LOVE WAS STILL THE LORD OF ALL

Why should I not?  Such had been the question which Sir Peregrine Orme had asked himself over and over again, in these latter days, since Lady Mason had been staying at his house; and the purport of the question was this: ­Why should he not make Lady Mason his wife?

I and my readers can probably see very many reasons why he should not do so; but then we are not in love with Lady Mason.  Her charms and her sorrows, ­her soft, sad smile and her more lovely tears have not operated upon us.  We are not chivalrous old gentlemen, past seventy years of age, but still alive, keenly alive, to a strong feeling of romance.  That visit will perhaps be remembered which Mr. Furnival made at The Cleeve, and the subsequent interview between Lady Mason and the baronet.  On that day he merely asked himself the question, and took no further step.  On the subsequent day and the day after, it was the same.  He still asked himself the question, sitting alone in his library; but he did not ask it as yet of any one else.  When he met Lady Mason in these days his manner to her was full of the deference due to a lady and of the affection due to a dear friend; but that was all.  Mrs. Orme, seeing this, and cordially concurring in this love for her guest, followed the lead which her father-in-law gave, and threw herself into Lady Mason’s arms.  They two were fast and bosom friends.

And what did Lady Mason think of all this?  In truth there was much in it that was sweet to her, but there was something also that increased that idea of danger which now seemed to envelop her whole existence.  Why had Sir Peregrine so treated her in the library, behaving towards her with such tokens of close affection?  He had put his arm round her waist and kissed her lips and pressed her to his old bosom.  Why had this been so?  He had assured her that he would be to her as a father, but her woman’s instinct had told her that the pressure of his hand had been warmer than that which a father accords to his adopted daughter.  No idea of anger had come upon her for a moment; but she had thought about it much, and had thought about it almost in dismay.  What if the old man did mean more than a father’s love?  It seemed to her as though it must be a dream that he should do so; but what if he did?  How should she answer him?  In such circumstances what should she do or say?  Could she afford to buy his friendship, ­even his warmest love at the cost of the enmity of so many others?  Would not Mrs. Orme hate her, Mrs. Orme, whom she truly, dearly, eagerly loved?  Mrs. Orme’s affection was, of all personal gratifications, the sweetest to her.  And the young heir, ­would not he hate her?  Nay, would he not interfere and with some strong hand prevent so mean a deed on the part of his grandfather?  And if so, would she not thus have lost them altogether?  And then she thought of that other friend whose aid would be so indispensable to her in this dreadful time of tribulation.  How would Mr. Furnival receive such tidings, if it should come to pass that such tidings were to be told?

Lady Mason was rich with female charms, and she used them partly with the innocence of the dove, but partly also with the wisdom of the serpent.  But in such use as she did make of these only weapons which Providence had given to her, I do not think that she can be regarded as very culpable.  During those long years of her young widowhood in which nothing had been wanting to her, her conduct had been free from any hint of reproach.  She had been content to find all her joy in her duties and in her love as a mother.  Now a great necessity for assistance had come upon her.  It was necessary that she should bind men to her cause, men powerful in the world and able to fight her battle with strong arms.  She did so bind them with the only chains at her command, ­but she had no thought, nay, no suspicion of evil in so doing.  It was very painful to her when she found that she had caused unhappiness to Mrs. Furnival; and it caused her pain now, also, when she thought of Sir Peregrine’s new love.  She did wish to bind these men to her by a strong attachment; but she would have stayed this feeling at a certain point had it been possible for her so to manage it.

In the mean time Sir Peregrine still asked himself that question.  He had declared to himself when first the idea had come to him, that none of those whom he loved should be injured.  He would even ask his daughter-in-law’s consent, condescending to plead his cause before her, making her understand his motives, and asking her acquiescence as a favour.  He would be so careful of his grandson that this second marriage ­if such event did come to pass ­should not put a pound out of his pocket, or at any rate should not hamper the succession of the estate with a pound of debt.  And then he made excuses to himself as to the step which he proposed to take, thinking how he would meet his friends, and how he would carry himself before his old servants.

Old men have made more silly marriages than this which he then desired.  Gentlemen such as Sir Peregrine in age and station have married their housemaids, ­have married young girls of eighteen years of age, ­have done so and faced their friends and servants afterwards.  The bride that he proposed to himself was a lady, an old friend, a woman over forty, and one whom by such a marriage he could greatly assist in her deep sorrow.  Why should he not do it?

After much of such thoughts as these, extended over nearly a week, he resolved to speak his mind to Mrs. Orme.  If it were to be done it should be done at once.  The incredulous unromantic readers of this age would hardly believe me if I said that his main object was to render assistance to Lady Mason in her difficulty; but so he assured himself, and so he believed.  This assistance to be of true service must be given at once; ­and having so resolved he sent for Mrs. Orme into the library.

“Edith, my darling,” he said, taking her hand and pressing it between both his own as was often the wont with him in his more affectionate moods.  “I want to speak to you ­on business that concerns me nearly; may perhaps concern us all nearly.  Can you give me half an hour?”

“Of course I can ­what is it, sir?  I am a bad hand at business; but you know that.”

“Sit down, dear; there; sit there, and I will sit here.  As to this business, no one can counsel me as well as you.”

“Dearest father, I should be a poor councillor in anything.”

“Not in this, Edith.  It is about Lady Mason that I would speak to you.  We both love her dearly; do we not?”

“I do.”

“And are glad to have her here?”

“Oh, so glad.  When this trial is only over, it will be so sweet, to have her for a neighbour.  We really know her now.  And it will be so pleasant to see much of her.”

There was nothing discouraging in this, but still the words in some slight degree grated against Sir Peregrine’s feelings.  At the present moment he did not wish to think of Lady Mason as living at Orley Farm, and would have preferred that his daughter-in-law should have spoken of her as being there, at The Cleeve.

“Yes; we know her now,” he said.  “And believe me in this, Edith; no knowledge obtained of a friend in happiness is at all equal to that which is obtained in sorrow.  Had Lady Mason been prosperous, had she never become subject to the malice and avarice of wicked people, I should never have loved her as I do love her.”

“Nor should I, father.”

“She is a cruelly ill-used woman, and a woman worthy of the kindest usage.  I am an old man now, but it has never before been my lot to be so anxious for a fellow-creature as I am for her.  It is dreadful to think that innocence in this country should be subject to such attacks.”

“Indeed it is; but you do not think that there is any danger?”

This was all very well, and showed that Mrs. Orme’s mind was well disposed towards the woman whom he loved.  But he had known that before, and he began to feel that he was not approaching the object which he had in view.  “Edith,” at last he said abruptly, “I love her with my whole heart.  I would fain make her ­my wife.”  Sir Peregrine Orme had never in his course through life failed in anything for lack of courage; and when the idea came home to him that he was trembling at the task which he had imposed on himself, he dashed at it at once.  It is so that forlorn hopes are led, and become not forlorn; it is so that breaches are taken.

“Your wife!” said Mrs. Orme.  She would not have breathed a syllable to pain him if she could have helped it, but the suddenness of the announcement overcame her for a moment.

“Yes, Edith, my wife.  Let us discuss the matter before you condemn it.  But in the first place I would have you to understand this ­I will not marry her if you say that it will make you unhappy.  I have not spoken to her as yet, and she knows nothing of this project.”  Sir Peregrine, it may be presumed, had not himself thought much of that kiss which he had given her.  “You,” he continued to say, “have given up your whole life to me.  You are my angel.  If this thing will make you unhappy it shall not be done.”

Sir Peregrine had not so considered it, but with such a woman as Mrs. Orme this was, of course, the surest way to overcome opposition.  On her own behalf, thinking only of herself, she would stand in the way of nothing that could add to Sir Peregrine’s happiness.  But nevertheless the idea was strong in her mind that such a marriage would be imprudent.  Sir Peregrine at present stood high before the world.  Would he stand so high if he did this thing?  His gray hair and old manly bearing were honoured and revered by all who knew him.  Would this still be so if he made himself the husband of Lady Mason?  She loved so dearly, she valued so highly the honour that was paid to him!  She was so proud of her own boy in that he was the grandson of so perfect a gentleman!  Would not this be a sad ending to such a career?  Such were the thoughts which ran through her mind at the moment.

“Make me unhappy!” she said getting up and going over to him.  “It is your happiness of which I would think.  Will it make you more happy?”

“It will enable me to befriend her more effectually.”

“But, dearest father, you must be the first consideration to us, ­to me and Peregrine.  Will it make you more happy?”

“I think it will,” he answered slowly.

“Then I, for one, will say nothing against it,” she answered.  She was very weak, it will be said.  Yes, she was weak.  Many of the sweetest, kindest, best of women are weak in this way.  It is not every woman that can bring herself to say hard, useful, wise words in opposition to the follies of those they love best.  A woman to be useful and wise no doubt should have such power.  For myself I am not so sure that I like useful and wise women.  “Then I for one will say nothing against it,” said Mrs. Orme, deficient in utility, wanting in wisdom, but full of the sweetest affection.

“You are sure that you will not love her the less yourself?” said Sir Peregrine.

“Yes; I am sure of that.  If it were to be so, I should endeavour to love her the more.”

“Dearest Edith.  I have only one other person to tell.”

“Do you mean Peregrine?” she said in her softest voice.

“Yes.  Of course he must be told.  But as it would not be well to ask his consent, ­as I have asked yours ­” and then as he said this she kissed his brow.

“But you will let him know it?”

“Yes; that is if she accepts my proposition.  Then he shall know it immediately.  And, Edith, my dear, you may be sure of this; nothing that I do shall be allowed in any way to injure his prospects or to hamper him as regards money when I am gone.  If this marriage takes place I cannot do very much for her in the way of money; she will understand that.  Something I can of course.”

And then Mrs. Orme stood over the fire, looking at the hot coals, and thinking what Lady Mason’s answer would be.  She esteemed Lady Mason very highly, regarding her as a woman sensible and conscientious at all points, and she felt by no means certain that the offer would be accepted.  What if Lady Mason should say that such an arrangement would not be possible for her.  Mrs. Orme felt that under such circumstances she at any rate would not withdraw her love from Lady Mason.

“And now I may as well speak to her at once,” said Sir Peregrine.  “Is she in the drawing-room?”

“I left her there.”

“Will you ask her to come to me ­with my love?”

“I had better not say anything I suppose?”

Sir Peregrine, in his heart of hearts wished that his daughter-in-law could say it all, but he would not give her such a commission.  “No; perhaps not.”  And then Mrs. Orme was going to leave him.

“One word more, Edith.  You and I, darling, have known each other so long and loved each other so well, that I should be unhappy if I were to fall in your estimation.”

“There is no fear of that, father.”

“Will you believe me when I assure you that my great object in doing this is to befriend a good and worthy woman whom I regard as ill used ­beyond all ill usage of which I have hitherto known anything?”

She then assured him that she did so believe, and she assured him truly; after that she left him and went away to send in Lady Mason for her interview.  In the mean time Sir Peregrine got up and stood with his back to the fire.  He would have been glad that the coming scene could be over, and yet I should be wronging him to say that he was afraid of it.  There would be a pleasure to him in telling her that he loved her so dearly and trusted her with such absolute confidence.  There would be a sort of pleasure to him in speaking even of her sorrow, and in repeating his assurance that he would fight the battle for her with all the means at his command.  And perhaps also there would be some pleasure in the downcast look of her eye, as she accepted the tender of his love.  Something of that pleasure he had known already.  And then he remembered the other alternative.  It was quite upon the cards that she should decline his offer.  He did not by any means shut his eyes to that.  Did she do so, his friendship should by no means be withdrawn from her.  He would be very careful from the onset that she should understand so much as that.  And then he heard the light footsteps in the hall; the gentle hand was raised to the door, and Lady Mason was standing in the room.

“Dear Lady Mason,” he said, meeting her half way across the room, “it is very kind of you to come to me when I send for you in this way.”

“It would be my duty to come to you, if it were half across the kingdom; ­and my pleasure also.”

“Would it?” said he, looking into her face with all the wishfulness of a young lover.  From that moment she knew what was coming.  Strange as was the destiny which was to be offered to her at this period of her life, yet she foresaw clearly that the offer was to be made.  What she did not foresee, what she could not foretell, was the answer which she might make to it!

“It would certainly be my sweetest pleasure to send for you if you were away from us, ­to send for you or to follow you,” said he.

“I do not know how to make return for all your kind regard to me; ­to you and to dear Mrs. Orme.”

“Call her Edith, will you not?  You did so call her once.”

“I call her so often when we are alone together, now; and yet I feel that I have no right.”

“You have every right.  You shall have every right if you will accept it.  Lady Mason, I am an old man, ­some would say a very old man.  But I am not too old to love you.  Can, you accept the love of an old man like me?”

Lady Mason was, as we are aware, not taken in the least by surprise; but it was quite necessary that she should seem to be so taken.  This is a little artifice which is excusable in almost any lady at such a period.  “Sir Peregrine,” she said, “you do not mean more than the love of a most valued friend?”

“Yes, much more.  I mean the love of a husband for his wife; of a wife for her husband.”

“Sir Peregrine!  Ah me!  You have not thought of this, my friend.  You have not remembered the position in which I am placed.  Dearest, dearest friend; dearest of all friends,” ­and then she knelt before him, leaning on his knees, as he sat in his accustomed large arm-chair.  “It may not be so.  Think of the sorrow that would come to you and yours, if my enemies should prevail.”

“By ­ they shall not prevail!” swore Sir Peregrine, roundly; and as he swore the oath he put his two hands upon her shoulders.

“No; we will hope not.  I should die here at your feet if I thought that they could prevail.  But I should die twenty deaths were I to drag you with me into disgrace.  There will be disgrace even in standing at that bar.”

“Who will dare to say so, when I shall stand there with you?” said Sir Peregrine.

There was a feeling expressed in his face as he spoke these words, which made it glorious, and bright, and beautiful.  She, with her eyes laden with tears, could not see it; but nevertheless, she knew that it was bright and beautiful.  And his voice was full of hot eager assurance, ­that assurance which had the power to convey itself from one breast to another.  Would it not be so?  If he stood there with her as her husband and lord, would it not be the case that no one would dare to impute disgrace to her?

And yet she did not wish it.  Even yet, thinking of all this as she did think of it, according to the truth of the argument which he himself put before her, she would still have preferred that it should not be so.  If she only knew with what words to tell him so; ­to tell him so and yet give no offence!  For herself, she would have married him willingly.  Why should she not?  Nay, she could and would have loved him, and been to him a wife, such as he could have found in no other woman.  But she said within her heart that she owed him kindness and gratitude ­that she owed them all kindness, and that it would be bad to repay them in such a way as this.  She also thought of Sir Peregrine’s gray hairs, and of his proud standing in the county, and the respect in which men held him.  Would it be well in her to drag him down in his last days from the noble pedestal on which he stood, and repay him thus for all that he was doing for her?

“Well,” said he, stroking her soft hair with his hands ­the hair which appeared in front of the quiet prim cap she wore, “shall it be so?  Will you give me the right to stand there with you and defend you against the tongues of wicked men?  We each have our own weakness, and we also have each our own strength.  There I may boast that I should be strong.”

She thought again for a moment or two without rising from her knees, and also without speaking.  Would such strength suffice?  And if it did suffice, would it then be well with him?  As for herself, she did love him.  If she had not loved him before, she loved him now.  Who had ever been to her so noble, so loving, so gracious as he?  In her ears no young lover’s vows had ever sounded.  In her heart such love as all the world knows had never been known.  Her former husband had been kind to her in his way, and she had done her duty by him carefully, painfully, and with full acceptance of her position.  But there had been nothing there that was bright, and grand, and noble.  She would have served Sir Peregrine on her knees in the smallest offices, and delighted in such services.  It was not for lack of love that she must refuse him.  But still she did not answer him, and still he stroked her hair.

“It would be better that you had never seen me,” at last she said; and she spoke with truth the thought of her mind.  That she must do his bidding, whatever that bidding might be, she had in a certain way acknowledged to herself.  If he would have it so, so it must be.  How could she refuse him anything, or be disobedient in aught to one to whom she owed so much?  But still it would be wiser otherwise, wiser for all ­unless it were for herself alone.  “It would be better that you had never seen me,” she said.

“Nay, not so, dearest.  That it would not be better for me, ­for me and Edith I am quite sure.  And I would fain hope that for you ­”

“Oh, Sir Peregrine! you know what I mean.  You know how I value your kindness.  What should I be if it were withdrawn from me?”

“It shall not be withdrawn.  Do not let that feeling actuate you.  Answer me out of your heart, and however your heart may answer, remember this, that my friendship and support shall be the same.  If you will take me for your husband, as your husband will I stand by you.  If you cannot, ­then I will stand by you as your father.”

What could she say?  A word or two she did speak as to Mrs. Orme and her feelings, delaying her absolute reply ­and as to Peregrine Orme and his prospects; but on both, as on all other points, the baronet was armed with his answer.  He had spoken to his darling Edith, and she had gladly given her consent.  To her it would be everything to have so sweet a friend.  And then as to his heir, every care should be taken that no injury should be done to him; and speaking of this, Sir Peregrine began to say a few words, plaintively, about money.  But then Lady Mason stopped him.  “No,” she said, “she could not, and would not, listen to that.  She would have no settlement.  No consideration as to money should be made to weigh with her.  It was in no degree for that ­” And then she wept there till she would have fallen had he not supported her.

What more is there to be told.  Of course she accepted him.  As far as I can see into such affairs no alternative was allowed to her.  She also was not a wise woman at all points.  She was one whose feelings were sometimes too many for her, and whose feelings on this occasion had been much too many for her.  Had she been able to throw aside from her his offer, she would have done so; but she had felt that she was not able.  “If you wish it, Sir Peregrine,” she said at last.

“And can you love an old man?” he had asked.  Old men sometimes will ask questions such as these.  She did not answer him, but stood by his side; and, then again he kissed her, and was happy.

He resolved from that moment that Lady Mason should no longer be regarded as the widow of a city knight, but as the wife elect of a country baronet.  Whatever ridicule he might incur in this matter, he would incur at once.  Men and women had dared to speak of her cruelly, and they should now learn that any such future speech would be spoken of one who was exclusively his property.  Let any who chose to be speakers under such circumstances look to it.  He had devoted himself to her that he might be her knight and bear her scathless through the fury of this battle.  With God’s help he would put on his armour at once for that fight.  Let them who would now injure her look to it.  As soon as might be she should bear his name; but all the world should know at once what was her right to claim his protection.  He had never been a coward, and he would not now be guilty of the cowardice of hiding his intentions.  If there were those who chose to smile at the old man’s fancy, let them smile.  There would be many, he knew, who would not understand an old man’s honour and an old man’s chivalry.

“My own one,” he then said, pressing her again to his side, “will you tell Edith, or shall I?  She expects it.”  But Lady Mason begged that he would tell the tale.  It was necessary, she said, that she should be alone for a while.  And then, escaping, she went to her own chamber.

“Ask Mrs. Orme if she will kindly step to me,” said Sir Peregrine, having rang his bell for the servant.

Lady Mason escaped across the hall to the stairs, and succeeded in reaching her room without being seen by any one.  Then she sat herself down, and began to look her future world in the face.  Two questions she had to ask.  Would it be well for her that this marriage should take place? and would it be well for him?  In an off-hand way she had already answered both questions; but she had done so by feeling rather than by thought.

No doubt she would gain much in the coming struggle by such a position as Sir Peregrine would give her.  It did seem to her that Mr. Dockwrath and Joseph Mason would hardly dare to bring such a charge as that threatened against the wife of Sir Peregrine Orme.  And then, too, what evidence as to character would be so substantial as the evidence of such a marriage?  But how would Mr. Furnival bear it, and if he were offended would it be possible that the fight should be fought without him?  No; that would be impossible.  The lawyer’s knowledge, experience, and skill were as necessary to her as the baronet’s position and character.  But why should Mr. Furnival be offended by such a marriage?  “She did not know,” she said to herself.  “She could not see that there should be cause of offence.”  But yet some inner whisper of her conscience told her that there would be offence.  Must Mr. Furnival be told; and must he be told at once?  And then what would Lucius say and think, and how should she answer the strong words which her son would use to her?  He would use strong words she knew, and would greatly dislike this second marriage of his mother.  What grown-up son is ever pleased to hear that his mother is about to marry?  The Cleeve must be her home now ­that is, if she did this deed.  The Cleeve must be her home, and she must be separated in all things from Orley Farm.  As she thought of this her mind went back, and back to those long gone days in which she had been racked with anxiety that Orley Farm should be the inheritance of the little baby that was lying at her feet.  She remembered how she had pleaded to the father, pointing out the rights of her son ­declaring, and with justice, that for herself she had asked for nothing; but that for him ­instead of asking might she not demand?  Was not that other son provided for, and those grown-up women with their rich husbands?  “Is he not your child as well as they?” she had pleaded.  “Is he not your own, and as well worthy of your love?” She had succeeded in getting the inheritance for the baby at her feet; ­but had his having it made her happy, or him?  Then her child had been all in all to her; but now she felt that that child was half estranged from her about this very property, and would become wholly estranged by the method she was taking to secure it!  “I have toiled for him,” she said to herself, “rising up early, and going to bed late; but the thief cometh in the night and despoileth it.”  Who can guess the bitterness of her thoughts as she said this?

But her last thoughts, as she sat there thinking, were of him ­Sir Peregrine.  Would it be well for him that he should do this?  And in thus considering she did not turn her mind chiefly to the usual view in which such a marriage would be regarded.  Men might call Sir Peregrine an old fool and laugh at him; but for that she would, with God’s help, make him amends.  In those matters, he could judge for himself; and should he judge it right thus to link his life to hers, she would be true and leal to him in all things.

But then, about this trial.  If there came disgrace and ruin, and an utter overthrow?  If ?  Would it not be well at any rate that no marriage should take place till that had been decided?  She could not find it in her heart to bring down his old gray hairs with utter sorrow to the grave.