will leave others to think of that. But, father, her guilt will
not stain me. Are we not bound to remember what injury she might
have done to us, and how we might still have been ignorant of all
this, had not she herself confessed it--for our sakes--for our sakes,
father?"
And then Sir Peregrine gave way. When this argument was used to him,
he was forced to yield. It was true that, had not that woman been as
generous as she was guilty, he would now have been bound to share her
shame. The whole of this affair, taken together, had nearly laid him
prostrate; but that which had gone the farthest towards effecting
this ruin, was the feeling that he owed so much to Lady Mason. As
regarded the outer world, the injury to him would have been much more
terrible had he married her; men would then have declared that all
was over with him; but as regards the inner man, I doubt whether he
would not have borne that better. It was easier for him to sustain
an injury than a favour,--than a favour from one whom his judgment
compelled him to disown as a friend.
But he had given way, and it was understood at The Cleeve that Mrs.
Orme was to remain by Lady Mason's side during the trial. To the
general household there was nothing in this that was wonderful. They
knew only of the old friendship. To them the question of her guilt
was still an open question. As others had begun to doubt, so had
they; but no one then presumed that Sir Peregrine or Mrs. Orme had
any doubt. That they were assured of her innocence was the conviction
of all Hamworth and its neighbourhood.
"He never goes back from his word, you know," Mrs. Orme had said;
and then she kissed Lady Mason, and went her way. She had never left
her without a kiss, had never greeted her without a warm pressure of
the hand, since that day on which the secret had been told in Sir
Peregrine's library. It would be impossible to describe how great
had been the worth of this affection to Lady Mason; but it may
almost be said that it had kept her alive. She herself had said but
little about it, uttering but few thanks; but not the less had she
recognised the value of what had been done for her. She had even
become more free herself in her intercourse with Mrs. Orme,--more
open in her mode of speech,--had put herself more on an equality with
her friend, since there had ceased to be anything hidden between
them. Previously Lady Mason had felt, and had occasionally expressed
the feeling, that she was hardly fit to associate on equal terms with
Mrs. Orme; but now there was none of this,--now, as they sat together
for hours and hours, they spoke, and argued, and lived together as
though they were equal. But nevertheless, could she have shown her
love by any great deed, there was nothing which Lady Mason would not
have done for Mrs. Orme.
She was now left alone, and according to her daily custom would
remain there till the servant told her that Mr. Lucius was waiting
for her in the dining-room. In an early part of this story I have
endeavoured to describe how this woman sat alone, with deep sorrow in
her heart and deep thought on her mind, when she first learned what
terrible things were coming on her. The idea, however, which the
reader will have conceived of her as she sat there will have come
to him from the skill of the artist, and not from the words of the
writer. If that drawing is now near him, let him go back to it. Lady
Mason was again sitting in the same room--that pleasant room, looking
out through the verandah on to the sloping lawn, and in the same
chair; one hand again rested open on the arm of the chair, while the
other supported her face as she leaned upon her elbow; and the sorrow
was still in her heart, and the deep thought in her mind. But the
lines of her face were altered, and the spirit expressed by it was
changed. There was less of beauty, less of charm, less of softness;
but in spite of all that she had gone through there was more of
strength,--more of the power to resist all that this world could do
to her.
It would be wrong to say that she was in any degree a hypocrite. A
man is no more a hypocrite because his manner and gait when he is
alone are different from those which he assumes in company, than he
is for wearing a dressing-gown in the morning, whereas he puts on a
black coat in the evening. Lady Mason in the present crisis of her
life endeavoured to be true in all her dealings with Mrs. Orme; but
nevertheless Mrs. Orme had not yet read her character. As she now sat
thinking of what the morrow would bring upon her,--thinking of all
that the malice of that man Dockwrath had brought upon her,--she
resolved that she would still struggle on with a bold front. It
had been brought home to her that he, her son, the being for whom
her soul had been imperilled, and all her hopes for this world
destroyed,--that he must be told of his mother's guilt and shame. Let
him be told, and then let him leave her while his anguish and the
feeling of his shame were hot upon him. Should she be still a free
woman when this trial was over she would move herself away at once,
and then let him be told. But still it would be well--well for his
sake, that his mother should not be found guilty by the law. It was
still worth her while to struggle. The world was very hard to her,
bruising her to the very soul at every turn, allowing her no hope,
offering to her no drop of cool water in her thirst. But still for
him there was some future career; and that career perhaps need not be
blotted by the public notice of his mother's guilt. She would still
fight against her foes,--still show to that court, and to the world
that would then gaze at her, a front on which guilt should not seem
to have laid its hideous, defacing hand.
There was much that was wonderful about this woman. While she was
with those who regarded her with kindness she could be so soft and
womanly; and then, when alone, she could be so stern and hard! And
it may be said that she felt but little pity for herself. Though she
recognised the extent of her misery, she did not complain of it. Even
in her inmost thoughts her plaint was this,--that he, her son, should
be doomed to suffer so deeply for her sin! Sometimes she would utter
to that other mother a word of wailing, in that he would not be soft
to her; but even in that she did not mean to complain of him. She
knew in her heart of hearts that she had no right to expect such
softness. She knew that it was better that it should be as it now
was. Had he stayed with her from morn till evening, speaking kind
words to her, how could she have failed to tell him? In sickness it
may irk us because we are not allowed to take the cool drink that
would be grateful; but what man in his senses would willingly swallow
that by which his very life would be endangered? It was thus she
thought of her son, and what his love might have been to her.
Yes; she would still bear up, as she had borne up at that other
trial. She would dress herself with care, and go down into the court
with a smooth brow. Men, as they looked at her, should not at once
say, "Behold the face of a guilty woman!" There was still a chance
in the battle, though the odds were so tremendously against her. It
might be that there was but little to which she could look forward,
even though the verdict of the jury should be in her favour; but all
that she regarded as removed from her by a great interval. She had
promised that Lucius should know all after the trial,--that he should
know all, so that the property might be restored to its rightful
owner; and she was fully resolved that this promise should be kept.
But nevertheless there was a long interval. If she could battle
through this first danger,--if by the skill of her lawyers she could
avert the public declaration of her guilt, might not the chances of
war still take some further turn in her favour? And thus, though
her face was pale with suffering and thin with care, though she
had realised the fact that nothing short of a miracle could save
her,--still she would hope for that miracle.
But the absolute bodily labour which she was forced to endure was so
hard upon her! She would dress herself, and smooth her brow for the
trial; but that dressing herself, and that maintenance of a smooth
brow would impose upon her an amount of toil which would almost
overtask her physical strength. O reader, have you ever known what it
is to rouse yourself and go out to the world on your daily business,
when all the inner man has revolted against work, when a day of rest
has seemed to you to be worth a year of life? If she could have
rested now, it would have been worth many years of life,--worth all
her life. She longed for rest,--to be able to lay aside the terrible
fatigue of being ever on the watch. From the burden of that necessity
she had never been free since her crime had been first committed.
She had never known true rest. She had not once trusted herself to
sleep without the feeling that her first waking thought would be
one of horror, as the remembrance of her position came upon her. In
every word she spoke, in every trifling action of her life, it was
necessary that she should ask herself how that word and action might
tell upon her chances of escape. She had striven to be true and
honest,--true and honest with the exception of that one deed. But
that one deed had communicated its poison to her whole life. Truth
and honesty,--fair, unblemished truth and open-handed, fearless
honesty,--had been impossible to her. Before she could be true and
honest it would be necessary that she should go back and cleanse
herself from the poison of that deed. Such cleansing is to be done.
Men have sinned deep as she had sinned, and, lepers though they have
been, they have afterwards been clean. But that task of cleansing
oneself is not an easy one;--the waters of that Jordan in which it is
needful to wash are scalding hot. The cool neighbouring streams of
life's pleasant valleys will by no means suffice.
Since she had been home at Orley Farm she had been very scrupulous
as to going down into the parlour both at breakfast and at dinner,
so that she might take her meals with her son. She had not as yet
omitted this on one occasion, although sometimes the task of sitting
through the dinner was very severe upon her. On the present occasion,
the last day that remained to her before the trial--perhaps the last
evening on which she would ever watch the sun set from those windows,
she thought that she would spare herself. "Tell Mr. Lucius," she said
to the servant who came to summon her, "that I would be obliged to
him if he would sit down without me. Tell him that I am not ill, but
that I would rather not go down to dinner!" But before the girl was
on the stairs she had changed her mind. Why should she now ask for
this mercy? What did it matter? So she gathered herself up from the
chair, and going forth from the room, stopped the message before it
was delivered. She would bear on to the end.
She sat through the dinner, and answered the ordinary questions
which Lucius put to her with her ordinary voice, and then, as was
her custom, she kissed his brow as she left the room. It must be
remembered that they were still mother and son, and that there had
been no quarrel between them. And now, as she went up stairs, he
followed her into the drawing-room. His custom had been to remain
below, and though he had usually seen her again during the evening,
there had seldom or never been any social intercourse between them.
On the present occasion, however, he followed her, and closing the
door for her as he entered the room, he sat himself down on the sofa,
close to her chair.
"Mother," he said, putting out his hand and touching her arm, "things
between us are not as they should be."
She shuddered, not at the touch, but at the words. Things were not as
they should be between them. "No," she said. "But I am sure of this,
Lucius, that you never had an unkind thought in your heart towards
me."
"Never, mother. How could I,--to my own mother, who has ever been so
good to me? But for the last three months we have been to each other
nearly as though we were strangers."
"But we have loved each other all the same," said she.
"But love should beget close social intimacy, and above all close
confidence in times of sorrow. There has been none such between us."
What could she say to him? It was on her lips to promise him that
such love should again prevail between them as soon as this trial
should be over; but the words stuck in her throat. She did not dare
to give him so false an assurance. "Dear Lucius," she said, "if it
has been my fault, I have suffered for it."
"I do not say that it is your fault;--nor will I say that it has been
my own. If I have seemed harsh to you, I beg your pardon."
"No, Lucius, no; you have not been harsh. I have understood you
through it all."
"I have been grieved because you did not seem to trust me;--but let
that pass now. Mother, I wish that there may be no unpleasant feeling
between us when you enter on this ordeal to-morrow."
"There is none;--there shall be none."
"No one can feel more keenly,--no one can feel so keenly as I do, the
cruelty with which you are treated. The sight of your sorrow has made
me wretched."
"Oh, Lucius!"
"I know how pure and innocent you are--"
"No, Lucius, no."
"But I say yes; and knowing that, it has cut me to the quick to see
them going about a defence of your innocence by quips and quibbles,
as though they were struggling for the escape of a criminal."
"Lucius!" And she put her hands up, praying for mercy, though she
could not explain to him how terribly severe were his words.
"Wait a moment, mother. To me such men as Mr. Chaffanbrass and his
comrades are odious. I will not, and do not believe that their
services are necessary to you--"
"But, Lucius, Mr. Furnival--"
"Yes; Mr. Furnival! It is he that has done it all. In my heart I wish
that you had never known Mr. Furnival;--never known him as a lawyer
that is," he added, thinking of his own strong love for the lawyer's
daughter.
"Do not upbraid me now, Lucius. Wait till it is all over."
"Upbraid you! No. I have come to you now that we may be friends.
As things have gone so far, this plan of defence must of course be
carried on. I will say no more about that. But, mother, I will go
into the court with you to-morrow. That support I can at any rate
give you, and they shall see that there is no quarrel between us."
But Lady Mason did not desire this. She would have wished that he
might have been miles away from the court had that been possible.
"Mrs. Orme is to be with me," she said.
Then again there came a black frown upon his brow,--a frown such as
there had often been there of late. "And will Mrs. Orme's presence
make the attendance of your own son improper?"
"Oh, no; of course not. I did not mean that, Lucius."
"Do you not like to have me near you?" he asked; and as he spoke he
rose up, and took her hand as he stood before her.
She gazed for a moment into his face while the tears streamed down
from her eyes, and then rising from her chair, she threw herself on
to his bosom and clasped him in her arms. "My boy! my boy!" she said.
"Oh, if you could be near me, and away from this--away from this!"
She had not intended thus to give way, but the temptation had been
too strong for her. When she had seen Mrs. Orme and Peregrine
together,--when she had heard Peregrine's mother, with words
expressed in a joyful tone, affect to complain of the inroads which
her son made upon her, she had envied her that joy. "Oh, if it could
be so with me also!" she always thought; and the words too had more
than once been spoken. Now at last, in this last moment, as it might
be, of her life at home, he had come to her with kindly voice, and
she could not repress her yearning.
"Lucius," she said; "dearest Lucius! my own boy!" And then the tears
from her eyes streamed hot on to his bosom.
"Mother," he said, "it shall be so. I will be with you."
But she was now thinking of more than this--of much more. Was it
possible for her to tell him now? As she held him in her arms, hiding
her face upon his breast, she struggled hard to speak the word. Then
in the midst of that struggle, while there was still something like a
hope within her that it might be done, she raised her head and looked
up into his face. It was not a face pleasant to look at, as was that
of Peregrine Orme. It was hard in its outlines, and perhaps too manly
for his age. But she was his mother, and she loved it well. She
looked up at it, and raising her hands she stroked his cheeks. She
then kissed him again and again, with warm, clinging kisses. She
clung to him, holding him close to her, while the sobs which she had
so long repressed came forth from her with a violence that terrified
him. Then again she looked up into his face with one long wishful
gaze; and after that she sank upon the sofa and hid her face within
her hands. She had made the struggle, but it had been of no avail.
She could not tell him that tale with her own voice.
"Mother," he said, "what does this mean? I cannot understand such
grief as this." But for a while she was quite unable to answer. The
flood-gates were at length opened, and she could not restrain the
torrent of her sobbings.
"You do not understand how weak a woman can be," she said at last.
But in truth he understood nothing of a woman's strength. He sat down
by her, now and then taking her by the hand when she would leave it
to him, and in his way endeavoured to comfort her. All comfort, we
may say, was out of the question; but by degrees she again became
tranquil. "It shall be to-morrow as you will have it. You will not
object to her being with me also?"
He did object, but he could not say so. He would have much preferred
to be the only friend near to her, but he felt that he could not
deny her the solace of a woman's aid and a woman's countenance. "Oh
no," he said, "if you wish it." He would have found it impossible to
define even to himself the reason for his dislike to any assistance
coming from the family of the Ormes; but the feeling was there,
strong within his bosom.
"And when this is over, mother, we will go away," he said. "If you
would wish to live elsewhere, I will sell the property. It will be
better perhaps after all that has passed. We will go abroad for a
while."
She could make no answer to this except pressing his hand. Ah, if
he had been told--if she had allowed Mrs. Orme to do that kindness
for her, how much better for her would it now have been! Sell the
property! Ah, me! Were they not words of fearful sound in her
ears,--words of terrible import?
"Yes, it shall be so," she said, putting aside that last proposition
of his. "We will go together to-morrow. Mr. Aram said that he would
sit at my side, but he cannot object to your being there between us."
Mr. Aram's name was odious to Lucius Mason. His close presence would
be odious to him. But he felt that he could urge nothing against an
arrangement that had now become necessary. Mr. Aram, with all his
quibbles, had been engaged, and the trial must now be carried through
with all the Aram tactics.
After that Lucius left his mother, and took himself out into the dark
night, walking up and down on the road between his house and the
outer gate, endeavouring to understand why his mother should be so
despondent. That she must fear the result of the trial, he thought,
was certain, but he could not bring himself to have any such fear. As
to any suspicion of her guilt,--no such idea had even for one moment
cast a shadow upon his peace of mind.