SHOWING HOW LADY MASON COULD BE VERY NOBLE

Lady Mason returned to The Cleeve after her visit to Mr. Furnival’s chambers, and nobody asked her why she had been to London or whom she had seen.  Nothing could be more gracious than the deference which was shown to her, and the perfect freedom of action which was accorded to her.  On that very day Lady Staveley had called at The Cleeve, explaining to Sir Peregrine and Mrs. Orme that her visit was made expressly to Lady Mason.  “I should have called at Orley Farm, of course,” said Lady Staveley, “only that I hear that Lady Mason is likely to prolong her visit with you.  I must trust to you, Mrs. Orme, to make all that understood.”  Sir Peregrine took upon himself to say that it all should be understood, and then drawing Lady Staveley aside, told her of his own intended marriage.  “I cannot but be aware,” he said, “that I have no business to trouble you with an affair that is so exclusively our own; but I have a wish, which perhaps you may understand, that there should be no secret about it.  I think it better, for her sake, that it should be known.  If the connection can be of any service to her, she should reap that benefit now, when some people are treating her name with a barbarity which I believe to be almost unparalleled in this country.”  In answer to this Lady Staveley was of course obliged to congratulate him, and she did so with the best grace in her power; but it was not easy to say much that was cordial, and as she drove back with Mrs. Arbuthnot to Noningsby the words which were said between them as to Lady Mason were not so kindly meant towards that lady as their remarks on their journey to The Cleeve.

Lady Staveley had hoped, ­though she had hardly expressed her hope even to herself, and certainly had not spoken of it to any one else, ­that she might have been able to say a word or two to Mrs. Orme about young Peregrine, a word or two that would have shown her own good feeling towards the young man, ­her own regard, and almost affection for him, even though this might have been done without any mention of Madeline’s name.  She might have learned in this way whether young Orme had made known at home what had been his hopes and what his disappointments, and might have formed some opinion whether or no he would renew his suit.  She would not have been the first to mention her daughter’s name; but if Mrs. Orme should speak of it, then the subject would be free for her, and she could let it be known that the heir of The Cleeve should at any rate have her sanction and good will.  What happiness could be so great for her as that of having a daughter so settled, within eight miles of her?  And then it was not only that a marriage between her daughter and Peregrine Orme would be an event so fortunate, but also that those feelings with reference to Felix Graham were so unfortunate!  That young heart, she thought, could not as yet be heavy laden, and it might be possible that the whole affair should be made to run in the proper course, ­if only it could be done at once.  But now, that tale which Sir Peregrine had told her respecting himself and Lady Mason had made it quite impossible that anything should be said on the other subject.  And then again, if it was decreed that the Noningsby family and the family of The Cleeve should be connected, would not such a marriage as this between the baronet and Lady Mason be very injurious?  So that Lady Staveley was not quite happy as she returned to her own house.

Lady Staveley’s message, however, for Lady Mason was given with all its full force.  Sir Peregrine had felt grateful for what had been done, and Mrs. Orme, in talking of it, made quite the most of it.  Civility from the Staveleys to the Ormes would not, in the ordinary course of things, be accounted of any special value.  The two families might, and naturally would, know each other on intimate terms.  But the Ormes would as a matter of course stand the highest in general estimation.  Now, however, the Ormes had to bear up Lady Mason with them.  Sir Peregrine had so willed it, and Mrs. Orme had not for a moment thought of contesting the wish of one whose wishes she had never contested.  No words were spoken on the subject; but still with both of them there was a feeling that Lady Staveley’s countenance and open friendship would be of value.  When it had come to this with Sir Peregrine Orme, he was already disgraced in his own estimation, ­already disgraced, although he declared to himself a thousand times that he was only doing his duty as a gentleman.

On that evening Lady Mason said no word of her new purpose.  She had pledged herself both to Peregrine Orme and to Mr. Furnival.  To both she had made a distinct promise that she would break off her engagement, and she knew well that the deed should be done at once.  But how was she to do it?  With what words was she to tell him that she had changed her mind and would not take the hand that he had offered to her?  She feared to be a moment alone with Peregrine lest he should tax her with the non-fulfilment of her promise.  But in truth Peregrine at the present moment was thinking more of another matter.  It had almost come home to him that his grandfather’s marriage might facilitate his own; and though he still was far from reconciling himself to the connection with Lady Mason, he was almost disposed to put up with it.

On the following day, at about noon, a chariot with a pair of post-horses was brought up to the door of The Cleeve at a very fast pace, and the two ladies soon afterwards learned that Lord Alston was closeted with Sir Peregrine.  Lord Alston was one of Sir Peregrine’s oldest friends.  He was a man senior both in age and standing to the baronet; and, moreover, he was a friend who came but seldom to The Cleeve, although his friendship was close and intimate.  Nothing was said between Mrs. Orme and Lady Mason, but each dreaded that Lord Alston had come to remonstrate about the marriage.  And so in truth he had.  The two old men were together for about an hour, and then Lord Alston took his departure without asking for, or seeing any other one of the family.  Lord Alston had remonstrated about the marriage, using at last very strong language to dissuade the baronet from a step which he thought so unfortunate; but he had remonstrated altogether in vain.  Every word he had used was not only fruitless, but injurious; for Sir Peregrine was a man whom it was very difficult to rescue by opposition, though no man might be more easily led by assumed acquiescence.

“Orme, my dear fellow,” said his lordship, towards the end of the interview, “it is my duty, as an old friend, to tell you this.”

“Then, Lord Alston, you have done your duty.”

“Not while a hope remains that I may prevent this marriage.”

“There is ground for no such hope on your part; and permit me to say that the expression of such a hope to me is greatly wanting in courtesy.”

“You and I,” continued Lord Alston, without apparent attention to the last words which Sir Peregrine had spoken, “have nearly come to the end of our tether here.  Our careers have been run; and I think I may say as regards both, but I may certainly say as regards you, that they have been so run that we have not disgraced those who preceded us.  Our dearest hopes should be that our names may never be held as a reproach by those who come after us.”

“With God’s blessing I will do nothing to disgrace my family.”

“But, Orme, you and I cannot act as may those whose names in the world are altogether unnoticed.  I know that you are doing this from a feeling of charity to that lady.”

“I am doing it, Lord Alston, because it so pleases me.”

“But your first charity is due to your grandson.  Suppose that he was making an offer of his hand to the daughter of some nobleman, ­as he is so well entitled to do, ­how would it affect his hopes if it were known that you at the time had married a lady whose misfortune made it necessary that she should stand at the bar in a criminal court?”

“Lord Alston,” said Sir Peregrine, rising from his chair, “I trust that my grandson may never rest his hopes on any woman whose heart could be hardened against him by such a thought as that.”

“But what if she should be guilty?” said Lord Alston.

“Permit me to say,” said Sir Peregrine, still standing, and standing now bolt upright, as though his years did not weigh on him a feather, “that this conversation has gone far enough.  There are some surmises to which I cannot listen, even from Lord Alston.”

Then his lordship shrugged his shoulders, declared that in speaking as he had spoken he had endeavoured to do a friendly duty by an old friend, ­certainly the oldest, and almost the dearest friend he had, ­and so he took his leave.  The wheels of the chariot were heard grating over the gravel, as he was carried away from the door at a gallop, and the two ladies looked into each other’s faces, saying nothing.  Sir Peregrine was not seen from that time till dinner; but when he did come into the drawing-room his manner to Lady Mason was, if possible, more gracious and more affectionate than ever.

“So Lord Alston was here to-day,” Peregrine said to his mother that night before he went to bed.

“Yes, he was here.”

“It was about this marriage, mother, as sure as I am standing here.”

“I don’t think Lord Alston would interfere about that, Perry.”

“Wouldn’t he?  He would interfere about anything he did not like; that is, as far as the pluck of it goes.  Of course he can’t like it.  Who can?”

“Perry, your grandfather likes it; and surely he has a right to please himself.”

“I don’t know about that.  You might say the same thing if he wanted to kill all the foxes about the place, or do any other outlandish thing.  Of course he might kill them, as far as the law goes, but where would he be afterwards?  She hasn’t said anything to him, has she?”

“I think not.”

“Nor to you?”

“No; she has not spoken to me; not about that.”

“She promised me positively that she would break it off.”

“You must not be hard on her, Perry.”

Just as these words were spoken, there came a low knock at Mrs. Orme’s dressing-room door.  This room, in which Mrs. Orme was wont to sit for an hour or so every night before she went to bed, was the scene of all the meetings of affection which took place between the mother and the son.  It was a pretty little apartment, opening from Mrs. Orme’s bed-room, which had at one time been the exclusive property of Peregrine’s father.  But by degrees it had altogether assumed feminine attributes; had been furnished with soft chairs, a sofa, and a lady’s table; and though called by the name of Mrs. Orme’s dressing-room, was in fact a separate sitting-room devoted to her exclusive use.  Sir Peregrine would not for worlds have entered it without sending up his name beforehand, and this he did on only very rare occasions.  But Lady Mason had of late been admitted here, and Mrs. Orme now knew that it was her knock.

“Open the door, Perry,” she said; “it is Lady Mason.”  He did open the door, and Lady Mason entered.

“Oh, Mr. Orme, I did not know that you were here.”

“I am just off.  Good night, mother.”

“But I am disturbing you.”

“No, we had done;” and he stooped down and kissed his mother.  “Good night, Lady Mason.  Hadn’t I better put some coals on for you, or the fire will be out?” He did put on the coals, and then he went his way.

Lady Mason while he was doing this had sat down on the sofa, close to Mrs. Orme; but when the door was closed Mrs. Orme was the first to speak.  “Well, dear,” she said, putting her hand caressingly on the other’s arm.  I am inclined to think that had there been no one whom Mrs. Orme was bound to consult but herself, she would have wished that this marriage should have gone on.  To her it would have been altogether pleasant to have had Lady Mason ever with her in the house; and she had none of those fears as to future family rétrospections respecting which Lord Alston had spoken with so much knowledge of the world.  As it was, her manner was so caressing and affectionate to her guest, that she did much more to promote Sir Peregrine’s wishes than to oppose them.  “Well, dear,” she said, with her sweetest smile.

“I am so sorry that I have driven your son away.”

“He was going.  Besides, it would make no matter; he would stay here all night sometimes, if I didn’t drive him away myself.  He comes here and writes his letters at the most unconscionable hours, and uses up all my note-paper in telling some horsekeeper what is to be done with his mare.”

“Ah, how happy you must be to have him!”

“Well, I suppose I am,” she said, as a tear came into her eyes.  “We are so hard to please.  I am all anxiety now that he should be married; and if he were married, then I suppose I should grumble because I did not see so much of him.  He would be more settled if he would marry, I think.  For myself I approve of early marriages for young men.”  And then she thought of her own husband whom she had loved so well and lost so soon.  And so they sat silent for a while, each thinking of her own lot in life.

“But I must not keep you up all night,” said Lady Mason.

“Oh, I do so like you to be here,” said the other.  Then again she took hold of her arm, and the two women kissed each other.

“But, Edith,” said the other, “I came in here to-night with a purpose.  I have something that I wish to say to you.  Can you listen to me?”

“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Orme; “surely.”

“Has your son been talking to you about ­about what was said between him and me the other day?  I am sure he has, for I know he tells you everything, ­as he ought to do.”

“Yes, he did speak to me,” said Mrs. Orme, almost trembling with anxiety.

“I am so glad, for now it will be easier for me to tell you.  And since that I have seen Mr. Furnival, and he says the same.  I tell you because you are so good and so loving to me.  I will keep nothing from you; but you must not tell Sir Peregrine that I talked to Mr. Furnival about this.”

Mrs. Orme gave the required promise, hardly thinking at the moment whether or no she would be guilty of any treason against Sir Peregrine in doing so.

“I think I should have said nothing to him, though he is so very old a friend, had not Mr. Orme ­”

“You mean Peregrine?”

“Yes; had not he been so ­so earnest about it.  He told me that if I married Sir Peregrine I should be doing a cruel injury to him ­to his grandfather.”

“He should not have said that.”

“Yes, Edith, ­if he thinks it.  He told me that I should be turning all his friends against him.  So I promised him that I would speak to Sir Peregrine, and break it off if it be possible.”

“He told me that.”

“And then I spoke to Mr. Furnival, and he told me that I should be blamed by all the world if I were to marry him.  I cannot tell you all he said, but he said this:  that if ­if ­”

“If what, dear?”

“If in the court they should say ­”

“Say what?”

“Say that I did this thing, ­then Sir Peregrine would be crushed, and would die with a broken heart.”

“But they cannot say that; ­it is impossible.  You do not think it possible that they can do so?” And then again she took hold of Lady Mason’s arm, and looked up anxiously, into her face.  She looked up anxiously, not suspecting anything, not for a moment presuming it possible that such a verdict could be justly given, but in order that she might see how far the fear of a fate so horrible was operating on her friend.  Lady Mason’s face was pale and woe-worn, but not more so than was now customary with her.

“One cannot say what may be possible,” she answered slowly.  “I suppose they would not go on with it if they did not think they had some chance of success.”

“You mean as to the property?”

“Yes; as to the property.”

“But why should they not try that, if they must try it, without dragging you there?”

“Ah, I do not understand; or at least I cannot explain it.  Mr. Furnival says that it must be so; and therefore I shall tell Sir Peregrine to-morrow that all this must be given up.”  And then they sat together silently, holding each other by the hand.

“Good night, Edith,” Lady Mason said at last, getting up from her seat.

“Good night, dearest.”

“You will let me be your friend still, will you not?” said Lady Mason.

“My friend!  Oh yes; always my friend.  Why should this interfere between you and me?”

“But he will be very angry ­at least I fear that he will.  Not that ­not that he will have anything to regret.  But the very strength of his generosity and nobleness will make him angry.  He will be indignant because I do not let him make this sacrifice for me.  And then ­and then ­I fear I must leave this house.”

“Oh no, not that; I will speak to him.  He will do anything for me.”

“It will be better perhaps that I should go.  People will think that I am estranged from Lucius.  But if I go, you will come to me?  He will let you do that; will he not?”

And then there were warm, close promises given, and embraces interchanged.  The women did love each other with a hearty, true love, and each longed that they might be left together.  And yet how different they were, and how different had been their lives!

The prominent thought in Lady Mason’s mind as she returned to her own room was this: ­that Mrs. Orme had said no word to dissuade her from the line of conduct which she had proposed to herself.  Mrs. Orme had never spoken against the marriage as Peregrine had spoken, and Mr. Furnival.  Her heart had not been stern enough to allow her to do that.  But was it not clear that her opinion was the same as theirs?  Lady Mason acknowledged to herself that it was clear, and acknowledged to herself also that no one was in favour of the marriage.  “I will do it immediately after breakfast,” she said to herself.  And then she sat down, ­and sat through the half the night thinking of it.

Mrs. Orme, when she was left alone, almost rebuked herself in that she had said no word of counsel against the undertaking which Lady Mason proposed for herself.  For Mr. Furnival and his opinion she did not care much.  Indeed, she would have been angry with Lady Mason for speaking to Mr. Furnival on the subject, were it not that her pity was too deep to admit of any anger.  That the truth must be established at the trial Mrs. Orme felt all but confident.  When alone she would feel quite sure on this point, though a doubt would always creep in on her when Lady Mason was with her.  But now, as she sat alone, she could not realise the idea that the fear of a verdict against her friend should offer any valid reason against the marriage.  The valid reasons, if there were such, must be looked for elsewhere.  And were these other reasons so strong in their validity?  Sir Peregrine desired the marriage; and so did Lady Mason herself, as regarded her own individual wishes.  Mrs. Orme was sure that this was so.  And then for her own self, she, ­Sir Peregrine’s daughter-in-law, the only lady concerned in the matter, ­she also would have liked it.  But her son disliked it, and she had yielded so far to the wishes of her son.  Well; was it not right that with her those wishes should be all but paramount?  And thus she endeavoured to satisfy her conscience as she retired to rest.

On the following morning the four assembled at breakfast.  Lady Mason hardly spoke at all to any one.  Mrs. Orme, who knew what was about to take place, was almost as silent; but Sir Peregrine had almost more to say than usual to his grandson.  He was in good spirits, having firmly made up his mind on a certain point; and he showed this by telling Peregrine that he would ride with him immediately after breakfast.  “What has made you so slack about your hunting during the last two or three days?” he asked.

“I shall hunt to-morrow,” said Peregrine.

“Then you can afford time to ride with me through the woods after breakfast.”  And so it would have been arranged had not Lady Mason immediately said that she hoped to be able to say a few words to Sir Peregrine in the library after breakfast. “Place aux dames,” said he.  “Peregrine, the horses can wait.”  And so the matter was arranged while they were still sitting over their toast.

Peregrine, as this was said, had looked at his mother, but she had not ventured to take her eyes for a moment from the teapot.  Then he had looked at Lady Mason, and saw that she was, as it were, going through a fashion of eating her breakfast.  In order to break the absolute silence of the room he muttered something about the weather, and then his grandfather, with the same object, answered him.  After that no words were spoken till Sir Peregrine, rising from his chair, declared that he was ready.

He got up and opened the door for his guest, and then hurrying across the hall, opened the library door for her also, holding it till she had passed in.  Then he took her left hand in his, and passing his right arm round her waist, asked her if anything disturbed her.

“Oh yes,” she said, “yes; there is much that disturbs me.  I have done very wrong.”

“How done wrong, Mary?” She could not recollect that he had called her Mary before, and the sound she thought was very sweet; ­was very sweet, although she was over forty, and he over seventy years of age.

“I have done very wrong, and I have now come here that I may undo it.  Dear Sir Peregrine, you must not be angry with me.”

“I do not think that I shall be angry with you; but what is it, dearest?”

But she did not know how to find words to declare her purpose.  It was comparatively an easy task to tell Mrs. Orme that she had made up her mind not to marry Sir Peregrine, but it was by no means easy to tell the baronet himself.  And now she stood there leaning over the fireplace, with his arm round her waist, ­as it behoved her to stand no longer, seeing the resolution to which she had come.  But still she did not speak.

“Well, Mary, what is it?  I know there is something on your mind or you would not have summoned me in here.  Is it about the trial?  Have you seen Mr. Furnival again?”

“No; it is not about the trial,” she said, avoiding the other question.

“What is it then?”

“Sir Peregrine, it is impossible that we should be married.”  And thus she brought forth her tidings, as it were at a gasp, speaking at the moment with a voice that was almost indicative of anger.

“And why not?” said he, releasing her from his arm and looking at her.

“It cannot be,” she said.

“And why not, Lady Mason?”

“It cannot be,” she said again, speaking with more emphasis, and with a stronger tone.

“And is that all that you intend to tell me?  Have I done anything that has offended you?”

“Offended me!  No.  I do not think that would be possible.  The offence is on the other side ­”

“Then, my dear, ­”

“But listen to me now.  It cannot be.  I know that it is wrong.  Everything tells me that such a marriage on your part would be a sacrifice, ­a terrible sacrifice.  You would be throwing away your great rank ­”

“No,” shouted Sir Peregrine; “not though I married a kitchen-maid, ­instead of a lady who in social life is my equal.”

“Ah, no; I should not have said rank.  You cannot lose that; ­but your station in the world, the respect of all around you, the ­the ­the ­”

“Who has been telling you all this?”

“I have wanted no one to tell me.  Thinking of it has told it me all.  My own heart which is full of gratitude and love for you has told me.”

“You have not seen Lord Alston?”

“Lord Alston! oh, no.”

“Has Peregrine been speaking to you?”

“Peregrine!”

“Yes; Peregrine; my grandson?”

“He has spoken to me.”

“Telling you to say this to me.  Then he is an ungrateful boy; ­a very ungrateful boy.  I would have done anything to guard him from wrong in this matter.”

“Ah; now I see the evil that I have done.  Why did I ever come into the house to make quarrels between you?”

“There shall be no quarrel.  I will forgive him even that if you will be guided by me.  And, dearest Mary, you must be guided by me now.  This matter has gone too far for you to go back ­unless, indeed, you will say that personally you have an aversion to the marriage.”

“Oh, no; no; it is not that,” she said eagerly.  She could not help saying it with eagerness.  She could not inflict the wound on his feelings which her silence would then have given.

“Under those circumstances, I have a right to say that the marriage must go on.”

“No; no.”

“But I say it must.  Sit down, Mary.”  And she did sit down, while he stood leaning over her and thus spoke.  “You speak of sacrificing me.  I am an old man with not many more years before me.  If I did sacrifice what little is left to me of life with the object of befriending one whom I really love, there would be no more in it than what a man might do, and still feel that the balance was on the right side.  But here there will be no sacrifice.  My life will be happier, and so will Edith’s.  And so indeed will that boy’s, if he did but know it.  For the world’s talk, which will last some month or two, I care nothing.  This I will confess, that if I were prompted to this only by my own inclination, only by love for you ­” and as he spoke he held out his hand to her, and she could not refuse him hers ­“in such a case I should doubt and hesitate and probably keep aloof from such a step.  But it is not so.  In doing this I shall gratify my own heart, and also serve you in your great troubles.  Believe me, I have thought of that.”

“I know you have, Sir Peregrine, ­and therefore it cannot be.”

“But therefore it shall be.  The world knows it now; and were we to be separated after what has past, the world would say that I ­I had thought you guilty of this crime.”

“I must bear all that.”  And now she stood before him, not looking him in the face, but with her face turned down towards the ground, and speaking hardly above her breath.

“By heavens, no; not whilst I can stand by your side.  Not whilst I have strength left to support you and thrust the lie down the throat of such a wretch as Joseph Mason.  No, Mary, go back to Edith and tell her that you have tried it, but that there is no escape for you.”  And then he smiled at her.  His smile at times could be very pleasant!

But she did not smile as she answered him.  “Sir Peregrine,” she said; and she endeavoured to raise her face to his but failed.

“Well, my love.”

“Sir Peregrine, I am guilty.”

“Guilty!  Guilty of what?” he said, startled rather than instructed by her words.

“Guilty of all this with which they charge me.”  And then she threw herself at his feet, and wound her arms round his knees.