MRS. ORME TELLS THE STORY.
It was late when that second day's work was over, and when Mrs. Orme
and Lady Mason again found themselves in the Hamworth carriage. They
had sat in court from ten in the morning till past seven, with a
short interval of a few minutes in the middle of the day, and were
weary to the very soul when they left it. Lucius again led out his
mother, and as he did so he expressed to her in strong language his
approval of Mr. Furnival's speech. At last some one had spoken out on
his mother's behalf in that tone which should have been used from the
first. He had been very angry with Mr. Furnival, thinking that the
barrister had lost sight of his mother's honour, and that he was
playing with her happiness. But now he was inclined to forgive him.
Now at last the truth had been spoken in eloquent words, and the
persecutors of his mother had been addressed in language such as it
was fitting that they should hear. To him the last two hours had been
two hours of triumph, and as he passed through the hall of the court
he whispered in his mother's ear that now, at last, as he hoped, her
troubles were at an end.
And another whisper had been spoken as they passed through that hall.
Mrs. Orme went out leaning on the arm of her son, but on the other
side of her was Mr. Aram. He had remained in his seat till they had
begun to move, and then he followed them. Mrs. Orme was already half
way across the court when he made his way up to her side and very
gently touched her arm.
"Sir?" said she, looking round.
"Do not let her be too sure," he said. "Do not let her be over
confident. All that may go for nothing with a jury." Then he lifted
his hat and left her.
All that go for nothing with a jury! She hardly understood this, but
yet she felt that it all should go for nothing if right were done.
Her mind was not argumentative, nor yet perhaps was her sense of true
justice very acute. When Sir Peregrine had once hinted that it would
be well that the criminal should be pronounced guilty, because in
truth she had been guilty, Mrs. Orme by no means agreed with him. But
now, having heard how those wretched witnesses had been denounced,
knowing how true had been the words they had spoken, knowing how
false were those assurances of innocence with which Mr. Furnival had
been so fluent, she felt something of that spirit which had actuated
Sir Peregrine, and had almost thought that justice demanded a verdict
against her friend.
"Do not let her be over-confident," Mr. Aram had said. But in truth
Mrs. Orme, as she had listened to Mr. Furnival's speech, had become
almost confident that Lady Mason would be acquitted. It had seemed to
her impossible that any jury should pronounce her to be guilty after
that speech. The state of her mind as she listened to it had been
very painful. Lady Mason's hand had rested in her own during a great
portion of it; and it would have been natural that she should give
some encouragement to her companion by a touch, by a slight pressure,
as the warm words of praise fell from the lawyer's mouth. But how
could she do so, knowing that the praise was false? It was not
possible to her to show her friendship by congratulating her friend
on the success of a lie. Lady Mason also had, no doubt, felt this,
for after a while her hand had been withdrawn, and they had both
listened in silence, giving no signs to each other as to their
feelings on the subject.
But as they sat together in the carriage Lucius did give vent to his
feelings. "I cannot understand why all that should not have been said
before, and said in a manner to have been as convincing as it was
to-day."
"I suppose there was no opportunity before the trial," said Mrs.
Orme, feeling that she must say something, but feeling also how
impossible it was to speak on the subject with any truth in the
presence both of Lady Mason and her son.
"But an occasion should have been made," said Lucius. "It is
monstrous that my mother should have been subjected to this
accusation for months and that no one till now should have spoken out
to show how impossible it is that she should have been guilty."
"Ah! Lucius, you do not understand," said his mother.
"And I hope I never may," said he. "Why did not the jury get up in
their seats at once and pronounce their verdict when Mr. Furnival's
speech was over? Why should they wait there, giving another day of
prolonged trouble, knowing as they must do what their verdict will
be? To me all this is incomprehensible, seeing that no good can in
any way come from it."
And so he went on, striving to urge his companions to speak upon a
subject which to them did not admit of speech in his presence. It was
very painful to them, for in addressing Mrs. Orme he almost demanded
from her some expression of triumph. "You at least have believed in
her innocence," he said at last, "and have not been ashamed to show
that you did so."
"Lucius," said his mother, "we are very weary; do not speak to us
now. Let us rest till we are at home." Then they closed their eyes
and there was silence till the carriage drove up to the door of Orley
Farm House.
The two ladies immediately went up stairs, but Lucius, with more
cheerfulness about him than he had shown for months past, remained
below to give orders for their supper. It had been a joy to him to
hear Joseph Mason and Dockwrath exposed, and to listen to those words
which had so clearly told the truth as to his mother's history. All
that torrent of indignant eloquence had been to him an enumeration of
the simple facts,--of the facts as he knew them to be,--of the facts
as they would now be made plain to all the world. At last the day had
come when the cloud would be blown away. He, looking down from the
height of his superior intellect on the folly of those below him, had
been indignant at the great delay;--but that he would now forgive.
They had not been long in the house, perhaps about fifteen minutes,
when Mrs. Orme returned down stairs and gently entered the
dining-room. He was still there, standing with his back to the fire
and thinking over the work of the day.
"Your mother will not come down this evening, Mr. Mason."
"Not come down?"
"No; she is very tired,--very tired indeed. I fear you hardly know
how much she has gone through."
"Shall I go to her?" said Lucius.
"No, Mr. Mason, do not do that. I will return to her now.
And--but;--in a few minutes, Mr. Mason, I will come back to you
again, for I shall have something to say to you."
"You will have tea here?"
"I don't know. I think not. When I have spoken to you I will go back
to your mother. I came down now in order that you might not wait for
us." And then she left the room and again went up stairs. It annoyed
him that his mother should thus keep away from him, but still he
did not think that there was any special reason for it. Mrs. Orme's
manner had been strange; but then everything around them in these
days was strange, and it did not occur to him that Mrs. Orme would
have aught to say in her promised interview which would bring to him
any new cause for sorrow.
Lady Mason, when Mrs. Orme returned to her, was sitting exactly in
the position in which she had been left. Her bonnet was off and was
lying by her side, and she was seated in a large arm-chair, again
holding both her hands to the sides of her head. No attempt had been
made to smooth her hair or to remove the dust and soil which had
come from the day's long sitting in the court. She was a woman very
careful in her toilet, and scrupulously nice in all that touched her
person. But now all that had been neglected, and her whole appearance
was haggard and dishevelled.
"You have not told him?" she said.
"No; I have not told him yet; but I have bidden him expect me. He
knows that I am coming to him."
"And how did he look?"
"I did not see his face." And then there was silence between them
for a few minutes, during which Mrs. Orme stood at the back of Lady
Mason's chair with her hand on Lady Mason's shoulder. "Shall I go
now, dear?" said Mrs. Orme.
"No; stay a moment; not yet. Oh, Mrs. Orme!"
"You will find that you will be stronger and better able to bear it
when it has been done."
"Stronger! Why should I wish to be stronger? How will he bear it?"
"It will be a blow to him, of course."
"It will strike him to the ground, Mrs. Orme. I shall have murdered
him. I do not think that he will live when he knows that he is so
disgraced."
"He is a man, and will bear it as a man should do. Shall I do
anything for you before I go?"
"Stay a moment. Why must it be to-night?"
"He must not be in the court to-morrow. And what difference will one
day make? He must know it when the property is given up."
Then there was a knock at the door, and a girl entered with a
decanter, two wine-glasses, and a slice or two of bread and butter.
"You must drink that," said Mrs. Orme, pouring out a glass of wine.
"And you?"
"Yes, I will take some too. There. I shall be stronger now. Nay, Lady
Mason, you shall drink it. And now if you will take my advice you
will go to bed."
"You will come to me again?"
"Yes; directly it is over. Of course I shall come to you. Am I not to
stay here all night?"
"But him;--I will not see him. He is not to come."
"That will be as he pleases."
"No. You promised that. I cannot see him when he knows what I have
done for him."
"Not to hear him say that he forgives you?"
"He will not forgive me. You do not know him. Could you bear to look
at your boy if you had disgraced him for ever?"
"Whatever I might have done he would not desert me. Nor will Lucius
desert you. Shall I go now?"
"Ah, me! Would that I were in my grave!"
Then Mrs. Orme bent over her and kissed her, pressed both her hands,
then kissed her again, and silently creeping out of the room made her
way once more slowly down the stairs.
Mrs. Orme, as will have been seen, was sufficiently anxious to
perform the task which she had given herself, but yet her heart sank
within her as she descended to the parlour. It was indeed a terrible
commission, and her readiness to undertake it had come not from any
feeling on her own part that she was fit for the work and could do
it without difficulty, but from the eagerness with which she had
persuaded Lady Mason that the thing must be done by some one. And
now who else could do it? In Sir Peregrine's present state it would
have been a cruelty to ask him; and then his feelings towards Lucius
in the matter were not tender as were those of Mrs. Orme. She had
been obliged to promise that she herself would do it, or otherwise
she could not have urged the doing. And now the time had come.
Immediately on their return to the house Mrs. Orme had declared that
the story should be told at once; and then Lady Mason, sinking into
the chair from which she had not since risen, had at length agreed
that it should be so. The time had now come, and Mrs. Orme, whose
footsteps down the stairs had not been audible, stood for a moment
with the handle of the door in her hand.
Had it been possible she also would now have put it off till the
morrow,--would have put it off till any other time than that which
was then present. All manner of thoughts crowded on her during those
few seconds. In what way should she do it? What words should she use?
How should she begin? She was to tell this young man that his mother
had committed a crime of the very blackest dye, and now she felt that
she should have prepared herself and resolved in what fashion this
should be done. Might it not be well, she asked herself for one
moment, that she should take the night to think of it and then see
him in the morning? The idea, however, only lasted her for a moment,
and then, fearing lest she might allow herself to be seduced into
some weakness, she turned the handle and entered the room.
He was still standing with his back to the fire, leaning against
the mantelpiece, and thinking over the occurrences of the day that
was past. His strongest feeling now was one of hatred to Joseph
Mason,--of hatred mixed with thorough contempt. What must men say of
him after such a struggle on his part to ruin the fame of a lady and
to steal the patrimony of a brother! "Is she still determined not to
come down?" he said as soon as he saw Mrs. Orme.
"No; she will not come down to-night, Mr. Mason. I have something
that I must tell you."
"What! is she ill? Has it been too much for her?"
"Mr. Mason," she said, "I hardly know how to do what I have
undertaken." And he could see that she actually trembled as she spoke
to him.
"What is it, Mrs. Orme? Is it anything about the property? I think
you need hardly be afraid of me. I believe I may say I could bear
anything of that kind."
"Mr. Mason--" And then again she stopped herself.
How was she to speak this horrible word?
"Is it anything about the trial?" He was now beginning to be
frightened, feeling that something terrible was coming; but still of
the absolute truth he had no suspicion.
"Oh! Mr. Mason, if it were possible that I could spare you I would do
so. If there were any escape,--any way in which it might be avoided."
"What is it?" said he. And now his voice was hoarse and low, for a
feeling of fear had come upon him. "I am a man and can bear it,
whatever it is."
"You must be a man then, for it is very terrible. Mr. Mason, that
will, you know--"
"You mean the codicil?"
"The will that gave you the property--"
"Yes."
"It was not done by your father."
"Who says so?"
"It is too sure. It was not done by him,--nor by them,--those other
people who were in the court to-day."
"But who says so? How is it known? If my father did not sign it, it
is a forgery; and who forged it? Those wretches have bought over some
one and you have been deceived, Mrs. Orme. It is not of the property
I am thinking, but of my mother. If it were as you say, my mother
must have known it?"
"Ah! yes."
"And you mean that she did know it; that she knew it was a forgery?"
"Oh! Mr. Mason."
"Heaven and earth! Let me go to her. If she were to tell me so
herself I would not believe it of her. Ah! she has told you?"
"Yes; she has told me."
"Then she is mad. This has been too much for her, and her brain has
gone with it. Let me go to her, Mrs. Orme."
"No, no; you must not go to her." And Mrs. Orme put herself directly
before the door. "She is not mad,--not now. Then, at that time, we
must think she was so. It is not so now."
"I cannot understand you." And he put his left hand up to his
forehead as though to steady his thoughts. "I do not understand you.
If the will be a forgery, who did it?"
This question she could not answer at the moment. She was still
standing against the door, and her eyes fell to the ground. "Who did
it?" he repeated. "Whose hand wrote my father's name?"
"You must be merciful, Mr. Mason."
"Merciful;--to whom?"
"To your mother."
"Merciful to my mother! Mrs. Orme, speak out to me. If the will was
forged, who forged it? You cannot mean to tell me that she did it!"
She did not answer him at the moment in words, but coming close up to
him she took both his hands in hers, and then looked steadfastly up
into his eyes. His face had now become almost convulsed with emotion,
and his brow was very black. "Do you wish me to believe that my
mother forged the will herself?" Then again he paused, but she
said nothing. "Woman, it's a lie," he exclaimed; and then tearing
his hands from her, shaking her off, and striding away with quick
footsteps, he threw himself on a sofa that stood in the furthest part
of the room.
She paused for a moment and then followed him very gently. She
followed him and stood over him in silence for a moment, as he lay
with his face from her. "Mr. Mason," she said at last, "you told me
that you would bear this like a man."
But he made her no answer, and she went on. "Mr. Mason, it is, as I
tell you. Years and years ago, when you were a baby, and when she
thought that your father was unjust to you--for your sake,--to remedy
that injustice, she did this thing."
"What; forged his name! It must be a lie. Though an angel came to
tell me so, it would be a lie! What; my mother!" And now he turned
round and faced her, still however lying on the sofa.
"It is true, Mr. Mason. Oh, how I wish that it were not! But you
must forgive her. It is years ago, and she has repented of it, Sir
Peregrine has forgiven her,--and I have done so."
And then she told him the whole story. She told him why the marriage
had been broken off, and described to him the manner in which the
truth had been made known to Sir Peregrine. It need hardly be said,
that in doing so, she dealt as softly as was possible with his
mother's name; but yet she told him everything. "She wrote it
herself, in the night."
"What all; all the names herself?"
"Yes, all."
"Mrs. Orme, it cannot be so. I will not believe it. To me it is
impossible. That you believe it I do not doubt, but I cannot. Let
me go to her. I will go to her myself. But even should she say so
herself, I will not believe it."
But she would not let him go up stairs even though he attempted to
move her from the door, almost with violence. "No; not till you say
that you will forgive her and be gentle with her. And it must not be
to-night. We will be up early in the morning, and you can see her
before we go;--if you will be gentle to her."
He still persisted that he did not believe the story, but it became
clear to her, by degrees, that the meaning of it all had at last sunk
into his mind, and that he did believe it. Over and over again she
told him all that she knew, explaining to him what his mother had
suffered, making him perceive why she had removed herself out of his
hands, and had leant on others for advice. And she told him also that
though they still hoped that the jury might acquit her, the property
must be abandoned.
"I will leave the house this night if you wish it," he said.
"When it is all over, when she has been acquitted and shall have gone
away, then let it be done. Mr. Mason, you will go with her; will you
not?" and then again there was a pause.
"Mrs. Orme, it is impossible that I should say now what I may do. It
seems to me as though I could not live through it. I do not believe
it. I cannot believe it."
As soon as she had exacted a promise from him that he would not go
to his mother, at any rate without further notice, she herself went
up stairs and found Lady Mason lying on her bed. At first Mrs. Orme
thought that she was asleep, but no such comfort had come to the poor
woman. "Does he know it?" she asked.
Mrs. Orme's task for that night was by no means yet done. After
remaining for a while with Lady Mason she again returned to Lucius,
and was in this way a bearer of messages between them. There was at
last no question as to doubting the story. He did believe it. He
could not avoid the necessity for such belief. "Yes," he said, when
Mrs. Orme spoke again of his leaving the place, "I will go and hide
myself; and as for her--"
"But you will go with her,--if the jury do not say that she was
guilty--"
"Oh, Mrs. Orme!"
"If they do, you will come back for her, when the time of her
punishment is over? She is still your mother, Mr. Mason."
At last the work of the night was done, and the two ladies went to
their beds. The understanding was that Lucius should see his mother
before they started in the morning, but that he should not again
accompany them to the court. Mrs. Orme's great object had been,--her
great object as regarded the present moment,--to prevent his presence
in court when the verdict should be given. In this she had succeeded.
She could now wish for an acquittal with a clear conscience; and
could as it were absolve the sinner within her own heart, seeing that
there was no longer any doubt as to the giving up of the property.
Whatever might be the verdict of the jury Joseph Mason of Groby
would, without doubt, obtain the property which belonged to him.
"Good-night, Mr. Mason," Mrs. Orme said at last, as she gave him her
hand.
"Good-night. I believe that in my madness I spoke to you to-night
like a brute."
"No, no. It was nothing. I did not think of it."
"When you think of how it was with me, you will forgive me."
She pressed his hand and again told him that she had not thought of
it. It was nothing. And indeed it had been as nothing to her. There
may be moments in a man's life when any words may be forgiven, even
though they be spoken to a woman.
When Mrs. Orme was gone, he stood for a while perfectly motionless
in the dining-room, and then coming out into the hall he opened the
front door, and taking his hat, went out into the night. It was still
winter, but the night, though cold and very dark, was fine, and the
air was sharp with the beginning frost. Leaving the door open he
walked forth, and passing out on to the road went down from thence
to the gate. It had been his constant practice to walk up and down
from his own hall door to his own gate on the high road, perhaps
comforting himself too warmly with the reflection that the ground
on which he walked was all his own. He had no such comfort now, as
he made his way down the accustomed path and leaned upon the gate,
thinking over what he had heard.
[Illustration: Lucius Mason, as he leaned on the Gate
that was no longer his own.]
A forger! At some such hour as this, with patient premeditated care,
she had gone to work and committed one of the vilest crimes known
to man. And this was his mother! And he, he, Lucius Mason, had been
living for years on the fruit of this villainy;--had been so living
till this terrible day of retribution had come upon him! I fear that
at that moment he thought more of his own misery than he did of hers,
and hardly considered, as he surely should have done, that mother's
love which had led to all this guilt. And for a moment he resolved
that he would not go back to the house. His head, he said to himself,
should never again rest under a roof which belonged of right
to Joseph Mason. He had injured Joseph Mason;--had injured him
innocently, indeed, as far as he himself was concerned; but he had
injured him greatly, and therefore now hated him all the more. "He
shall have it instantly," he said, and walked forth into the high
road as though he would not allow his feet to rest again on his
brother's property.
But he was forced to remember that this could not be so. His mother's
trial was not yet over, and even in the midst of his own personal
trouble he remembered that the verdict to her was still a matter of
terrible import. He would not let it be known that he had abandoned
the property, at any rate till that verdict had been given. And then
as he moved back to the house he tried to think in what way it would
become him to behave to his mother. "She can never be my mother
again," he said to himself. They were terrible words;--but then was
not his position very terrible?
And when at last he had bolted the front door, going through the
accustomed task mechanically, and had gone up stairs to his own room,
he had failed to make up his mind on this subject. Perhaps it would
be better that he should not see her. What could he say to her? What
word of comfort could he speak? It was not only that she had beggared
him! Nay; it was not that at all! But she had doomed him to a life of
disgrace which no effort of his own could wipe away. And then as he
threw himself on his bed he thought of Sophia Furnival. Would she
share his disgrace with him? Was it possible that there might be
solace there?
Quite impossible, we should say, who know her well.